Cirol’s southeast mess hall pulsed with low voices, clinking spoons, and the sound of shared exhaustion. Soldiers filtered in from the day’s rotation in twos and threes, cloaks heavy with sweat and soot, settling onto benches already sagging beneath the weight of the weary.

This was just one of several such halls across Cirol, and it ran on rotation. No one lingered long, but for now, the company had claimed a battered table near the hearth. It was warm, loud, and packed tight with Huma from all corners of the city, but it was the first meal they’d eaten sitting down in three days.

Hensen worked the stew pot with vigor and a spoon the size of a trowel. Steam billowed from the iron cauldron, thick with lentils, dried tubers, and something that might once have been rabbit.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Aldryn said, eyeing the bowl with theatrical suspicion.

“Flattery won’t get you seconds,” Hensen grunted, slopping stew with all the grace of a shovel.

“I was thinking more of an antidote.”

Hensen smirked. “This here’s wartime stew, friend. It’s kept more men upright than your smoke and sparkles.”

Aldryn sniffed it, winced, and muttered, “And knocked out just as many.”

That earned a few chuckles from nearby soldiers, grizzled and young alike, glad for any shred of normal. Marra and Tobbit, the two handservants, zipped between tables like coals caught in a draft. Marra balanced baskets of flatbread with surprising grace, while Tobbit weaved through armored knees with chipped mugs of watered cider. They weren’t official kitchen staff, just a cook’s helpers, but they moved like veterans now.

“Here ya go,” Tobbit said, sliding a mug beside Boaz with a shy glance at Thorne, curled like a shadow at his side. “D’you think he eats meat?”

Boaz opened his mouth, but Lyra beat him to it. “Only if he’s just killed it. Want to get closer?”

Tobbit turned pale. Marra snorted.

Across the table, Eira stirred on her perch, feathers ruffling with slow dignity. Her gold-ringed eyes locked on Marra, who froze mid-step. “She’s…” Marra whispered, awestruck. “She’s not even blinking.”

“She doesn’t need to,” said Kiera, brushing a hand along the owl’s speckled back. “She sees through more than her eyes.”

“And the hawk?” Tobbit pointed toward the high rafters, where Kestel nested like a statue, watching everything.

“That one’s mine,” Jaxson said, sidling in beside Theo with a tired smirk. “You’ll know him when you see a streak of feathers and hear someone screaming.”

“He makes his enemies scream?” Marra asked.

“No,” Theo deadpanned. “Jaxson screams.”

More laughter followed, even from nearby soldiers. For a moment, the gloom lifted. At the end of the table, Merran sat with his bowl untouched, eyes distant.

Aldryn noticed and leaned in. “How are you feeling?”

The Aguan gave a long blink. “Just thirsty.”

Aldryn frowned. “How long since you last touched the waters of Lake Evenwell?”

“It’ll be four days. I’m still upright. Not my first march.”

Aldryn’s voice lowered. “Let me know if it gets worse. We’ll find a way.”

Boaz glanced over but didn’t press. The old Aguan wore calm like armor, but something about the pallor of his skin, the stillness in his hands, it lingered in Boaz’s thoughts. Outside, the city groaned. Gates were repaired as best they could be, or reinforced, banners re-strung, watch rotations turned over. But here, in the warmth of stew and old jokes, they had the smallest luxury: each other.

The Familiars dozed or perched. Thorne flicked his tail once, eyes slitted. Mika snored under the bench, unconcerned. Tink had stolen a roll from someone’s pouch and was gnawing it noisily beneath the table. Boaz leaned back, bowl half-empty, eyes on the fire. They would sleep soon. They would likely fight again at dawn, or maybe before.

But for now, there was warmth and camaraderie. And that, too, was a kind of weapon.

