The morning after the council session, I woke to grey light filtering through my window and the distant sound of the fortress stirring to life. For a long moment, I simply lay there, staring at the stone ceiling, letting the events of the past days wash over me. The battle. The village. The child who had died in my arms. The council's recognition. Runa's braid, still woven into my hair, the gold threads catching the pale light.
I rose and dressed slowly, my body 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 worst was behind us, that the healing could begin, that I had finally found my place.
