We stayed for the celebration.

  It wasn't a royal command.

  It was by choice.

  The city had prepared a festival for us—

  and I wanted my soldiers to see

  what this joy, these lanterns,

  these voices without swords truly looked like.

  We arrived at the central plaza just as night fell.

  Lanterns were already lit—

  not the solemn cold-fire of ceremonies,

  but real paper lanterns, smelling of oil and smoke.

  They floated, bright and warm, in every color.

  Streamers lined the streets—

  hung from windows, roofs, even flagpoles.

  Three wooden music stages stood in the square,

  freshly lacquered in gold.

  Drummers and pipers never left their posts.

  The tune they played was old,

  but faster than I remembered.

  I’d heard it as a child—

  my mother called it “The Thaw.”

  A song to chase away winter.

  Now, it was a song of victory.

  Someone started to dance.

  A young soldier, armor still on,

  grabbed a stranger and spun her around.

  At first, people clapped.

  Then more joined.

  Tables were carried in.

  Grills, barrels, and crockery laid out.

  Soldiers and townsfolk ate together, laughed together.

  Children ran under tables,

  hair lit up by lantern light like flames.

  I stood at the edge of the stage, watching.

  This is humanity.

  They fear.

  They cry.

  They argue, make mistakes, stumble.

  But clear the shadows for them—

  and they will fill the world with light.

  I never believed war was about killing.

  I only wanted to clear the stage.

  A little girl ran toward me.

  Oversized coat, sticky candy in hand.

  She didn’t know my name.

  Or maybe she just knew “Hero.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  She stood before me, holding up the candy.

  “Do you want one?” she asked.

  I crouched, met her eyes.

  Wide. Red-cheeked.

  Nose frozen pink.

  I took the candy.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re not going to eat it?”

  “I’ll bring it back,” I said.

  “For the uncles who didn’t come.

  To show them you’re eating well.”

  She nodded.

  Then ran off into the crowd.

  I looked at the candy—

  red and bright, like warm blood.

  But sweet. No bitterness.

  The soldiers laughed at last.

  Not the respectful, distant kind—

  but real laughter, born of smoke and earth and wine.

  They no longer marched in rows.

  No longer called cadence.

  They circled the food, the fires—

  speaking freely.

  Someone spoke of hometown dishes.

  Another said he’d go home and build something useless—

  a wooden horse.

  A fruitless tree.

  They spoke openly,

  even with me nearby.

  I didn’t interrupt.

  I sat at the edge.

  Listened to them talk, drink,

  peel off armor

  to reveal clothes no different from commoners’.

  They no longer looked like soldiers.

  They looked like sons,

  like brothers,

  like neighbors.

  And I realized—

  They were never born for war.

  They fought

  just to make it back

  to this square.

  One soldier pulled me into the circle.

  Drunk, grinning.

  “Dance with us, Commander!

  You’re always just standing!

  We’re not used to it!”

  I pushed him.

  “I’m watching. That’s enough.”

  “Are you afraid that we’ll run?”

  “No. I’m afraid you’ll fall.”

  He laughed louder.

  Then spun around the lanterns again.

  I left the plaza late.

  Lanterns still burned.

  Music still played.

  Fewer dancers,

  but some still moving—

  step by step, like a clock.

  The air smelled of coals, sugar, snow, and wine.

  The streets felt polished and clean with joy.

  I glanced back at the stage.

  Something surfaced—

  memories from before the war.

  Blurry faces.

  A younger me watching a festival

  but never stepping in.

  Now, I still haven't.

  And that was fine.

  Guarding this light

  was enough for me.