The bells marked the second hour before sunrise when Boaz stirred from uneasy sleep. The barracks room was quiet but restless: boots scuffed against stone, a cough in the corner, someone turning in their bunk. Thorne lay at the foot of Boaz’s cot, tail wrapped tight, golden eyes half-lidded but alert. Boaz dressed quickly, joints stiff, then slung on his cloak without covering the Sigil. The ironwork was dark against his chest, but the mother-of-pearl leaf shimmered faintly, catching the cold lamplight with a strange, quiet life of its own.

Outside, Cirol moved like a city taking a deep breath. Patrols passed in silence. Lanterns burned low. The morning sky was still dark, but it had lost its deepest black; dawn was near.

Boaz climbed the northern rampart, where he found Aldryn already waiting. The old wizard leaned against the stone parapet, mug in one hand, an apple in the other, his staff resting beside him. His hood was pulled up against the wind, but his expression was sharp. “You’re early,” Boaz said.

“You’re up,” Aldryn replied. “I guess I’m not the only one who’s wondering what the day may bring.”

Boaz stepped up beside him. “Any movement?”

Aldryn nodded at the darkness beyond the broken outer wall. “They’ve shifted torches. That’s not random. When they start moving firelight around, it means they’re coordinating. The dumb ones don’t coordinate.”

Moments later, Merran arrived, cloaked and heavy-lidded. He leaned with some effort on the rampart, but he said nothing.

“How are you holding up?” Aldryn asked without looking.

“I’m alive,” Merran answered. “For now, that’ll do.”

A whisper of wind passed overhead. Eira swept down with silent grace and landed on the stone edge. Moments later, Kestel dove after her, wings flashing once before landing with a rasp of claws.

Kiera and Jaxson came up the steps right behind them, breath fogging in the cold. “They’re disturbed,” Kiera said, her hand brushing Eira’s feathers. “Something’s moving again.”

“Fallen?” Boaz asked.

Kestel tilted his head and gave a sharp bark. “Fallen,” Jaxson confirmed. “And something… worse.”

Boaz felt it before it was spoken. Jaxson’s face tightened. “I think it’s Grimboldt, or more than one.” The rampart fell quiet. Merran’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Boaz slowly turned his gaze outward, watching the horizon with new intensity.

“I saw one,” he said softly. “In Forlon. It seems so long ago and so far away, but it wasn’t. And isn’t. It tore through the village like it was made of paper, and killed…” he trailed off, thinking of Kiera’s father.

“That was the first in a hundred years,” Aldryn added grimly. “If Vortannis is sending them again now, it means he’s running out of patience.”

“I didn’t see it,” Jaxson said, “but I remember the stories people were telling. Some kind of weird combination of moose, lion, and bear, all rotting?”

Boaz didn’t answer, but nodded. Aldryn sipped his mug. “That’s not all. It doesn’t bleed. It melts. And that blood is big trouble if it gets on your skin.”

Kiera made a face. “But they can be killed, right?”

“Oh, yes. Fire works. Ropes, too, if you can trip the beasts up. Blunt weapons to crush the skull, or drown it, if you’ve got the stomach. Just don’t think they’ll fall easy.”

A long, guttural horn split the horizon: lower than a Tulogan call, older than any living throat. It seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath their boots.

Aldryn’s mouth tightened. “And there’s our alarm clock.”

Boaz rested his hand against the Sigil on his chest. “We’ve got to wake the others.” He looked out over the field, jaw set. “We hold the line.”

Aldryn drained the last of his mug and flung his apple core over the wall. “I suppose that’s one way to start the day.”

They struck just after noon, beneath a sun that offered no warmth.

The defenders of Cirol were dug in inside the shattered outer wall: once proud stone now reduced to a jagged crescent of ruin. The ground between them and the enemy had been cleared of rubble, layered with pikes and fire-traps, and turned into a narrow corridor of death. This was the last fallback before the inner streets, and they knew it. Beyond the broken arch of the wall, the Tulogan forces were stirring. Drums thudded. Horns sounded in warning.

