After the fight, rays of sunlight broke through the clouds in the east.
It was faint—just a golden edge along the snow-covered trees—but it was enough.
The soldiers looked up.
For the first time in weeks, their faces weren't hollow with fear. They were tired, yes. Bruised, bloodied. But they stood straighter. Eyes lifted. Some even smiled.
They had survived.
And more than that—they had won.
The creature was gone. Wounded. The scent of fire and salt still lingered in the air, but it was not fear anymore. It was proof.
The people of Fort Vireloch began to move—not as scattered strangers, but as a single group. Walls were reinforced. Doors repaired. Fallen torches relit. Some worked in silence, others hummed old songs under their breath.
The healers moved from bed to bed, tending the wounded. For once, there were more survivors than graves.
By evening, rations arrived from the capital—a long, frost-bitten caravan that had finally broken through the mountain passes. The sight of it brought cheers from the watchtower. Children ran toward the wagons. The cooks wept openly when they saw flour, sugar, and fruit.
"Tonight," someone said, "we eat like people again."
The fires that night were not for defense, but for warmth. For food. For light.
And Zareena?
She didn't say much. Just stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching it all unfold. People nodded to her. Some bowed. Some simply smiled and kept working.
She didn't need titles.
Not anymore.
She had earned something rarer than command—She had earned loyalty.
And far to the south, in halls where names were weighed like weapons… the name Zareena Valeska ibn Rashanov was beginning to echo.