The names came slowly, each syllable weighed with grief and reverence.
"…Seran Telle, scout of the outer ring. Fell during the breach."
The old librarian's voice trembled just slightly as he read from the long scroll, his eyes heavy with exhaustion behind thin spectacles. The parchment curled at the edges, stained with soot and blood. His tone did not falter—only lowered, respectful, drawn from the years of ceremonies just like this one. But none before had come after a siege so close to swallowing Oria whole.
"…Branik Udal, vanguard of the Western Gate. Last seen holding the line."
A low wind moved through the crowd like breath between prayers. Hundreds stood gathered within the Inner Ring's grand square—citizens, warriors, servants, the wounded. None spoke. Even the children were quiet. Only the names continued.
"…Tellen Voray. Former librarian. Died safeguarding the archives."
The banners above the dais hung low, deep gray in place of Oria's usual gold and green. The marble walls of the Council Hall bore fresh cracks beneath the drapery, scars left unhidden by the restoration teams—reminders that no ring, no matter how high, had stood untouched.
Near the front, Koda stood in silence. His coat bore faint mends from the spire. His boots were polished, but the dust of battle lingered deep in the stitching. Around him, Maia and the others held their silence too, heads bowed.
The sun had begun its slow descent behind the high wall, casting the square in a muted amber light. The weight of the moment was thick—shared by all.
"…Ila Nareth, arcanist of the fourth tower. Slain shielding the infirmary."
No applause. No cheers. Only names.
One by one.
The cost of survival.
——
The silence remained unbroken as the names of the fallen finally gave way to another kind of remembrance.
From the edge of the dais, a man stepped forward—broad-shouldered, clad in ceremonial silver-and-blue armor that caught the light like glass over steel. The sigil of the Shield of the Guide adorned his breastplate: a radiant barrier encircling a single eye, ever-watchful. His mantle bore the same, trimmed with white fur.
High Warden Thalos, a veteran of three crusades and the voice of the Shield Church within Oria, stood with a posture made of iron.
He unrolled a second scroll.
"The following names are recorded in merit," he said, voice steady and clear. "For valor in defense of Oria. For sacrifices made. For refusing to break."
A hush fell over the crowd as the names were read again—this time not in mourning, but in tribute. A list of warriors, mages, defenders, and scouts. Survivors and the fallen alike.
"Terron Vor," Thalos called, "—recorded with twenty-seven confirmed kills. Shieldbearer and anchor at the second barricade."
"Elise—recorded with twenty-three confirmed kills. Captain of the Scouts raiding the scar."
"Seta and Eno. Combined efforts confirmed thirty-two kills—scouts, saboteurs, forward observers during the Spire breach."
"Renn. Eighteen confirmed kills. Archer of the third tower. Multiple confirmed rescues."
Each name earned murmurs of pride from their kin. Nods from the crowd. Quiet respect.
Thalos took a breath. The final scroll in his hand unfurled slightly, fluttering in the breeze.
"One name remains."
The crowd held still.
Thalos took his time unrolling the final ribbon of parchment, the material crisp in the wind. His voice was clear, reverent. "Koda of Oria."
Eyes turned. Even those who hadn't known the name before the siege knew it now.
But it wasn't just the name that caught their attention—it was the man who stepped forward.
For the first time in his life, Koda stood before the city not as a street-taught scrapper or a blood-soaked soldier, but in formal dress befitting his deeds. A dark, close-fitted tunic of deep navy and charcoal, the cuffs and collar traced with muted silver thread. A half-cloak fell from one shoulder, pinned with the emblem of Oria's expeditionary force. His boots were cleaned, his gauntlets replaced with ceremonial leather. He looked every inch the warrior he had become—but more than that, he looked whole.
His dark hair, still unruly, had been pulled back and tied simply. The scar at his jaw caught the light like a badge of memory. And at his side, his blade—the Blade of Conviction, bound now in sheathed silence—hung respectfully, not for combat, but for presence.
The crowd did not cheer. Not yet. But a kind of breathless awe moved through them.
From the front of the gathered rows, Maia's hands were already pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with pride brimming. Her cheeks were still raw from the night before, but she smiled now—shining and fierce. Her healer's robes had been hastily straightened, her golden hair tied back in a braid. She watched him with a look that saw all of him—past and present—and adored it all.
Beside her, the Matron of the orphanage stood straighter than she had in years. Wrinkles deepened around her eyes as she nodded to herself, silently, with a strength born from seeing too many of her children buried too young. This one, she had feared, would be no different.
But now—he stood before a city. Chosen. Honored.
Her hand trembled as it touched the old brooch at her chest.
On the dais, Thalos lifted the medal high for the gathered crowd to see.
A Divine Star—the highest commendation the Shield Church offered. Not golden, but carved from a shard of sanctified spirestone. Its glass center pulsed with a faint, living light—like a heartbeat locked in crystal.
"For actions beyond the call of duty," the high warden intoned, "for the preservation of Oria in its darkest hour, the Shield Church of the Guide, in cooperation with the city council and the war registry, bestows the Divine Star of Valor upon Koda."
