novelraw Chapter 170: COMING HOME
Chapter 170: COMING HOME
The sun had reached its zenith when Rianor finally lowered the crystal pager from his ear. Northveil had been reclaimed. Rudigor was gone. His three commanders were dead.
Now, it was time to go home.
Hektor stood beside him, gazing over the ruins of the city he once governed. His face—usually stiff and technical—was transformed. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He didn’t wipe them away, letting them flow freely.
"Hektor." Rianor turned to him. "I’ve contacted my father. Engineering teams and materials will be dispatched immediately. Within days, they will arrive. Wood, stone, steel—everything you need."
Hektor exhaled a long, shuddering breath. His hands trembled—not from the cold, but from emotions held back for far too long. "Thank you, Lord Rianor. I... I don’t know what to say. This city... I truly thought it was lost forever."
"You don’t need to say anything." Rianor patted his shoulder. "Guard this city. I’m placing my trust in you."
Hektor smiled—a rare expression from the rigid man who more often cursed at broken machinery than showed joy. "I will guard it. Until my last breath."
Rianor was about to turn away when Hektor called out. "Lord Rianor."
"Yes?"
Hektor hesitated for a moment. His gaze drifted to the distance, toward the ruins of the Needle Tower that once stood with such elegance. Then he let out a small, uncharacteristic chuckle. "Forgive my boldness. But once this city stands again... who will be its Countess? I should probably start preparing now."
Rianor looked at him in surprise, then laughed—a laugh that erupted from a chest that had carried the weight of the world for far too long. "You’re not even married yet, Hektor. That’s your own business to settle."
Hektor smiled sheepishly, scratching his bald head. "Perhaps after you, then. I should learn from the one who goes first."
They laughed together. It was the first true laughter heard in Northveil after weeks of carnage. In the distance, several soldiers looked over and joined in the smile. Some chuckled softly; others wiped their eyes. That laughter was like medicine—healing invisible wounds.
The troops began their final preparations for departure.
Rianor had divided the tasks. The majority would return to Iron Heart, leaving behind only a small contingent—technicians, a security force, and Hektor as the interim leader. The rest were going home.
Thamrin approached. His face was still pale, his eyes bloodshot from smoke and lack of sleep. His hands—the same hands that had sniped dozens of cyborgs—shook with exhaustion.
"Thamrin. You’re coming back with us," Rianor said.
Thamrin shook his head. His eyes fixed on the ruins in the distance—the place where the market once stood, where his mother was crushed by debris, where his younger brother had perished. "I want to stay, My Lord. I want to help rebuild. To build new homes. A new market. For my mother... for my brother."
Rianor studied him for a long moment. "Are you certain?"
Thamrin nodded firmly. "I have no family left in Iron Heart, My Lord. But here... here I can build something. For those who are gone. And for those who survived."
Rianor placed a hand on his shoulder. "Look after Hektor. Guard this city."
Thamrin smiled. "As you command, My Lord."
The convoy began its exodus from Northveil.
At the vanguard, the infantry marched with steady strides. Their Sudrath Spears were slung over their backs, their faces weary but their eyes alight. The Ghost Squad followed in the shadows, their camouflage cloaks fluttering in the cold northern wind. Rianor’s SUV sat in the center, followed by the Garrick’s Fury Launchers, scarred by shrapnel but still intact. Behind them, the dragons in human form walked calmly, led by a steadfast Zoldrak and a contemplative Seraphina. The remaining tanks brought up the rear, their steel treads grinding against the asphalt they had once traversed in fear.
The journey back took just as long as the arrival. But the atmosphere was worlds apart. On the way there, they were fueled by grim determination and the terror of death. Now, they returned with the glow of victory. Those who had left with full magazines now returned with empty pouches. Those who had left with 45 tanks now returned with 38. Of the 800 infantry who had marched out, only 100 returned.
But they were going home. And that was all that mattered.
Rianor sat in the back of the SUV, his eyes closed. The exhaustion of fighting without proper sleep finally claimed him. He fell into a deep slumber—his first since leaving Iron Heart. In his hand, the Snow Chrysanthemum petal was still gripped tight.
The Northern Gate of Iron Heart was thrown wide open.
Citizens had been gathering since dawn. Though the sun was high, no one left their spot. Children sat on their fathers’ shoulders, necks craned toward the north. Older women clutched fresh flowers picked from their gardens. Young men stood at attention, waiting. Merchants had closed their shops early. The entire city seemed to stop spinning, holding its breath for one thing.
"They’re coming!" a child shouted from his father’s shoulders.
Every head turned. In the distance, a plume of dust began to rise. Cheers erupted, rolling from the front of the crowd to the back like a wave crashing against the shore.
"Our army is home!" "They won!" "NORTHVEIL HAS RETURNED!"