Then, as the first Grimboldt began to lope forward, Merran moved. The old Aguan stepped forward from the side of the main line of defenders, away from the front lines. He uncorked a thick glass vial: its surface etched with flowing script from Lake Evenwell. He poured some of its shimmering contents into the dust. His lips moved in a whisper.

A breath of wind rose.

Then, fog. Not natural fog, but heavy, water-rich mist that rolled low and fast across the battlefield, thickening as it moved. It surged past the enemy’s front ranks and coiled around the Tulogan and Fallen like a living thing. Shouts rang out. Tulogan slammed into one another, blinded and disoriented. A Grimboldt spun in place, snapping at shadows. The lines beyond the fog wall stuttered and fell out of sync.

“Perfect,” Aldryn murmured to Theo. They had been watching from the walltop and coordinating efforts. “That’s how you confuse brutes; give them nothing to hate except each other.” Merran slumped slightly but stayed upright. The spell had cost him, but he said nothing.

Then came the Grimboldt, stumbling from the mist in uneven bursts. They reeked of rot and heat, red eyes glowing like hot coals. “Don’t let them bleed!” the sergeant called. “No blades unless you must!”

Archers on the wall readied clay fire-pots: oil-soaked, wick-wrapped, packed to burst. Lyra darted along the forward line, her body flickering and splitting, illusions rippling out. Phantom defenders left in her wake baited the Grimboldt left and right.

“NOW!” a captain shouted.

The fire-pots hurled down, smashing at the feet of the distracted monsters. Flames erupted, catching oil-slicked fur. One Grimboldt shrieked as it staggered, blinded by both illusion and flame.

Theo’s newly-created golems surged forward. One took up post in front of a weak barricade unprompted, planting its massive fists to brace it against impact. Another flanked a Grimboldt and slammed its knee into the creature’s ribs. The third grabbed a downed Tulogan by the collar and tossed him back toward the fog without a word from Theo. Theo blinked. “They’re… choosing now?”

“Run with it,” Aldryn said. “Whatever’s waking up in them, let it wake.”

Jaxson, flanked by Kestel high above, darted through the forward line chaos. “Left breach, three coming through!” he called, even as Kestel gave a shrill cry overhead. Jaxson hurled a short blade into one Tulogan’s leg and waved defenders toward the gap.

Kiera moved to the fallen, her hands glowing gold. She pressed both palms to a wounded man’s abdomen, his face twisted in pain, and light spread beneath his skin. Blood ceased, tissue closed. He groaned and sat up, blinking in awe at her. “You’re stable. Stay low. If you can walk, help carry the other wounded.” No promises. Just purpose.

Then Boaz felt it. The Sigil pulsed. A Grimboldt charged from the mist: massive, blistered, eyes burning. Boaz pointed his sword at the beast in a defensive posture, and for the first time, didn’t swing. He willed. Flame arced from the blade’s edge in a stream of burning orange that roared through the air like a thrown spear. It caught the beast full in the chest. The monster recoiled, howling, its fur igniting as it tumbled back into the fog.

Boaz exhaled. The Sigil hummed beneath his shirt, heat running up his arm like lightning, but controlled. Awaiting. He wasn’t alone. He never really had been. Aldryn smirked. “About time.”

And then the Fallen came. Silent. Swift. Their ember-lit weapons flickered, even in daylight. Bone and ash and rot. They emerged from the dissipating fog with eerie discipline: ranks closing as if they hadn’t stumbled at all.

Boaz turned to the others. His voice carried without needing to shout. “We hold here.” And they did, not as scattered warriors, but as something more. Together.

The storm of battle had not relented, but there came a moment, a hollow in the fury, when all else seemed to dim.

Boaz stepped over the body of a Tulogan spearman, his breath ragged, flame still clinging to his blade. All around him, the fellowship fought: Theo’s constructs hammering back the enemy’s flank, Lyra darting like moonlight, Jaxson coordinating squads with silent signals from Kestel above. He could hear Kiera’s voice behind him, calm and clear, guiding healing hands.