He stepped forward.
Koda bowed his head slightly—accepting, but humble. No speech followed. No claim. Only silence and the weight of the moment as the star was pinned to his chest, resting just over his heart.
A breeze stirred. The crowd stood in reverent stillness.
One man. A thousand choices. A city still standing.
And still, the ceremony wasn't over.
As the star settled against Koda's chest, a subtle shift passed through the air.
From behind the ranks of city officials, a new figure stepped forward—tall, robed in ceremonial white edged with soft hues of ivory and gold. The man's presence was like a ripple in calm water: no force behind it, but somehow commanding. His hands were folded in the traditional greeting of peace, the rings of office glinting on his fingers. Upon his chest was the sigil of the Main Branch of the Eternal Guide—the open eye surrounded by the seven-fold flame.
The priest approached with a calm, knowing smile.
"Koda," he said, loud enough for all to hear, though his tone remained warm and almost intimate, "you have stood in the center of the storm. You have held the line. You have given Oria more than blood—you gave them hope."
He turned to the crowd then, addressing them with both reverence and the slow cadence of someone accustomed to being listened to.
"There is, however," he said, pausing with precision, "a small correction… to the name just spoken."
A murmur ran through the crowd—soft, confused.
The priest tilted his head, letting the silence stretch just enough to build anticipation. He was a man used to ceremony, to spectacle, and he wielded silence like a blade. His smile never wavered.
"Not Koda of Oria," he said at last, and turned back to Koda with something nearing reverence in his eyes.
"Koda of the Eternal Guide."
Gasps echoed in waves.
The words hit the crowd with weight far beyond their simplicity. Even among the gathered clergy, some blinked, others shifted uneasily. The title was no formality—it was a declaration.
The priest raised both hands, voice rising not with volume, but with certainty.
"Let it be known throughout Oria, and beyond its gates, that we now bear witness to a first: An Apostle of the Eternal Guide—confirmed, marked, and named."
There was no fanfare. No drums or horns.
Just the wind, the murmuring of thousands, and the stare of a city meeting something sacred.
And Koda, unmoving. The weight of the star on his chest matched only by the deeper weight now hung around his name.
Behind him, Maia's breath caught. The Matron's hand found her shoulder.
The war was over.
But something far greater had just begun.
——
The banquet hall of the inner ring was a world apart from anything Koda had known.
Silks draped from arching beams like falling ribbons of sunlight. Crystal lanterns floated above, casting a warm glow over polished marble floors. The tables were endless—lined with fruits from the eastern groves, game from the northern plains, wines older than most present. A room that smelled of luxury and power.
And Koda hated it.
Not for the beauty of it. Not even the noise. But for the eyes.
Dozens of them. Watching. Weighing.
Noblemen with sharp smiles and dull blades. City council members brushing elbows with high priests and merchant lords, each speaking in half-compliments and full agendas. They approached him with silver tongues, each more eloquent than the last. Praise for his courage. Invitations to dine. Suggestions of influence, of alliances, of possibility.
They circled like vultures in silk.
He answered politely. He nodded when expected. But it all felt like walking through fog. His body still ached from the war, his mind still replayed screams and steel and fire.
Not one of them had stood on that bridge.
Not one had watched the gates buckle.
They didn't see what he saw.
They just wanted a piece of it.
He found himself drifting toward the edge of the hall, near the shadowed curve of a window where the stone was cool beneath his fingertips. The city below shimmered in the light of its own celebration—but it felt distant. Like he was still in the ruins, listening to the wind howl through shattered walls.
He didn't belong here.
He never had.
"Thinking about running?" came a familiar voice.
Koda turned.
Maia stood behind him, framed by the soft gold of the lantern light. She wore simple white and slate, elegant in its restraint. Her hair was loose, for once. There was a flush to her cheeks from the heat of the room, but her eyes… her eyes were fixed on him, steady and knowing.
Koda managed a small smile. "They keep asking who I'll support for the next open council seat."
"And?"
"I told them I supported eating in peace."
Maia laughed—a soft, quiet thing—and stepped closer.
Around them, the music shifted into something slower, warmer. A few couples moved to the center of the room to dance. The noble eyes followed them. Then followed Koda again. Always watching.
Maia reached out.
Her fingers slid between his, lacing gently.
And then she stepped in front of him, blocking the view of half the hall with just her body—shielding him not with armor, but with presence. A quiet defiance wrapped in grace.
"Then don't look at them," she said. "Look at me."
He did.
And the rest of the room faded.
The chatter, the whispers, the politics—they all became noise behind glass. There was only her hand in his, the press of her thumb, the warmth of her palm.
For the first time all night, Koda exhaled.
They didn't dance, not really. They just stood in the music, letting the world blur around them.
It wasn't glory that held him together.
It was this.
It was her.
And with that, the night drew to a close—not with a roar, but with a breath.
Tomorrow, they would leave.
But tonight, they simply stayed.