The Wind Remembers

Epilogue: The Wind Remembers

20th of reaping, 959 AD

The funeral was held at dusk, where firelight met the soft colours of a fading sky. The crest of the Band of the Lions hung silent over the stone memorials of Lambert and Nagoria, their deaths carved into the mythos of the final battle at the Obelisk of Nonera. The new generation stood solemn—Ethan and Andrik, barely older than squires, now commanders of a legacy built on old blood and older ideals.

In the crowd, no one paid much mind to the quiet man in the back. Cloaked in weathered traveler’s garb, he carried no weapons, no sigils, nothing to mark who he was. His eyes, however, followed every motion of the ceremony with the aching clarity of memory.

He watched as the torch was passed, the standard of the Band given to the boys who reminded him too much of himself and Rowan—the same foolish spark of hope, the same heavy weight in their posture. The world had circled back, as it always does.

When it ended and the crowd dispersed, Corvan walked alone.

He returned not to a fortress or a throne but to a quiet farmhouse nestled at the edge of the Vale. Overgrown vines clung to its stone walls. The garden was wild now, but the tree still stood at the edge of it, its roots woven deep into the soil, its shade cool and familiar.

Corvan sat beneath it, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees. He stared at the simple stone marker in front of him. The name Rowan was carved deep, now moss-framed with time.

He exhaled, not as a warrior or a leader, not anymore, but as a tired man who had run out of battles to fight.

“It’s done now, Rowan,” he said to the wind.
“They’ve taken it up, just like we did. Maybe they’ll do it better. Maybe they’ll live longer.”

A breeze stirred the grass. His fingers trailed through it like he was reading something only he could understand.

“I didn’t go to war with them. Didn’t say goodbye. I don’t think they needed me to.”

Silence.

“You’d have liked them. The kids. They remind me of you. Not me—never me. You always had more heart.”

He smiled, small and private.

“I’ll stay here. Keep the place nice. Just in case any of them ever come knocking.” He chuckled quietly.

The wind answered with the rustle of leaves.

Corvan leaned back against the tree, gaze drifting upward through its branches toward the stars just starting to show.

“I’ll see you soon, old friend. But not just yet.”