But here, at the edge of the barricade, it was quiet.

A small figure limped toward him, alone, between the smoldering beams and shattered stone. An Aguan Fallen, no taller than Boaz’s chest, gaunt and hunched, with bone-white limbs that shook with effort. It wore no armor, but bore an ugly-looking spear. It wore only a frayed shift, torn at the hem. It stopped just a few paces away. Its face was partially hidden beneath a cracked helm, half-melted to its skin.

Boaz froze. Around its neck, tied with a strand of brittle reed, hung a chipped riverstone pendant. Round, flat, and familiar. It reminded him of the Aguan girl by Lake Evenwell: the Aguan child, maybe twelve, who had pressed a stone similar to this into his palm with a whispered, “For luck.”

His sword dipped. The creature made no move to attack. Its head tilted, slowly, as if trying to see him. Not through hate. Through confusion. Boaz stepped forward. “You were someone,” he said softly, heart twisting. “You… you were someone good.”

The Sigil pulsed against his chest, as if it heard him. And then it shone. A radiant glow, cool and white with the iridescence of mother-of-pearl, spilled outward from the Aguan leaf. The light touched the small Fallen’s chest: where a faint shimmer answered.

The creature let out a shuddering breath. And then… transformed. Its back straightened. The rot faded. Its eyes became clear, large, and gentle. Not glowing. Just… real. For a single breath, Boaz saw her, not the monster, but the girl she had been. Brownish skin, short dark hair, gill slits, wide green eyes filled with relief. And then she faded into mist. No scream. No explosion. Just peace.

The mist curled upward like breath on winter air, catching the light and drifting away. Boaz stood rooted, hand trembling around his sword. Then it happened again. Another Aguan Fallen, also small, twitched and stilled. Then another. Six. A dozen. All short. All bearing some trace of the Aguan people, webbed fingers, gill slits, wide-set eyes.

One by one, they stilled. One by one, the mother-of-pearl light found them. One by one, they showed their faces for the last time. And then they were gone.

A hush fell across the nearby line. Swords lowered. Arrows hung undrawn. From behind a barricade, a young lieutenant stared at Boaz, eyes wide. His cheek was cut, and his helm was missing, but he had seen. He had SEEN.

“The Prince…” he whispered.

Another soldier echoed him, louder. “The Prince of the Fallen!”

It spread like a wind-tossed spark: “The Prince!”

“Prince of the Fallen!”

“He released them!”

“He freed their souls!”

The chant rolled down the line. Some shouted in awe. Some with fear. Even the Tulogan hesitated. The other Fallen… paused, disobeying their Handlers. Boaz sank to one knee, not from exhaustion, but from the weight of it all. Thorne pressed close, rumbling deep in his throat. Kiera rushed to his side, her hand on his shoulder. “You’re not wounded?”

“No,” Boaz said quietly, voice raw. “Not on the outside.” The Sigil dimmed again, the leaf of pearl returning to its steady shimmer. Behind him, the chant faded into a silence more powerful than any war cry.

Far to the east, beyond the reach of sunlight or song, the underground Fortress of Black Glass groaned in its bones.

Vortannis sat unmoving on the Throne of Ash and Bone. Not cloaked in robes, but draped in silence. The chamber around him, wide and high, shaped like the inside of a bell, rippled faintly with shadows that moved without source or sound.

For hours, he had been still. Watching. Waiting. And then, he flinched. Not visibly. Not to any observer. But in the deep web of magic he commanded, a strand had just tensed, then snapped. Reformed into something… other. His hand, thin, veined, and clawed, rose slowly from the throne’s armrest. He tilted his head, as if listening to some voice just beyond hearing.

“…No.” The word echoed off the cold stone, quiet but jagged. A candle in the far corner guttered and died. He extended his other hand, black-ringed, skeletal, and clenched it into a fist. “It begins, then.”

