The wounds of war fade slower than the body can heal.

  A full year had passed since the fires swept through Harbinth. Though the city stood again, repaired and breathing, the memory of that night still lived in the minds of everyone who had survived. Some said time softened pain. Maybe that was true. But for many, time only taught them how to carry it.

  Maruzan often thought about that as he worked. His days were quieter now, measured by the rhythm of a hammer and the scent of tanned hide. He had returned to his trade, leatherworking, but it wasn’t quite the same as before. In the past, his hands had made things for daily life: boots, gloves, saddles. Now, he crafted armor. Not for armies, but for guards, for travelers, for people who might need to protect those they loved.

  Each piece he finished felt like a promise. A way of saying never again.

  His small workshop sat near the edge of Arnathe, beside a river that ran clear and cold. The water reminded him of home in a way, something steady, something that didn’t forget its path even after storms. Velthur often joined him there after lessons, sitting on a stool by the window, reading while his father worked.

  “Are you tired?” Velthur asked one evening, glancing up from his book.

  Maruzan smiled faintly. “Always a little. But that’s what good work does to you.”

  Velthur tilted his head. “You say that every time.”

  “Because it’s true,” Maruzan said, setting down his hammer. “If your work doesn’t tire you, it probably doesn’t matter enough.”

  Velthur grinned. “You sound like Nethira.”

  Maruzan looked up, surprised. “Nethira says that?”

  “She says it differently. She says all things worth growing take effort.”

  “That sounds like her,” Maruzan said, smiling again. “She was teaching even when she wasn’t trying.”

  Velthur’s expression softened. “Do you think she misses the forest?”

  “I think she misses the way things used to be,” Maruzan replied. “Same as all of us.”

  They didn’t speak for a while after that. Outside, the light dimmed as the sun sank behind the walls of Arnathe. The sound of distant bells marked the evening prayer.

  When Velthur finally closed his book, he said quietly, “Do you ever think about Harbinth?”

  Maruzan nodded slowly. “Every day. I think about the people we lost. The ones we couldn’t save.”

  “Do you think we’ll go back someday?”

  “Maybe,” Maruzan said. “But if we do, it’ll be different. It already is.”

  He didn’t tell his son that sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he still saw the fire spreading along the walls, still heard the screams. He didn’t tell him about the nights he woke up thinking he smelled smoke. Some things were better left unsaid. Velthur had seen enough for one lifetime.

  Still, there was peace here. Real, fragile peace. And that counted for something.

  Across the city, Arnathe was busier than ever. Older buildings stood beside new towers of stone and glass, part of the King’s latest effort to expand education and trade. The college, Velthur’s new home, had been finished just months earlier.

  It stood at the northern edge of the city, overlooking the harbor. White walls curved around a central courtyard where students gathered between lessons. Mages, healers, and scholars studied side by side. It was something entirely new for Arnathe, an idea that people could work together, no matter their craft or race.

  Vane had made that happen.

  After the war, he had carried word of Harbinth’s fall and survival directly to the royal court. The King listened. The Princess, Phoebe, listened even closer. And from those talks came the charter for the College of the Bright Sigil, a place where magic, faith, and learning could be shared.

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  Velthur was among the first students.

  Nethira taught there, her lectures full of patient wisdom. She spoke not of conquest or power, but of balance, how the world listened, if one learned to hear it. When she taught, the wind itself seemed to lean closer.

  Dryads also worked within the city now. Some had been chosen as the first ambassadors to the Kingdom of Arnathe. It was a quiet but important role. Every day they met with officials and merchants, reminding them that the forest was not just land to be cleared or mined, it was alive. Sometimes, they joined Nethira at the college, offering lessons on diplomacy and the old songs of their people.

  People in the city had grown used to seeing dryads walk among them. Children followed them sometimes, amazed by their green hair, auburn hair, and the faint shimmer of light that followed her in sunlight.

  Ennett, too, had made a life here.