The convoy began to pass through the gates. The first line of infantry appeared—their faces were grime-streaked and their clothes tattered, but their smiles were wide. Some wept. Others laughed. A young soldier raised his weapon high, and the crowd responded with a deafening victory cry.
The Ghost Squad followed, silent as ever. Their camouflage cloaks were torn in places, but their footsteps remained soundless. The crowd didn’t cheer for them with noise—they simply fell silent, placing hands over their hearts. A silent tribute to the shadows that protected them from the dark.
When Rianor’s SUV passed, the cheers reached a fever pitch.
"LONG LIVE NORTHREACH!" "LONG LIVE SUDRATH!" "HAIL LORD RIANOR!"
Rianor smiled from behind the glass, waving slowly. The citizens replied with roars of approval and flowers tossed into the street. Petals scattered across the asphalt, over the SUV’s hood, and onto the shoulders of the marching soldiers.
A small boy ran toward the infantry line, his eyes sparkling. "I want to be a soldier just like you!" he chirped.
A soldier paused, leaned down, and smiled. "Study first, kid. Read, write, and do your sums. When you’re older, then you join. Lord Rianor needs smart soldiers, not just strong ones."
The boy nodded vigorously. "I’ll study! I’ll be the smartest of them all!"
The soldier laughed and resumed his march.
Yet, amidst the joy, there was also grief.
An elderly woman stood by the roadside, her eyes wet. She held a black cloth—a sign of mourning. Her frail body trembled, but she did not collapse. She wanted to see. She had to see.
A woman beside her asked softly, "Who did you lose, Mother?"
The old woman swallowed hard. "My son. A young soldier. He only joined a year ago." She paused, her breath hitching. "His name... his name was Galen."
The woman beside her fell silent.
But the old woman didn’t break down. She smiled—a heavy, painful smile, but a real one. "He died with honor. Defending Northreach. Defending us all." She lifted her chin. "I am proud of him."
The woman beside her squeezed her hand tightly. "He is a hero, Mother. We are all proud of him."
The old woman nodded. Her tears fell, but the smile remained.
At the gates of Iron Hearth Castle, the Sudrath family waited.
Lucian stood at the front, regal in his formal attire. The Old Lion had never looked younger than his years, but today, his eyes sparkled. Aurelia stood beside him, her hand gripping her husband’s arm. Her face was already wet with tears, but she didn’t care.
Behind them stood the rest: Riven with Elena and little Kaelven; Rhea with her growing belly and Arvid; Roland with his diplomat’s smile, though his eyes scanned the gates incessantly; Rumina with a look of relief she couldn’t hide; Raveena, who looked ready to sprint; and Raphael, standing tall with a military salute.
Caelus was absent—likely waiting patiently elsewhere.
Raveena couldn’t contain herself. The moment Rianor’s SUV came to a stop, she bolted. She leapt, throwing her arms around him.
"BIG BROTHER!"
She hugged him with all her might, sobbing against his chest. Her hands gripped his jacket as if terrified he might vanish again. Rianor, startled, softened and stroked his sister’s hair.
"I’m home, Raveena."
Raveena nodded through her tears. "I knew you’d come back. I always knew. But I was still so scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Scared that you wouldn’t."
Rianor sighed. "I promised, didn’t I?"
"A promise must be kept. And you kept it."
Rumina approached, joining the embrace. "Brother... don’t ever make us worry like that again." Her voice trembled. "I actually forgot to balance the ledgers because I was thinking about you. And you know if I stop counting, Northreach’s economy collapses."
Rianor laughed. "Don’t focus on the debts too much, or you’ll get a headache."
"I’ve had a headache for years!" Rumina teased, poking his arm. "But this time, it’s a headache of joy."
Raphael gave a stiff military salute. "Welcome back, Brother."
Rianor returned the salute seriously before ruffling his youngest brother’s hair. "Did you look after Mother and Father while I was gone?"
Raphael managed a small, genuine smile. "Yes, Brother! I looked after them well."
Riven stepped forward. He didn’t speak; he didn’t have to. He simply gripped Rianor’s shoulder—firmly, for a long time. Then he smiled. A brother’s smile of pure pride.
Rhea merely nodded from a distance, but the rare smile that appeared only for family told Rianor everything.
"You’ve gotten thin," Rhea said, her tone cold as usual, yet her eyes were glassy.
"It was a war, Sister. No time for fine dining."
"Mother is cooking tomorrow. You will finish every bite."
"Yes, Sister."
Roland stepped up, his gaze occasionally flickering toward Seraphina. "Welcome home."
Rianor looked at him. "Did you keep everything in order?"
"As always." Roland shrugged. "Nothing burned down. No one went bankrupt. Rumina hasn’t killed me yet."
"I’m still considering it," Rumina chirped from behind.
