Chapter 30: Fragile Peace

The battlefield lay eerily still, a hushed silence settling over the land where moments ago the war drums had thundered. The bridge was gone. Not broken, not burned—simply gone, as if the river had never allowed its existence in the first place. The mist swirled above the rushing waters, an ever-present reminder of the sacrifice that had been made.

Joren stood at the river's edge, his breath steady despite the chaos unfurling around him. The soldiers of Caldris and Velmora hesitated, their weapons lowered, their gazes shifting between one another. Without the bridge, there was no path forward. No path for war.

He turned, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his fellow Caldrisians. They were warriors, hardened by battle, by years of loss and vengeance. Yet now, they stood uncertain, their hate hollow in the wake of the impossible.

A voice shattered the silence.

"What sorcery is this?" General Kaelis of Velmora roared, his hand tight around the hilt of his sword. "What trickery have you played, Caldrisian?"

Joren stepped forward, his posture unwavering. "No trickery. The bridge was never ours to wield. It was a curse—one that bound us all in hatred, one that demanded a sacrifice." He let his voice carry, not just to Kaelis but to the gathered armies on both sides. "Lyria understood this. And she paid the price so that we might finally understand."

A murmur rippled through the ranks of Velmoran soldiers, uncertainty in their eyes. The name Lyria was not forgotten. Among them, there were those who had once followed her, who had trusted her wisdom. But there were also those who had cursed her name for aligning with an enemy.

Kaelis sneered. "You expect us to believe the words of a Caldrisian?"

"No," Joren said simply. "I expect you to see the truth for yourself." He turned and gestured toward the empty space where the bridge had been. "If this were my doing, would I not wield it as a weapon against you? Would I not have used it to claim victory? Yet here we stand, both our forces stranded, neither victorious."

The general hesitated, his knuckles white around his blade. But before he could respond, an elder Velmoran stepped forward—one of the war council members. "The legend of the bridge is old, older than any of us," the man murmured. "The river does not lie."

A hush fell over the Velmorans. Joren could feel the shift, the slow unraveling of belief. They had lived by war for generations, but now war had been taken from them by a force greater than any blade.

Joren returned to Caldris under a storm of voices. The High Council demanded answers. They demanded vengeance.

"The bridge was our key to victory," one of the councilmen growled. "And now it is gone. You speak of peace, yet all I see is an opportunity lost."

Joren stood before them, weary but resolute. "You see an opportunity lost," he echoed. "I see a cycle broken. How many wars have we fought? How many lives have we sacrificed to this conflict, only to return to the same hatred? Do you not feel the weight of it?"

Silence stretched through the chamber. The council had never been challenged this way. Not by one of their own.

One of the elders, a woman with sharp eyes and a softer voice, finally spoke. "The people will not forget their dead so easily."

"No," Joren agreed. "They will not. And peace will not come in a day. But if we do not act now, if we do not plant the seed, then we will be standing here again in another generation, speaking the same words, burying more sons and daughters."

Some nodded, others remained stone-faced.

But it was not the council who would decide the future. It was the people. And so Joren went to them.

He stood in the town squares, in the bustling markets, where the whispers of war had always spread. He told the story not as a warrior, but as a man who had seen what hatred had wrought.

He spoke of the bridge, of the curse that had bound them. He spoke of Lyria, of her sacrifice, of the truth buried beneath years of war. He did not demand forgiveness, nor did he ask them to forget their pain. He only asked them to question—what if the war had never been ours to fight?

Slowly, the whispers began to shift. In the taverns, soldiers told stories of the night the bridge disappeared, of the mist that took it, of the way the river seemed calmer now, as if something ancient had been laid to rest.

Velmora was not so different. Across the river, where they now stood as stranded as their enemies, the same questions arose. If the gods had truly favored war, why had they taken the bridge? If their ancestors had fought for a reason, why did the land itself now deny them battle?

But peace was not won with words alone. There were those who still clung to their blades, unwilling to believe that the war had been anything but fate. There were skirmishes, moments where old hatred sparked like embers refusing to die.

Joren saw it in the eyes of the young warriors, those who had been raised with fire in their blood. He saw it in the lingering resentment of the widows, in the distrust of the elders who had already seen too many promises broken.

But he also saw something else.

He saw farmers trading with their former enemies out of necessity. He saw children playing near the riverbanks, unburdened by the weight of a war they had not chosen. He saw the glances shared between Caldrisians and Velmorans in the marketplace, hesitant but no longer filled with pure loathing.

And he saw hope.

One evening, Joren returned to the river's edge, the place where the bridge had once stood. The mist curled around his feet, and for a moment, he swore he felt a whisper in the air, a presence just beyond sight.

He closed his eyes.

"Lyria."

The wind stirred, lifting his hair, a gentle brush against his cheek. He did not know if it was the spirit, if it was truly her, or if it was simply the remnants of a memory. But he held onto it nonetheless.

"The bridge wasn't stone, Joren," her voice echoed in his mind. "It was a choice."

His heart clenched, but he let the grief settle, let it anchor him instead of weigh him down. She had given everything for this moment. He would not let it be in vain.

A fragile peace was not peace. Not yet. But it was a beginning.

And beginnings, he knew, held power.