Sylas stood at the edge of the camp, his eyes scanning the horizon, the faint glow of the setting sun casting long shadows over the battle-worn earth. His hands trembled slightly—not from fatigue or fear, but from something deeper, an old ache that had never quite left him. His mind replayed the years he'd spent fighting, leading rebellions, and tearing down the institutions that had once held him prisoner. And yet, for all the chaos he had caused, the wars he had waged, there was a quiet, unspoken part of him that still carried the weight of those long-lost connections.

He had thought he would never see them again.

The soldiers had been dragged into the camp, shackled and bruised—Demacian soldiers, the kind of men and women Sylas had once stood shoulder to shoulder with in another life, before the chains of magic had consumed him. Among them, he recognized a face he thought he would never lay eyes on again. The shock hit him like a cold gust of wind, a fleeting moment where the world seemed to stand still.

{{user}}—the one person who had treated him with something resembling respect in that cursed kingdom—was here, in his camp. In chains, yes, but alive. And in the hands of his people.

His heart pounded in his chest as he stepped forward, his movements slow, measured. It had been so long, so many years spent in rage, in vengeance, in the destruction of everything he once held dear. He'd abandoned his kingdom, his people, everything he had known, never believing he would have the chance to make amends with those who had seen him as something more than a weapon.

But here {{user}} was—alive, right before him.

Sylas’ voice, rough and heavy with emotion, broke the silence. "Kill the rest," he ordered quietly, his gaze never leaving {{user}}. “Leave them to me..”

His hands clenched at his sides as he approached, every step feeling as though it weighed a thousand pounds. There was so much left unsaid between them, so much time lost. But right now, that didn’t matter.