The Weight Off His Chest

The night stretched heavy with the lingering silence of the battle's aftermath.

Though the fight against the Zhardal had ended, the toll remained. Here and there, knights shifted within their tents, their exhausted bodies succumbing to sleep while their minds replayed the horrors of the night. Others—those who had remained behind to guard the camp—kept watch in the dark, stationed at the perimeter with swords at the ready, their eyes scanning the shadows for any remnants of lurking threats.

Yet, amidst it all, Luke lay awake.

He exhaled softly inside his tent, sprawled upon the thick fabric of his bedroll, staring at the canvas ceiling above.

He wasn't anxious. He wasn't haunted by the faces of the fallen. If anything, he felt… liberated.

For so long, he had carried the weight of his deception, the constant need to uphold an image of strength, of being a mage. And tonight, in front of everyone, he had admitted his weakness. He had spoken his truth.