The city was alive with the thunder of joy.
Men, women, and children flooded the streets, cheering and laughing.
The once-bloodstained walls of the city of Herios now bore the marks of triumph. Torches lit up the dusk, and the aroma of roasted meat and baked bread filled the air.
Everywhere, songs rose to the heavens, raw and imperfect, but full of spirit.
Herios, still wearing the tattered remains of his battle armor, stood at the highest rampart.
His face was tired, bruised, his arms bandaged where monstrous claws had torn at him. Yet his eyes were bright, filled with the fierce pride of a leader who had defied death itself and emerged victorious.
The people shouted his name:
"Herios!"
"Herios!"
"Herios!"
He raised his hand, and the crowd roared even louder.
He was glad, everyone was okay. Smiling, Herios observed his people. He wondered if gods had witnessed their stand, if so, would they be rewarded for their bravery?
At that moment...
