Morning arrived soft and gentle. The sun spilled pale gold across the edges of my tent. Dust floated in the light, glinting like tiny stars suspended in the air. I hadn't moved yet—hadn't dared believe the world could feel quiet again. The memory of smoke, fire, blood, and shadows still clung to my skin.
I suddenly spotted someone in the distance.
Prince Oma, standing at the edge of the tent, tall, steady, calm, yet somehow lighter than I remembered. The early light caught the angles of his face, and for a moment, the years of war, loss, and fear seemed to lift from the air around him.
"Everlyn," he said. His voice was soft and careful, yet it carried a weight that pressed into my chest. "It's time. We can return. Our land… It's been liberated."
I froze.
"Liberated?" My voice was a whisper, fragile, like it might shatter if I spoke too loudly. My hands tightened around the edge of the mat, knuckles white. "How?"
He didn't answer right away. He just watched me, steady, eyes glinting with something secret, something unspoken. "Let's focus on the positives," he said finally.
I wanted more. Needed more. My chest ached with disbelief, my mind scrambled to catch up. But already—already—I felt a warmth crawling through me, a cautious, fragile hope that hadn't been there for years.
I sent the hawks first, one by one, each slicing through the sky carrying messages to our friends in the kingdoms surrounding Oma. The replies came back, steady, sure. One by one, confirmations arrived: our land, our home, was ours again. Freed. Unbound. Waiting for us.
I sank to my knees on the mat, letting the parchment fall from my hands. My heart thumped, hammering in my chest, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the world seemed right.
"He… he really did it?" I whispered to myself. "He really brought us home."
I turned to him. "How? How did you pull this off?" I asked, desperation threading my voice. "Tell me! Please."
He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I told you. Focus on the positives," he said. And just like that, he let it be a secret, something sacred between us, untold.
I huffed, exasperated, but the sight of him standing there—so calm, so unshakable—made me forgive him before I even realized I had been angry.
"You have to show yourself," I said, stepping closer. "To the people. To everyone in Oma. They need to see you. Not just hear about you."
He hesitated. I saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the faint crease in his brow. That careful, calculating look he wore when weighing more than just himself.
"Everlyn…" he began, voice low.
I reached out, letting my hand brush against his arm. "They need you," I said softly, with more certainty than I felt. "They've waited so long. They need their Prince back."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. That faint, human sigh slipped past him, quiet, almost vulnerable. "Alright," he said. "If you think it's time."
We left the tent together.
The village gathered slowly, first in small clusters, then spilling into the streets, curious murmurs rising like a tide. Mothers with children clinging to their skirts. Old men gripping canes, faces pale and lined with years of worry. They froze when they saw him.
And then they ran.
Mothers pressed their children toward him, hands trembling, voices quivering.
Childhood friends—now grown, hardened by loss and time—rushed forward, laughing, crying, embracing him as they would never let go. Their eyes were wet, but bright with something I thought we'd lost: hope.
I watched quietly, letting it happen. Letting them feel the warmth of him again.
Some of the younger women blushed, shyly hiding their smiles behind their hands. Some whispered to one another, stealing glances at him as though they couldn't believe he was real. And he—Prince Oma—stood there, silent, calm, letting them cling, laugh, cry, love him without a word.
Children tugged at his coat, asked him questions he answered with gentle nods and small smiles. He knelt, laughed softly when a girl nearly tripped over her own feet while reaching for his hand. There was something in the air—soft, golden, light—that hadn't been there since we fled.
When the evening came, we shared a meal. He sat on the ground, cross-legged, among the tribesfolk, and I felt my chest loosen as I watched him eat with them, quietly, without ceremony. No throne, no fanfare. Just him, just us. Just Oma.
The smells of roasted meat, fresh bread, the earthy tang of the fire—it all mingled, creating a warmth that filled the gaps left by years of shadow and fear. Laughter bounced between the tents, the flickering firelight catching the edges of faces lined with sorrow and now, relief.
I sat beside him, feeling the years of exhaustion, of vigilance, of loss, slip just slightly from my shoulders. For a moment, the world was simple. The world was ours.
By dusk, the preparations were complete. We would leave for the land of Oma. The air smelled of fire-ash and sweet bread. The horizon stretched golden and free, waiting for us.
"You should go ahead," he said, voice soft but firm. "I have… unfinished business."
I frowned. "Unfinished business?"
He smiled faintly, shadow beginning to gather around him again. "Go," he said. "I'll catch up."
And then he vanished, without another word.
I stood alone, the last streaks of sunset painting the land in oranges and purples. My chest tightened, a mixture of worry and relief. He was back. He was home. And that was enough—for now.
I watched the tents settle, the people laugh quietly, the children chase shadows on the ground. Even with him gone, his presence lingered. Comforted. Reassured. Warmed.
I let the air brush over my face, let the quiet hum of the village seep into my bones. For the first time in years, I could breathe without the weight of fire, of blood, of darkness pressing on my shoulders.
Prince Oma had returned. The land of Oma was ours again. And though there was more to do, though there were shadows waiting and battles yet to be faced, for this one evening, the world felt whole.
I smiled, letting the light touch me fully. I whispered into the wind, as if he could hear me: "Welcome home."