The Promised Blade ✧ Min Yoongi

𝐓 𝐖 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓 𝐘 - 𝐓 𝐖 𝐎

CHAPTER 21 | THE CROWNED OUTCOME

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YOU

The battle for Solitude was finally over, and the air was thick with the weight of what had been lost. The last echoes of the clash had faded, the dust settled, and the city was free from the terror that had clung to it for so long. The slaves, the Wooden Elves—those who had been forced to bow under Soma Lazarus's oppressive rule—stood together on the shore, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. They cheered, some letting out cries of relief, others simply standing still as the realization sank in: they were free. Their home, their lives, were theirs once more.

But the victory came with a cost, and it wasn't over yet. Before the celebrations could truly begin, there was a silence to be honored, a final act of remembrance that could not be skipped. The fallen—our brothers and sisters in arms—had given everything, and we would see them off with the reverence they deserved.

On the beachside, in the quiet before the storm of celebration, the bodies of our fallen soldiers were carefully placed into boats. The caskets—weathered by battle, stained with the blood of comrades—were laid gently in the wooden vessels. There was no rush, no fanfare. Just the solemn act of sending them into the water, the final journey for those who had fought so hard to secure this peace. I stepped forward, the sand beneath my boots cold, my movements slow as I approached the boat. With a light push, I sent it drifting into the dark, swollen waters of the sea. The boat swayed gently before it began its quiet journey, joining the deep, the bodies of our fallen disappearing from view as the current took them away.

Elirodoro stood nearby, his body stiff with grief. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale as if drained of life. His jaw was clenched so tightly I could see the muscles twitch beneath his skin. He stood with his shoulders slumped, his chest rising and falling erratically as though each breath pained him. His hands were trembling, fists pressed to his sides as he refused to look away from the drifting caskets. A shaky breath escaped him, his chest heaving with the weight of the emotion too heavy to contain.

Then, the sharp twang of an arrow being readied caught my attention. An Alvar, one of the soldiers of the east, stood tall nearby, his posture rigid, eyes focused on the target ahead. His arm was steady, the taut string of his bow pulled back with precision. Beside him, the small flame flickered in the cold breeze, its warmth dancing in the wind, waiting for the arrow's tip to be ignited. The Alvar's movements were deliberate, slow, as though the weight of the task ahead hung over him like a cloak of sorrow. His fingers hovered just above the flame, waiting for the signal.

"May the Gods guide their souls to a more peaceful world," Yoongi murmured softly, his voice breaking in a way he couldn't hide. His eyes never left the boat, his gaze distant, as though he was trying to hold on to the last moments before the final act was done. "And may they rest in peace, forevermore." His voice cracked slightly at the end, his lips pressing together in a tight line, unable to fully contain the pain of what had been lost. He stood with his back slightly hunched, as if the weight of his words made him heavier, more exhausted.

I nodded, my own heart heavy, a different kind of grief consuming me. The need for closure was pulling me forward, but I could feel the tension in my body—my muscles tight, the rawness of the loss scraping at the edges of my chest. I turned to the Alvar, my gaze locking onto him as I gestured sharply. "Ready your aim." The command came out more forcefully than I expected, though it was not anger that fueled it, but something much deeper, a need to make this moment real.

The Alvar met my gaze with unwavering determination, the slightest shift in his posture telling me all I needed to know: he, too, understood the importance of this. His jaw tightened, and without a word, he pulled the string back further, the tip of the arrow now hovering just above the flame. The glow of the fire reflected in his eyes, but his expression remained cold, practiced. There was no room for hesitation, no space for weakness. His arms trembled slightly with the strain, but his face was a mask of concentration, his fingers steady.