Their clothes were in rough shape… Kira's leather hunting pants were caked in dirt, and Zeyra's combat gear was stained dark with the greenish-yellow fluid of the stalkers… but their strides were long, fast, and entirely stable, without any sign of serious injury.
A middle-aged woman near the front of the gate suddenly let out a sharp, gasping shriek, her hands flying to her mouth.
She had spotted her son, Bran, jogging near the front of Team One. His face was caked in dried giant blood, and his tunic was ripped across the shoulder, but his arms and legs were completely whole.
"Bran! By the ancestors, he's walking!" she sobbed, her knees buckling as she reached through the logs.
Right next to her, an old veteran saw Torin and Kael moving in formation, their expressions full of a fierce, silent pride as they hit their chest armor in a synchronized salute to the crowd. The recognition triggered a sudden, explosive wave of shouting through the entire gate line.
