Story: Cecilia von Kalzberg-Mitthel - Homecoming

*Main Article: Cecilia von Kalzberg-Mitthel*

43rd of Starhearth, 1228 AW.

Night had long fallen over Wyrsia. George Wallace was dead. They had won the war. It was just the stragglers that had to die now. Oakfield and the ALW had taken Woodhall back only a few days ago. It had been the end of Wallace and the end of his Protectorate. Yet, Oakfield had warned Cecilia not to enter the city just yet, as there were still stragglers inside. This was confirmed by the occasional shot that rung through the night, echoing through the streets of the empty city before the silence returned.

Yet, Cecilia didn't care. Was she reckless, determined, or homesick? She couldn't even tell anymore. Cecilia marched through the destroyed front gate, a dozen soldiers flanking her on both sides. Being the queen of Wyrsia wasn't too bad if it wasn't for the lack of privacy. They passed three checkpoints, being met with surprise at each one before they made it to the Royal Palace. It was smaller than she remembered, yet it had been almost entirely untouched by both wars. The captain guarding the palace had just been rudely awoken, and he didn't seem too pleased by Cecilia's presence before grumbling something and letting her inside.

Cecilia stepped inside for the first time in almost two decades. She could still almost see them walking around: the guards, the servants, the cooks, the handmaids, the lords and the knights, and her family. Yet, now the halls were dark and somber. Wallace had changed little about the interior, yet somehow it felt colder and emptier. She briefly considered turning around to order the whole thing blown to bits to erase the memories, yet she continued.

The throne room was largely empty, with the Wyrsian throne smashed to bits ages ago. The armories were emptied, and the halls were filled with dust and rubble. Cecilia entered her room, and, unlike the rest of the palace, it was exactly the same. Her old bed, her dolls, even some of her old dresses. The Republicans hadn't touched a thing. She stepped outside onto the little balcony. The flowers she kept as a child had long died and withered.

She overlooked Woodhall like she had done on many sleepless nights as a child. Yet, the pretty lights were missing. No candles were flickering in the homes; no patrols walked the streets. Woodhall was dark, the only lights coming from the checkpoints and the war camp outside the walls she had departed earlier. However, a different type of light illuminated a street in the city. The flash of a musket firing, followed by the distant crackle. Oakfield was right. Between the rubble and the broken dreams, Wallace's men still fought.

She sighed, overlooking the ruins. She looked at the ruined houses, the walls that had collapsed into rubble, and the gates that had been smashed open. She looked at the empty streets, listened to the silence, and wondered what they were even fighting for. Looking at the railing with the withered flowers, which represented the state of her hometown, a grim thought crossed her head. After a brief second of consideration, she turned away from the railing.

"I'm tired," she mumbled before heading back to the camp.