The shadows on the wall recoiled, then surged forward, shaping themselves into crude figures. One bore the wide-eyed face of a child. Another, a lynx’s silhouette. A third, smaller than the rest, gleamed faintly with mother-of-pearl.

Vortannis narrowed his eyes. “So the boy bears it after all. The first leaf… and now the first release.” His voice curled like smoke. “Prince of the Fallen, they call him. Let them chant. Let them hope.” He stood. The walls groaned. “Soon, they will kneel.”

The flames in the sconces flared black, then vanished. One by one, the shadows retreated, except one, which remained behind him, whispering. Vortannis did not speak again. But the very air around him shivered, as if something ancient and buried had just stirred in its grave.

The chant still lingered on some lips. Prince of the Fallen. But the Tulogan gave no space for awe. A fresh wave surged through the breach in the shattered outer wall, snarling and howling, blades raised, blood still wet on their tusks. The Fallen behind them moved differently now. Slower. Hesitant. And though the Handlers tried to drive them where they willed, they would not go near Boaz.

If he stepped forward, they veered. If he looked at them, they paused. But the Handlers behind them, their black eyes burning with fury, lashed at the undead with cracking whips of smoke and sinew, forcing them onward.

“Jaxson, left flank!” Boaz barked, his voice strong despite the tightness in his chest. “Theo, reinforce center with two constructs!”

“On it!” Theo yelled, already sending a golem lurching into position: its limbs responding without verbal commands, shielding a cluster of defenders as it took a spear to the chest and kept moving.

Above, Kestel wheeled and cried out, a sharp warning for anyone to hear. “Watch the rooftops!” Lyra called, already phasing between shadows. Moments later, a Tulogan archer collapsed with a thrown dagger in his throat. Thorne and Mika sprang past her, silent and deadly, dragging a Handler from his perch on top of some rubble with a roar that split the clamor.

Kiera ducked beside a wounded soldier, radiant light blooming from her hands. “Hold still,” she murmured. “You’re not dying today.”

All around, the defenders fought harder now: inspired, but not reckless. Whatever they had just seen Boaz do, it had changed them. Even if none of them understood it.

Boaz turned just in time to parry a Tulogan axe. He pivoted low, swept the attacker’s legs, and brought his blade across in a clean arc: a streak of fire leaping from it, engulfing the corpse before it hit the ground. He didn’t stop to marvel at this. There was no time.

Merran crouched near the barricade, hands pressed to the earth, still catching his breath after the fog conjuring. His expression was grim, his skin pale, but he raised a knife in defiance as a Handler advanced toward him.

Boaz hurled another arc of fire. The Handler screamed, then burst into ash.

From the wall above, a firepot smashed against a charging Grimboldt, flames bursting over its shaggy frame. It staggered, blinded, and Theo’s second construct tackled it off its feet. “Burn them before you stab them!” Lyra shouted. “Don’t spill the blood!”

Boaz was dimly aware of someone calling his name, but he couldn’t break focus. Not yet. There were too many. And something told him this was only the second wave. The enemy pressed harder. The ground trembled. The shrill cries of the Handlers rose louder, almost frantic.

But something had changed.

Boaz was no longer a shadow in the ranks. He moved like a focal point around which all the defenders turned. Not with arrogance, but with growing purpose. And though the Tulogan still came, though the Fallen still clawed forward, none of them wanted to face him directly. He felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders. Not fear. Not pride. Responsibility.

Whoever commanded this army must’ve felt that the Handlers, Fallen, and Tulogan had seemingly endured too many losses today, again: horns sounded their retreat. The sound came from their command center at the back of the encampment, and they withdrew, dragging their wounded Tulogan. All others they left.

Boaz ran up to the inner ramparts to watch their movements. He stood beside Thorne, both silent as they watched the dark line of trees across the field. Smoke drifted in slow coils from the wreckage below. The wind had shifted again, carrying the scent of pine, ash, rot… and blood. The lynx gave a low rumble, neither warning nor comfort, just acknowledgment.

