“No child will fight for a debt they did not make.”
Her words fell like hammers, reshaping the air.
The second: the reopening of the guilds, the restoration of trade, and amnesty for those who had fled the old taxes. Murmurs rippled through the hall—some relief, some disbelief.
And the third—delivered quietly but striking hardest of all:
“Envoys of the plains will hold equal place within this court.”
When Shazi and her warriors entered, the room went still. They wore simple armor and silver-threaded sashes—symbols of honor, not conquest. The translator’s voice trembled at first, but by the end it carried.
“We come not as conquerors,” he said, “but as keepers of oath.”
The people watched, wary but not hateful. Respect, slow and fragile, took its first breath.
By evening, the marketplace was alive again. Bakers set out new loaves; merchants called in both tongues. Children ran with small flags—half black, half gold—chasing kites made from parchment and hope.
In her study, Eliza unwrapped the courier’s bundle from the north. A shard of scorched glass fell onto the table, fused with a silver rune. Thalorin’s mark. No body. No bones. No end. The faint scent of burned metal clung to her fingers. She stared at it until her reflection in the glass began to look like someone else entirely.
“Not yet,” she whispered to the dark. “But soon.”
That night, she stood on the ramparts overlooking the city. The lights of the orc camps flickered across the plain—small, steady constellations. Rakhal joined her without sound.
“It’s beginning,” she said. “Not peace—just the work before it.”
He didn’t answer, only touched her shoulder briefly. That was enough.
At dawn, the new flag rose over Maidan—black and gold, halves joined down the center. The wind caught it, and for once, it did not tear.
Chapter
Seventy-Nine
The treaty was signed on Maidan’s ramparts, overlooking the plains where bones had once outnumbered flowers. The stones beneath their feet had known fire and blood, and now they would learn the weight of ink.
Delegations gathered from both worlds. Orc chieftains stood beside human guildmasters, armor gleaming beside parchment-stained sleeves. Azfar watched from a distance, silent as the wind.
The scribe’s voice rose and fell between two languages, weaving promises into rhythm. Trade routes reopened. Borders shared, not guarded. Joint patrols of the old battlefield—one banner black, one gold. No rope without law. No war without witness.
When the reading ended, an elder orc raised his staff. “And when the Shadow rises again?” he asked.
Before Rakhal could speak, Eliza stepped forward. “Then we meet it together,” she said. Her voice was calm, but it carried across the crowd like flame over dry grass.
A murmur followed, spreading through the ranks—agreement first whispered, then spoken aloud.
Two quills were brought forth—one black feather, one white. They dipped into the same ink. Rakhal’s signature came first, heavy and deliberate. Eliza’s followed in graceful, steady lines. The seals pressed together, the wax gleaming under sunlight.
Drums thundered from the plains; church bells answered from the city. The first cheer rose hesitantly, then caught. The sound rolled over the ramparts, laughter and disbelief braided into one.
Shazi lifted a cup of wine high. “To those who learned that power can kneel,” she shouted. The response was wild—cheers, laughter, a few tears that no one pretended not to see.
As the ceremony dissolved into celebration, Rakhal walked to the edge of the wall. The wind off the plains carried the smell of wet grass and smoke. For the first time, the horizon looked open, not empty.
Eliza joined him, the new banner snapping above their heads—black threaded with gold, gold streaked with black. The two halves moved in one rhythm, indistinguishable in the light.
“We’ll be clumsy at peace,” she said softly.
“Then we’ll learn,” he replied.
