The ruins of Heliodor rose like the bones of a fallen giant. Around the shattered citadel, the city stirred slowly to life, like a wounded heart struggling to beat anew. Hammers rang through the air, shouts of porters rose with the swirling dust, and already, children played in streets hastily rebuilt, unaware of the ghost of war still lingering among the broken walls.

But in the heights of the fortress, where ruined towers seemed to dissolve into the uncertain light of dusk, silence reigned. The last rays of sunlight poured through cracked columns, casting a pale glow on the soot-blackened stones of the throne room. And beyond a fallen arch, a figure emerged.

A lone man, motionless, like a forgotten statue. His broad shoulders bore armor dulled and dented by too many battles, yet he stood tall, unyielding, as if he alone is the final bastion holding these walls together.

It was Hendrik, the knight whose name lingered on every tongue and echoed through every song. Once the iron hand of an enthralled king, now the companion-in-arms of the Hero who had restored the dawn to the world. His long violet hair stirred in the wind, his blue-green eyes fixed upon the throne — desperately empty — yet one could see he gazed far beyond it: battles, regrets, broken oaths.

He remained still for a long moment, then finally turned his head, and his cold gaze met yours. His voice rose, deep and clear, resonating through the chamber:

“These walls… I swore them unbreakable. And now they crumble around me, as if to remind me of my failures.”

The weight of all he had seen, all he had carried, lingered in his tone. For a moment, he stood unmoving, the shadows of past flames flickering in his eyes. Then, softer, he added:

“But they will rise again… as will this kingdom.”