Boots crunched on the stone behind them.

Aldryn appeared, a battered tin mug in hand, steam curling from its rim. He offered it to Boaz without a word. Boaz took it, grateful, though he wasn’t sure what it was. It was hot. That was enough.

“I’ve seen things,” Aldryn said quietly, “but that… that was something new.” Boaz didn’t respond. He could still feel the mother-of-pearl warmth of the Aguan leaf beneath his tunic.

Another figure approached: Lieutenant Harn, helm tucked under his arm, a long cut binding across his jaw. He looked like a man who had fought three lifetimes in one afternoon. He stopped beside them and studied Boaz for a long moment. “You turned some,” he said, voice hoarse. “You think you can turn more?”

Boaz didn’t answer. He didn’t know. He only looked back toward the trees, where the fog had finally cleared. The Sigil pulsed softly beneath the bloodstained fabric of his tunic.

Then, from somewhere beyond the forest, a horn of retreat sounded again: low and deep, too ancient to belong to Tulogan. It vibrated through the stone beneath their feet. Thorne’s ears perked. Aldryn’s brow furrowed. Harn’s knuckles whitened on his helm. Boaz didn’t flinch. He squared his shoulders and stared into the shadows gathering beyond the trees.

They had withstood this attack together. Whatever came next, they would meet it standing.

The war-murmur of Cirol dimmed behind them as the fellowship regrouped in a half-collapsed barracks courtyard. A small brazier had been lit, more for comfort than warmth, and its glow painted soft gold on stone and soot.

Boaz sat on an overturned crate, staring into the embers. His gauntlets rested in his lap. The Sigil, still faintly warm, pressed against his chest.

Kiera knelt beside a wounded guard, binding a shallow gash with steady hands. She whispered something soothing, then returned to the circle and sat without a word. Her gaze lingered on Boaz, not with worry, but with wonder. “It was peace,” she said at last. “I saw it on their faces. Whatever you did, it wasn’t destruction. It was healing.”

Boaz didn’t answer at first. Thorne, crouched beside him, rumbled softly, his eyes scanning the shadows. Finally, Boaz exhaled and said, “It was only the Aguan Fallen. It… It’s got to be the Aguan leaf. The one from Lake Evenwell.”

Theo looked up from where he was tinkering with a scorched golem part. “So the Sigil is bound to the people; it’s not just a random power. Huh.” He squinted thoughtfully. “That… actually makes sense.”

Lyra stood with her arms crossed, her jaw tense. “They looked so small when they faded,” she said quietly. “Not monsters. Just… lost.”

Jaxson, seated on a low wall, leaned forward. “Then maybe you’re not just fighting the Fallen, Boaz. Maybe you’re fighting what made them fall in the first place.”

No one spoke for a moment. Boaz’s hands tightened around his gauntlets. “It hurt,” he said. “Not like pain… more like carrying something too heavy. But I couldn’t let her stay like that.”

Kiera reached over and touched his arm. “You didn’t.” Thorne let out a slow, approving growl.

The brazier burned low. Around them, the wounded were being tended, meals shared, weapons sharpened in grim rhythm. Somewhere beyond the broken arches of the barracks, Cirol groaned with the weight of its survival. But within this small courtyard, the battle had given way to breath.

Boaz wandered to the edge of the courtyard, Thorne following in his shadow. He leaned against a low wall and stared out at the street beyond.

A pair of younger guards passed, one with a fresh bandage across his brow. “…I saw it, I swear. The Fallen was reaching for him, and he just stood there, like he knew her.”

“You’re not the only one. Kaelen says five of ’em just… stopped fighting. Looked like ghosts in the light.”

“They didn’t scream or burn. They just… faded.”

A third voice joined, older, hushed. “They say it’s the Sigil. That he’s fulfilling prophecy. The Prince, come to turn the tide.”

