A week passed as they rode back toward Gale Citadel, the wind carrying the scent of pine and thawing snow instead of blood and ash. The road twisted through cliffs and high grasslands, across ancient stones carved by time and battle. The disciples rode quieter than usual, scarred, introspective, but alive.
They stopped at springs to wash wounds and bury tokens of the fallen. At night, fires burned low and steady. Laughter came slowly. Bruga was the first to bring it back, telling tales from the last battle with wild gestures and louder embellishments. Even Ryoku laughed until tears streaked the dust on his face.
Bruga elbowed Wen Tu at one campfire. "Wen Tu, it is the first. The first time you didn't say a joke in the battle."
Wen Tu smirked faintly. "Didn't seem like the right time. Even roots must grow silent in storms."
Bruga nodded, but added with a grin, "I was waiting for you to say something stupid, you know. A joke. A chant. A fart-blessing for Ryoku's sword. But instead..."
He nudged him again. "You focused. You healed, protected, buffed the cohort like a damned herbal warlock. And for that, I thank you."
Wen Tu blinked, then lifted both hands theatrically to the firelight.
"Ah! At last! A proper thank-you from a proper barbarian! Truly, the heavens weep in joy! Helmet One, Helmet Two, you hear this?"
He bowed to a nearby rock and stick. "My comrades agree. You are welcome."
Bruga nearly choked on his drink. "There's the lunatic I remember."
Wen Tu grinned wide. "One cannot preach the absurd if the flock is bleeding out. But now, with spleens intact, the sermons return!"
Kael shared a silent meal with Nyzekh, the two rarely speaking, simply watching the stars wheel overhead. One was a former assassin, the other, a dark elf who walked through shadows. There was something kindred in their silence, both men shaped by lives in the quiet between violence.
Kael read old letters again. Folded, re-folded, worn soft by flame and rain. In those days between battle and home, they became brothers not only by war but by the silence that follows it.
When Gale Citadel's towers rose into view, the whole cohort fell still.
They had made it.
The gates opened without question. Guards saluted. Disciples whispered as the battered cohort rode through. Eyes lingered on the remnants of the Stormguard wedge, now reformed into three ten-man teams. Even broken, they marched with purpose, helms down, shields at their sides.
At the courtyard, Altan's steward, an old man in plain robes, approached with a respectful bow.
"The chamber is ready, my lord," he said softly.
Altan gave a faint nod. "Good. Let them rest."
They descended into the Citadel's lower chambers, deeper than most knew existed. Through a sealed arch carved with storm glyphs, they entered what was once the Grand Chamber of Meditation and now, repurposed.
It was a tavern.
Stone walls held warm lamps of crystal-light, casting a golden hue over darkwood counters and polished floors. Shelves lined with bottles from all known provinces and some unknown—glowwine from the Shifting Coast, orc-brewed marrow mead, lotus-distilled spirits from Eastern temples.
Behind the bar: avatars. Manifested servants of the citadel's deeper systems. One was an elder man with ink-stained fingers, another a sharp-eyed woman with a scroll tucked in her hair. They poured drinks with perfect grace. Others cooked behind a stonefire grill. A four-piece band, also avatars, played strange and familiar tunes, instruments humming with magical resonance.
Over the entry arch, a single word was etched:
"Unbind."
It meant the vow was lifted. The Stormguard, bound by discipline to silence in war, only officers allowed to speak, were free to talk, laugh, sing. The vow was never magical, but it was powerful. This place, this word, let them be men again.
Bruga let out a whoop loud enough to shake the beams.
"By the teeth of the gods, this is paradise!"
He was already slamming mugs with Ryoku before the rest even entered. Kael sat in quiet amazement, watching flames dance in a glass of something strong and sweet. Wen Tu tried everything herbal on the menu.
Bruga leaned over, eyeing Wen Tu's drink. "Aren't monks not allowed to drink?"
Wen Tu sipped and replied serenely, "In one who is drunk can find wisdom, but tomorrow he will forget."
Bruga stared at him, then laughed. "You just made that up."
"Maybe. But it sounds old."
The rest of the Stormguard entered. At first, they hesitated. They weren't used to speaking freely. But the atmosphere slowly loosened them. A few grunted greetings. Then came laughs. Then someone sang an old border song.
Daalo, the forge master, was seated near the back with a huge mug, growling at anyone who spilled drink on his boots.
"You're alive," he said flatly. "Didn't expect all of you to be."
He stood, arms crossed. "How's the gear holding? Any cracks? Fit wrong? Don't go dying without telling me if something's loose."
Bruga raised his mug. "Your armor saved our skins."
Daalo nodded, grimly proud. "Then I won't need to melt it all down. Yet."
Altan entered last, Nyzekh beside him. Both paused at the threshold.
"I've... never seen anything like this," Nyzekh said.
Altan's expression was unreadable. "Neither have I."
Scribe-Three, the avatar librarian, emerged from nowhere, serving drinks.
"The seal of silence ends here," he said in that dry, formal tone. "Rejoice wisely. Drink foolishly. No books will judge you tonight."
Kael, now two glasses in, leaned back and chuckled. "Careful. The last time you two argued drunk, Bruga tried to wrestle a statue."
Ryoku grinned, lounging with his boots kicked up. "He lost, too. The statue didn't even move."
Laughter rose around the table.
Altan simply gave a small nod and left.
No one noticed.
Later that night.
Bruga, half-drunk, raised his mug high.
"To brothers!" he shouted. "To those who fell at Monk's Hill! To those who marched with us against the orc warlord!"
Everyone roared in return.
They began slamming mugs together, singing wildly inappropriate verses from various war-chants. Wen Tu climbed onto a table and proclaimed:
"I now found a sect of sacred suffering! Behold! The Order of the Second Liver!"
Bruga nearly fell laughing. "That's it! I'm the Grand Master. Chief bruiser. First drunkard!"
Wen Tu stood dramatically. "Then I am the Drunken Archivist! Keeper of Regrettable Chronicles!"
Kael raised his glass. "I am the Silent Witness of Spirits. I vow not to remember anything tomorrow."
Ryoku clapped his chest. "And I, Head of Ritual Burping and Moral Collapse."
They clasped arms, cut shallow lines across forearms, and pressed them together. A symbol. A pact. A brotherhood not written in scrolls but sealed in skin and song.
Nyzekh stood a little apart, swirling his drink.
In the Wastes, there had been no bonds like this. No laughter around fires. No foolish chants or brotherhoods forged in wine. Only survival. Silence. Ambush and suspicion.
He watched them laugh, drink, boast, argue like siblings.
And for once, he didn't feel like a shadow among them.
He smiled. Small, quiet. But it was real.
Nyzekh belonged.