The theme is a homecoming against all odds. Our celebration opens as a city holds its breath: a General thought lost in a doomed battle turns the dust line into destiny and rides back to the gate. The walls are quiet; smoke from a distant field threads the sky. Word has spread that our flag fell beneath a storm of steel. And yet - there, on the bright seam where dust meets light, an outline gathers into certainty: a rider, a sword catching fire from the sun, a heartbeat that belongs to us. Outnumbered, encircled, written off, we wagered not bulk but wit; not thunder, but thought. Strategy, discipline, fury, and prayer. Then, like a hand through the curtain, deus ex machina tilted the scale. But the God was never foreign. He was forged from you: teachers and friends, mentors and pastors, colleagues and kin. Every small mercy and hard lesson hammered into the steel you are about to witness. If victory has a signature, it is a chorus of your names. I do not ride in for homage, but in gratitude for the hands that forged him. The plates of this armor hold your initials; the stitches are your counsel; the polish is your faith. I carry a sword to remember the cost and to promise restraint. Edge sheathed by oath, force yoked to tenderness. If I seem indomitable, it is only as the sum of the legion that raised me. If I appear unbroken, it is because your hands forged me, your voices steadied me, your love returned me. If I seem brave, it is because you taught me where to aim my fear. And she has waited - lamp lit, breath held - not for a conqueror but for a keeper. When the horse breaks the threshold and the music climbs, understand: this is not theater; it is thanksgiving set to rhythm. The war story folds into the wedding; battle becomes betrothal. The blade lowers into a vow, her hand finds mine, and the noise of conquest yields to a promise: to guard the peace you built in me, to shelter the home we build together, and to spend the rest of my days earning this return.