  After months of helping rebuild Harbinth, she had finally left the city in the care of new leadership. She came to Arnathe not as a soldier but as herself, tired and seeking quiet. For the first time in years, she didn’t wear a blade. She took a post training the city watch, though she rarely raised her voice anymore. The new guards respected her, perhaps feared her a little, but she had changed.

  One morning, she met Vane outside the barracks.

  “You’re still here,” she said, surprised.

  Vane smiled faintly. “For now. The King keeps finding reasons not to let me leave.”

  “Or maybe you keep finding reasons to stay.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe both.”

  They walked together down the main street, watching merchants open their stalls. The air was cold, but the sun was bright.

  “You think this peace will hold?” Ennett asked.

  Vane was quiet for a long moment. “It will for a while. But something’s moving out there. I can feel it.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Because it’s always true,” he said simply.

  She looked at him, half smiling. “You sound like a man who doesn’t know how to rest.”

  Vane stopped walking. “Resting and waiting aren’t the same thing, Ennett. I’ll rest when I know we’re safe. Until then, I watch.”

  She didn’t argue. She knew he was right. There were still shadows in the world.

  Far to the north, Bram and Farrin had returned to Kellen-Tir, their home beneath the mountains. The halls of the dwarves echoed with talk of what had happened in Harbinth, the alliances formed, the battles fought. Some doubted it all. Others whispered of dragons and cursed relics.

  Bram didn’t bother explaining the truth. “Let them think what they will,” he told Farrin as they sat beside a roaring hearth. “We saw it. That’s enough.”

  Farrin laughed softly. “You think sitting here by a fire will make us forget?”

  “No,” Bram said. “But it makes the remembering easier.”

  Their people respected them now, not just as warriors but as envoys. Even King Thoman himself had asked for their counsel. The dwarves had started trading again with Arnathe, sending ore and craft in exchange for timber and food. For the first time in generations, the mountain and the plains spoke as equals.

  Not all stayed, though.

  The Seeker had vanished after the battle, slipping away like mist before dawn. Some said he had returned to his homeland across the sea. Others thought he still wandered the edges of the world, chasing secrets too old for names.

  Velthur sometimes asked about him. Nethira always answered the same way: “When the world needs him again, he’ll return.”

  Maruzan believed that, though part of him worried the Seeker had gone somewhere he could not return from.

  One evening, as winter approached, Maruzan stood outside his workshop and looked toward the west. Snow fell softly, covering the rooftops. Velthur had stayed late at the college again, helping Nethira prepare a lesson for the coming season.

  He liked that. His son was becoming part of something larger, something that might one day outlast even the memory of war.

  Still, the feeling of unease lingered.

  He thought about what Vane had told him weeks ago when they last met: The artifact is quiet, but not dead. We’re keeping it under guard. The priests believe it’s connected to the dreaming dragons.

  Maruzan didn’t pretend to understand magic, but he knew enough to recognize danger when he saw it. He wondered if the world would ever be done with such things.

  That night, Velthur returned home, snow in his hair.

  “Nethira says the earth hums differently when winter begins,” he said, brushing off his coat.

  Maruzan smiled. “Does it?”

  “She says it’s when the world starts to dream.”

  Maruzan nodded, his thoughts distant. “Let’s hope it dreams kindly this year.”

  Velthur sat by the fire, watching the flames. “Do you think there will be another war?”

  Maruzan hesitated. “I hope not. But if there is, we’ll be ready this time. All of us.”

  The boy nodded, quiet for a while. “Then I’ll keep studying. I want to help when the time comes.”

  “You already do,” Maruzan said softly.

  They sat together, father and son, as snow continued to fall outside. The fire crackled, and for a moment the world felt still. Peace wasn’t perfect, it never was, but it was real.

  And somewhere beyond the walls of Arnathe, in the cold stretches of night where no fires burned, the dreams of dragons stirred once more.

  Peace, it seemed, was not a promise. Only a pause.