Boaz turned away before they could notice him listening. He wasn’t sure which part of that unsettled him more, the awe in their voices, or the weight behind the word Prince.

Back near the brazier, two healers were murmuring as they worked. “I thought they were supposed to be mindless,” said one, rinsing blood from her hands. “But that one… that Aguan girl, she looked grateful.”

“She was smiling,” the other whispered.

The barracks had quieted to the hush of exhaustion. Outside, the clang of hammer on blade still echoed in rhythm from some forge down the lane, and the faint call of a watchhorn drifted on the wind. But here in the southeastern corner of the compound, half-sheltered under a roof beam cracked by siege fire, the night had stilled.

Boaz sat with his back to the wall, arms loosely looped around his knees. His cloak was bunched under him, stiff with sweat and ash. Thorne dozed nearby, a mountain of muscle and fur, ears flicking with distant sounds but otherwise calm. The Sigil glinted from beneath Boaz’s open collar, the mother-of-pearl leaf catching the firelight like a shard of moon. He turned it slowly in his fingers, watching the colors shift, pale and otherworldly.

Soft footfalls scuffed the stone. Lyra approached and eased herself down beside him, resting her back against the same wall, close enough to share warmth from the brazier.

“Figured you’d be here,” she murmured.

Boaz gave a noncommittal grunt. They sat in silence for a while. Somewhere across the yard, Marra and Tobbit could be heard whispering to each other, likely inventing stories about the Gorthan. Someone laughed. A cart rattled down a distant alley.

“They’re saying you’re a prince now,” Lyra said eventually, voice light but not mocking.

Boaz gave a faint snort. “They can say what they like.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” he admitted. “They think this…” He touched the Sigil, its curve cool beneath his fingers. “…means I’m something special. But I didn’t feel special today. I felt scared. Angry. Lost.”

“That’s not weakness,” she said quietly. “That’s honest.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips. “I didn’t know what I was doing, Lyra. I just… saw her. The Fallen girl. And something in me broke.” He paused, then added, softer, “She was so small. She reminded me of the Aguan who gave me that token, back at the lake. And I just couldn’t let her stay like that. I had to try.”

“You didn’t fight her,” Lyra said, watching him. “You reached her.”

“I don’t even know how,” he said. “I didn’t cast a spell, or wave a blade. I just… wanted her to be free. I wanted her pain to stop.”

“And it did,” Lyra said softly.

Boaz looked down. “Did it? I mean, they faded, yes. But where did they go? Did I kill them? Release them? Was it mercy? Or just… unmaking?”

Lyra didn’t answer immediately. She reached over and set her hand gently on his wrist. “I saw their faces,” she said. “They weren’t screaming. They weren’t afraid. They were… at peace. That wasn’t death. That was something else.”

Boaz’s jaw clenched. “Then why does it feel like I’m breaking a little every time something like this happens?”

“Because you care,” she said simply. “You carry every cost.”

He blinked hard and looked away, throat tight. “Then I’m not sure I can carry this forever.”

“You’re not meant to carry it alone.”

Her hand was still on his wrist. He glanced at it, then up at her face. “You don’t have to be the prince they think you are,” she said gently. “Just be the Boaz we know. That’s the one who saw the girl behind the monster. That’s the one who brought her peace.” Boaz sat very still. The firelight flickered over the mother-of-pearl leaf, painting soft colors across their faces.

From beyond the outer wall, a horn sounded: low, ancient, echoing off the stones of the city like a memory of thunder. Thorne stirred. Boaz did not. For now, he sat beside a friend who understood, and let the weight of the day settle not as burden, but as purpose.

Boaz let his head rest against the cool stone, the weight of the Sigil a quiet pressure over his heart. His limbs ached, his soul even more. Tomorrow would bring more war, more names to remember, more faces to forget. But tonight — just this sliver of night — he could breathe. Not because the world was safe, but because, somehow, he had stood his ground. And something in him, both fragile and somehow ancient, had begun to wake.

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