They laughed. Then Roland met Seraphina’s gaze. A small nod. Enough.
Aurelia finally couldn’t hold back. She rushed forward, pulling Rianor into a fierce embrace, her tears soaking his shoulder. "My son... I was so worried..."
"I’m home, Mother."
"You’re so thin. You’re pale. You haven’t slept."
"I slept, Mother. On the way back."
"Not enough." Aurelia pulled back, framing his face. "I will cook your favorite meal. I’ll cook so much, you’ll have to finish it all."
"What are you making?"
"Anything you want."
Rianor smiled. "Will you make Rendang?"
Aurelia laughed through her sobs. "Rendang. Vegetables. Sambal. Everything."
Lucian stood behind his wife. He didn’t hug, didn’t speak. But his eyes—the eyes of the Old Lion—shone with a pride that required no words.
"Rianor." "Father."
Lucian nodded. "Let us go inside. We have much to discuss."
In the Grand Hall of Iron Hearth Castle, Rianor reported the course of the battle.
Mana-electric lamps burned bright, illuminating the faces present. Lucian sat in the high chair with Aurelia beside him. Riven, Roland, Rhea, Rumina, Raveena, Raphael—all were there. Thorne, Leofric, Kaelen, and Borch stood behind Rianor, silent and respectful.
Rianor stood in the center. His voice was calm and level, but every word carried weight. He spoke of the Garrick’s Fury missiles tearing through the night, the Sky-Hunters striking like hawks, the tanks crushing the western barricades, and the Ghost Squad hunting commanders in the silence.
He spoke of the rotation strategy that made the enemy think the Sudrath forces were endless. He spoke of the dragons’ timely arrival.
And he spoke of Rudigor—who finally fell at Thorne’s hand after hours of battle.
He also named the price. 700 soldiers fallen. 7 tanks destroyed. 172 dragons killed. Only 100 soldiers remaining from the 800 who had set out.
The hall fell into a heavy silence.
Lucian listened intently. His face remained a mask of stone, but his eyes told a different story.
"Those sacrifices were not in vain," Lucian said at last. His voice was low but echoed clearly. "They died for Northreach. For their families. For us all. For a future they will never see, but one they built with their blood."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking north toward Northveil. "Ensure they are honored. Provide pensions for the families left behind. Not just enough—more. They deserve more."
Rianor nodded. "It’s already being prepared, Father. Rumina will handle it."
Rumina stood. "I’ve already crunched the numbers, Father. The reserve funds are sufficient to provide double the standard rate, with enough left for Northveil’s reconstruction."
Lucian turned and gave a thin, almost invisible smile. "Good."
He returned to his seat and looked at Rianor. "You have kept your promise, my son. Northveil is ours once more. Garrick, Ben, and all who fell—they have been avenged."
Rianor looked at his father, a warmth in his chest he rarely felt.
"And now," Lucian continued, his voice soft but firm, "keep your other promise."
Aurelia smiled from her seat, her eyes twinkling. "Elara has waited long enough, son. Do not make her wait a moment longer."
Rianor smiled. "I will go to her now."
The garden of Iron Hearth Castle felt warmer than usual.
The late afternoon sun slanted toward the west, casting a golden glow over every corner. The Snow Chrysanthemums were beginning to bloom, their white-and-blue petals contrasting with the deep green leaves. In the center of the garden, on that same stone bench, Elara sat in her wheelchair.
She was gazing toward the gate. Waiting. In her hand was the Snow Chrysanthemum Rianor had given her—dried, but still intact.
When Rianor appeared through the trees, Elara smiled. "You’re home."
Rianor approached. He knelt before her wheelchair, taking her warm hands in his. "I’m home."
They remained silent for a while. The wind blew softly, carrying the scent of flowers. Rianor gripped her hands tightly.
"Are you crying?" he asked gently.
Elara shook her head. "I’m just... happy."
Rianor smiled. "I am, too."
He didn’t speak of the wedding immediately. He didn’t have to. They just sat there, in the same garden, under the same flowers, just like before. Only this time, there was no goodbye. Only a homecoming.
Elara looked at the flower in her hand. "This flower... it’s still whole."
"I brought mine, too." Rianor pulled the petal from his pocket. "From the very first day I left."
Elara laughed—a soft sound that made Rianor forget all his weariness. "We’re both a little crazy, aren’t we?"
"Perhaps." Rianor squeezed her hand again. "But I wouldn’t change a thing."
The sun sank lower. Golden light bathed their faces. In the distance, the sounds of the city grew lively again—people returning, children playing, shopkeepers reopening.
But in that garden, time seemed to stand still.
At the castle window, Aurelia watched them. She smiled. "That boy," she murmured. "He’s finally home."
Lucian stood beside her, silent. But the smile on the Old Lion’s face spoke louder than any words ever could.