Chapter 100: The Return

　　Awareness did not come as a sudden jolt, but as the gentle, inevitable rising of the tide. The last vestiges of the dream—the scent of pine, the echo of hoofbeats, the vast, star-dusted sky over the Barrens—lingered for a final moment, like the fading notes of a distant song. Then, they were gone.

　　Kaelen opened his eyes.

　　The light was no longer a blinding glare but a soft, diffused glow from a window shaded against the afternoon sun. He was in a room, not a landscape. The air smelled of antiseptic, linen, and the faint, familiar scent of his mother’s perfume. The rhythmic beeping was not a war drum but the steady, reassuring pulse of his own heart, measured by a machine.

　　He turned his head. The movement was slow, stiff, but it was his own.

　　His mother was asleep in a chair beside the bed, her head resting on her arms, her face etched with lines of exhaustion and worry. His father stood by the window, his broad shoulders slumped, staring out at a world that had stood still for so long. His younger sister was curled in another chair, a book open on her lap.

　　He tried to speak, but his throat was a desert. A dry, rasping sound escaped his lips.

　　It was enough.

　　His mother’s eyes flew open. For a long second, she stared at him, disbelief warring with a hope so raw it was painful to witness. Then, a tear traced a path down her cheek. "Kaelen?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

　　His father turned from the window. The weariness in his face melted away, replaced by a profound, breathless relief. He moved to the bedside, his large, calloused hand gently covering Kaelen's.

　　His sister stirred, blinking sleep from her eyes. When she saw him looking back, a wide, uninhibited smile broke across her face. "You're awake!"

　　He was. He was truly awake. The long journey was over. The chronicle of Azeroth was closed, a magnificent, sprawling dream tucked away in a corner of his soul. It had been a story of survival, of witness, of a world both beautiful and broken. But this—the feel of his father's hand, the sound of his mother's weeping laughter, the sight of his sister's joy—this was not a story. This was life. This was his life.

　　He was not a centaur. He was a boy. He was Kaelen. He was home.

　　The miracle was not in the epic dream he had lived, but in the quiet, unwavering love that had never left his side, the care that had tenderly, stubbornly pulled him back across the impossible chasm. It was a love that had fought for him, day after silent day, and had finally, gently, won.

　　He closed his eyes again, not to dream, but to rest. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was no path ahead of him, no vast world to chronicle. There was only the peace of the present moment, the sound of his family around him, and the profound, grateful certainty that he was exactly where he was meant to be. The journey was over. He was home.