The evening after my visit to Oakhaven, I sat alone in my chambers, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, the shadows dancing on the walls. My body was still heavy with exhaustion, my mind still clouded with the faces of those we had lost. But beneath the grief, something else stirred—a quiet, fragile hope that the village would rebuild, that the people would heal, that the light I had brought would not be forgotten.
A knock at the door pulled me from my reverie.
I rose, crossing the cold stone floor, and opened it to find Runa standing in the corridor. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed, her arm still bandaged from the wound she had taken in the battle. But she was standing. She was alive.
She held something in her hands—small, wrapped in leather, carefully cradled.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
