The golden age of the Empire did not begin with a coronation, but with the clattering of hammers and the scent of freshly turned earth. However, before the first stone could be laid, a different kind of battle had to be fought: the battle against the exhaustion of the survivors.
In the wake of the spire's fall, Alaric was a man possessed. Driven by the phantom memory of failing his duty as a Holy Knight, he patrolled the city for forty-eight hours straight. He refused to unbuckle his silver plate, his eyes scanning every shadow for a threat that no longer existed. He was terrified that if he stopped moving, he would find himself back in that cold alleyway.
It ended when Killian and Eveline staged an intervention that was less of a request and more of an ambush.
Killian caught Alaric in the barracks, bodily blocking the door. "The war is over, Alaric. Put the sword down before I take it from you."
"I have a duty to the city—" Alaric started, his voice a gravelly rasp.
"Your duty is to stay alive!" Seraphina shouted, appearing from behind Killian, her eyes blazing with that same fury from the temple. "You were a Holy Knight who forgot that 'Holy' means 'Life.' You are staying in this manor, you are eating, and you are sleeping. If I see you in that armor again this week, I will have the blacksmith melt it into soup spoons!"
Eveline stepped forward, her touch gentle but firm as she began to unfasten his heavy pauldrons. "The Light doesn't need a guard right now, Alaric. It needs to rest. Let us take the watch."
For the first time in two lifetimes, the Holy Knight let his shoulders drop. He allowed them to lead him away, finally surrendering to the sleep he had denied himself for centuries.
Once the initial exhaustion passed, the four of them didn't return to their high offices. They went to the mud.
Alaric redefined what it meant to be a Holy Knight. He stripped away the gold leaf and the elitism of the order. He worked alongside the common masons, using his immense strength to haul the massive white stones needed to repair the city walls. He spent his days teaching the new recruits that a knight's truest prayer was the sweat spent protecting a peasant's home.
Seraphina became a fixture in the lower districts. She sat in the dirt with the architects, planning a city that focused on sanitation and public squares rather than monuments to the nobility.
KKillian organized the logistics, ensuring that the food meant for the palace went to the workers first. He was often seen sharing a jug of water with a carpenter, his terrifying reputation softening into one of a rugged, reliable leader.
The Cathedral was no longer a fortress. Eveline opened the gardens to the public, turning the "Holy Tree"—the site of her past-life tragedy—into a place where children played. She used her magic not for show, but to soothe the aching muscles of the laborers.
They didn't just rebuild the buildings; they rebuilt the trust. Every stone Alaric laid was a silent apology to the city he had once abandoned in his grief. Every law Seraphina passed was a safeguard against the shadows they had all endured.
The people saw their "Holy Knight" and their "Lady" covered in dust and sweat, working toward a future they all shared. The divide between the "high-born" and the "commoners" began to dissolve, replaced by a collective pride in a city that had survived the impossible.
One afternoon, Alaric stood at the edge of the community garden he had built in the very alley where he had once ended his life. He wasn't alone; he was surrounded by the sounds of a city coming back to life.
"It's quiet," Seraphina said, walking up beside him and leaning against a newly planted sapling.
"It's the right kind of quiet," Alaric replied, looking at his calloused, dirt-stained hands. "It's the sound of people breathing without fear."