The sun bled amber across the plains of Rohan, casting the Golden Hall in long, warm shadows. The air was calm now—quiet in a way it hadn't been for many days. Inside, the court murmured with renewed life. But just beyond the threshold, on a stone terrace overlooking the city, Yuna stood alone, a soft breeze tugging at the edges of her sleeves and skirt, the gentle clicking of her beaded earring softly chiming. She held her staff loosely at her side. The wind whispered like a familiar voice.

Behind her, a light step. She didn't turn—she didn't have to.

"You're not used to stillness like this," came Gandalf's voice, low and thoughtful. "Even in peace, your heart searches."

Yuna smiled faintly, though her eyes stayed on the golden horizon. "It's… quiet. But not empty." She glanced at him. "I used to think that stillness meant peace. Then I learned sometimes it just means… waiting for the next storm." Visions of the desolation of Kilia filled her mind.

Gandalf walked to her side, leaning on his staff with quiet ease. "You speak like one who has seen many storms."

Yuna hesitated, then nodded. "Too many. I walked a pilgrimage knowing it would end in my death. I believed it was the only way to save my people." Her fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve. "But I was wrong. The faith I trusted in… it wasn't what it claimed to be."

Gandalf looked at her gently. "And yet, you still walk. You still heal. You still protect."

"Because I must." Her voice was soft, but certain. "If I stopped…someone else would be making the same pilgrimage. Make the same sacrifice. But, it's hard to continue, knowing that even if you succeed, the pain and suffering won't go away."

The old wizard studied her for a moment, then let out a breath. "It is no small thing, to lose faith and still choose to do good. That is the beginning of wisdom, I think. The kind that cannot be taught."

Yuna turned her gaze back to the open plains. "Gríma tried to twist words like the Maesters once did. Promised protection, peace, and power… but only if I gave up my voice." She shook her head slowly. "I've made that mistake before."

"And yet," Gandalf said, "you did not let anger guide your hand. Not even when you saw the poison behind his smile."

"I know where anger leads," she whispered. "It's easy to become the thing you're fighting. It's harder to choose kindness and still stand firm."

Gandalf smiled. "A lesson many here have yet to learn. Your being here is no accident, Yuna."

She looked at him now, eyes questioning.

"I cannot claim to know all the workings of fate," he continued, "but I know this: you were sent not because you are lost, but because we are."

Yuna looked down, thoughtful. "Then maybe… I can help. Even if just a little."

"You already have," Gandalf said.

They stood together a while longer in silence, watching the light fade across the land. Yuna closed her eyes briefly, listening to the wind—not a prayer this time, but a promise.

Whatever storm came next, she would face it.

The gates of Edoras creaked open just past dawn. Dust rose as a company of riders galloped in—helmets gleaming, banners snapping in the wind. At the head rode Éomer, fierce and wind-worn, his eyes scanning the city with urgency. He had returned to a kingdom changed.

Théoden stood waiting in the courtyard, armor clasped and posture proud. Gandalf beside him, serene and steady. Behind them, Éowyn and Yuna waited just beyond the stairs of Meduseld, the wind tugging at their clothes.

Éomer dismounted swiftly and dropped to one knee before the king. "My lord uncle."

Théoden stepped forward and pulled him to his feet without hesitation, embracing him with the tight, short grasp of warriors who have not time for grief or joy. "You ride fast," he said.

"You sent for me," Éomer replied. "I would not have delayed another hour."

"There is no more time to delay," Gandalf said, stepping in. "Saruman moves swiftly. The Westfold is burning. Orcs march in force."

Théoden nodded grimly. "We ride for Helm's Deep."

Éomer's jaw tightened. "Then let me ride ahead. We will scout the path, clear what we can—"

"No." Théoden's voice was calm but final. "You will stay at my side." His gaze turned to the city beyond, where mothers packed hurried bundles and children clung to wide-eyed animals. "We are not marching to victory," the king said. "We are carrying what remains of our people to safety."

Yuna watched Éomer from the steps, heart twisting. He looked older somehow—haunted and harder than when he left. And yet his eyes, when they found hers, softened. He strode to her quietly, glancing around before they spoke. "I heard from Aragorn what you did," he said low. "Protecting Edoras. Standing against Gríma. Helping Théoden..."

Yuna looked down briefly. "I only did what I could," she said, "I still wish I could have done more for your cousin."

Éomer shook his head. "You did more than that. You stayed."

There was a beat of silence.

"You're not leaving?" he asked.

"I'm coming with you," she said, her voice steady. "I can still heal. I may be able to help."

He gave her a small, grateful nod, though shadows lingered in his eyes.

Éowyn handed off final bundles to the guards, her braid tied tight, her mouth set in a determined line. Yuna stood beside her, helping an older woman up into a cart.

"I don't like running," Éowyn muttered, half to herself.

"It isn't running," Yuna said softly. "It's surviving. So we can begin our journey again when the next day comes."

Éowyn turned to her, eyes searching. "You sound like you know how this ends."

"No," Yuna admitted. "But I've seen what happens when you lose hope. But, I am determined to not let it happen again."

Éowyn's lips lifted—just slightly. "Good. Then ride with me."

As the sun climbed higher and the city emptied behind them, Théoden looked back once.

Meduseld shimmered in the light—proud, golden, silent.

Then he turned his horse, and Rohan rode for Helm's Deep.