The war was over.
From the scarlet mists of the Crimson Verge, they returned—435 million souls out of the three billion who had once stood to defend Ardentis. Silent, steady, and weathered by loss and courage, they stepped once more onto the soil they had bled for.
All around them, the world waited.
First came the Elves (Elvari / Elvyn)—graceful, long-lived beings, deeply attuned to magic and nature. They had aided the blessed humans off the battlefield with healing and sustenance.
The Dwarves (Durnir / Stonekin) emerged next—proud and steadfast, their armor gleaming with the very metal they had poured into billions of blades. Their forges had burned for warriors they would never meet—crafting nearly 500 million weapons daily. Now, their eyes glowed with silent pride.
From shaded glades and quiet hills, the Halflings (Lurelings / Hearthfolk) arrived—some barefoot, some cloaked in shifting enchantments. Once underestimated, their clever enchantments and stealth had turned the tides in places unseen.
Soft laughter followed like windchimes as the Fae (Myrrhkin / Liltwraiths) appeared—mischievous, ancient, and elusive. Masters of illusion, contracts, and fate, they had sown chaos in enemy ranks, setting clever traps and turning deception into art.
Then from above, descended the Celestials (Seraphiir / Aetherians)—winged beings marked by glowing veins of starlight. Their wings folded with reverence, their presence resonating like a hymn. Wielders of raw celestial energy, they had shown the warriors their paths through darkness and kept the legions united across vast distances.
The ten Legion Commanders stood shoulder to shoulder, cloaked in silence. Around them gathered the survivors—every race, every clan, every warrior. Even the four Heavenly Dragons stood still, wings folded like ancient monuments.
All eyes turned to the sky.
High above, the clouds parted.
A great silver glow spread across the firmament as Chronarix descended, his vast wings shimmering like eternity itself. Upon his back stood Kaerith Val'Dragan, cloaked in wind and blood, his expression soft—his eyes tired, yet at peace.
Behind him soared the Eleventh Legion, riding in perfect formation on the backs of gleaming wyverns.
As Chronarix touched down upon Ardentis, a hush fell—deep and reverent.
A silence heavy with awe and unspoken gratitude.
Eyes glistened. Hearts swelled. Banners lowered. Even the youngest of warriors bowed their heads.
In that moment, Kaerith was no longer merely a commander.
He was a symbol—a beacon of survival, the embodiment of sacrifice, unity, and unyielding will.
As his feet touched the earth, the five Heavenly Dragons bowed low, their immense heads dipping in solemn respect.
Their ancient souls, carved by time itself, acknowledged the mortal who had carried their legacy through fire and ruin.
The wind stilled. The world paused.
No words were spoken. None were needed.
In that silence lived everything: grief, honor, love, and a promise that what they had built, they would never lose again.