The city was no longer dying.
It was reshaping.
From the open windows of the white citadel, Leonhardt watched the stone pathways fill with order. Blood had long dried in the cracks between bricks. The scorched flags of Astrea had been torn down, replaced with clean black cloth—simple, unmarked, awaiting his true banner.
For now, the city held its breath.
But not in fear.
In transition.
Below, human workers stacked bricks, painted signs, and scrubbed the walls where fire once kissed too deeply. Goblins patrolled alongside them, not snarling, not barking orders. Just present. Side by side. Watching.
A month ago, that would have been a joke.
Now it was the law.
"You look like a man trying not to enjoy his legacy," Zafira said behind him, golden eyes catching the late sun. Her arms crossed under her full chest, wings tucked tight, her voice somewhere between amusement and admiration.
Leonhardt leaned against the cold stone window ledge.
