The smoke hadn’t cleared.

  Ash drifted like snow, coating scorched earth and shattered stone. The slope still glowed faintly where glass met fire-blackened roots.

  Ocean Tide’s reinforcements arrived—dozens strong.

  Royal Knights in polished armor. Battle-trained mages from the Academia. Formed lines, cloaks catching the breeze, weapons drawn.

  They expected chaos.

  They found ruin.

  And at the center of it all—

  Ealden.

  Knight-Commander of Ocean Tide.

  Kneeling in the ash, sword point dug into the ground for balance. One hand pressed against his ribs, where blood soaked through fractured plate. His other shoulder hung low, dislocated. A long gash cut from his collar to hip.

  But he was alive.

  Around him, the Three elites bodies lay scattered, and numerous hollowbounds,

  All of them.

  Three Elites.

  One man.

  The soldiers froze at the sight.

  Then someone whispered:

  “Gods… Commander… are you…”

  Ealden slowly raised his head. Sweat clung to his brow, mixing with soot. His mouth was a hard line. He looked at the fresh arrivals—not with relief.

  “You’re late,” he said, his eyes then turn toward the woman in flame, across the field.

  cross the field, the air shimmered.

  She stood alone.

  Karin.

  Or something wearing her shape.

  The flames no longer roared—but they hadn’t vanished. They coiled inward now, wrapped tight around her like living armor. Heat shimmered from her skin. Her breath misted in the glow. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

  Ash spiraled at her boots, sucked inward to the scorched hollow where she stood.

  No Hollowbound left.

  No Varzen.

  Only ruin.

  And her.

  A mage whispered, voice shaking:

  “Is that… the flame-touched girl?”

  No one answered.

  Because no one was sure.

  The Archmagi of Flame stepped forward.

  “That’s…” His voice broke off as he saw what her flame had done.

  Nothing remained.

  Karin turned slowly, her eyes sweeping the devastation. She looked down at her hands—still faintly glowing, veins threaded with gold.

  Her lips parted.

  Her voice was small. Almost human.

  “I didn’t mean t—”

  “You are,” a voice said from inside her.

  She flinched.

  “What am I?”

  “Me.”

  She froze.

  Then her eyes landed on the body.

  Elsha.

  And for a heartbeat—everything stopped.

  No flame.

  No breath.

  Just stillness.

  Then the fire pulsed again—deep inside her—rising, coiling, hungry.

  “Want to release it?” the voice whispered.

  She clenched her fists.

  Turned.

  And ran.

  Into the smoke. Into the ash.

  Flame trailing behind her like a dying comet.

  Ysar was already on his knees.

  Elsha’s body lay in the ash, still warm—but unmoving. Her blood had begun to soak into the scorched soil beneath her. Her sword remained in her grip, fingers locked tight, knuckles pale beneath the grime. Her eyes were closed.

  Like she’d only just fallen asleep.

  But she hadn’t.

  Ysar’s hands hovered—over her chest, her face—then froze midair. He didn’t know where to land. His throat made a sound. Not a word. Just a cracked, broken breath.

  The flame had passed.

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  The gods were silent.

  But she was still dead.

  Footsteps approached behind him—uneven, rushed, stumbling through ash.

  Zafran.

  He limped forward, bruised and burnt, one arm limp at his side, blood streaking down beneath shattered armor. But none of that registered.

  His eyes were on her.

  “Elsha—” he breathed.

  He took a step closer.

  Ysar stood—sharp, sudden.

  “Don’t.”

  Zafran stopped, stunned.

  Ysar’s eyes were red-rimmed, jaw tight. His entire frame trembled—not with grief, but rage held in chains.

  “You don’t get to stand there,” Ysar said, voice low. “You brought this on all of us.”

  Zafran’s mouth parted—but no sound came. His gaze flicked from Elsha’s still body… to Ysar’s face.

  “Go away,” Ysar said, quieter. Deadlier. “Now.”

  Zafran took a breath.

  “I never—”

  “Shut your mouth.” Ysar snapped.

  He looked down at her, then back up.

  “She waited for you. Every damn day. Even when she knew you wouldn’t choose her. Even when she knew you wouldn’t look. And where were you?”

  Zafran’s shoulders sagged. He took a step forward—

  Ysar’s hand was on his hilt in a blink. “One more step, and I swear to every god left—”

  “I…” Zafran managed, barely audible.

  Ysar’s fury broke into something quieter. More jagged.

  “You left us. You left her. For what? Secrets? Ghosts?”

  His voice cracked again.

  “Now it’s gone. All of it. Kivas. Elsha. The Azure Wind. Because you wanted to dig up a past that should’ve stayed buried.”

  Zafran’s face drained of color.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “But you did,” Ysar whispered. “And this is what you left behind.”

  His voice dropped to a breath.

  “You don’t get to mourn her.”

  That broke something.

  Zafran looked away. His breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled.

  But he knelt anyway.

  Not close.

  Not beside Ysar.

  Just in the ash. Alone. Staring down, like the ground itself might forgive him.

  Ysar knelt again, slow and careful. He brushed blood from Elsha’s cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  “She was better than all of us,” he murmured. “And she deserved better.”

  He lifted her body—gently, reverently—and rose.

  And walked away.

  No backward glance. No word.

  Zafran wanted to speak. To call out. To beg him to stay.

  But nothing came.

  Only silence.

  The wind shifted.

  And the smoke moved on.

  A soft hand touched his shoulder.

  Isolde.

  Her voice, low and unsteady:

  “It’s… not your fault.”

  Zafran didn’t look up.

  His voice came hollow.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Three days after the fire, the council met.

  Ash no longer drifted from the sky, but it lingered in every fold of cloth, every breath between words.

  Inside a command tent on Ocean Tide’s upper ridge, the leaders sat in a circle. Not many. Just enough to carry the burden.

  Ealden sat upright, one arm bound in a sling. His sword rested across his lap, unsheathed.

  Zafran stood beside the table, shoulders square but silent.

  Wren sat further back, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

  Two Archmagi stood at opposite ends of the room.

  One in robes of pale white and silver—face calm, eyes kind. When he spoke, it was soft, like a salve against the raw edge of war.

  The other wore crimson and ash, his voice sharp and measured, every word an edge. He hadn’t sat once since the meeting began.

  On the center table, a broken helm of a Hollowbound sat—its mask cracked, inner parts seared and twisted. A faint glow still pulsed from within.

  “I don’t know what to call them,” Ealden said, gesturing to the metal husk. “They moved like men, but fought like machines.”

  “They were both,” the older mage in crimson said. “Their construction is engineered—but more than that. From our examination…”

  He hesitated.

  Then continued.

  “They house a planar.”

  Silence.

  The words hit harder than any flame.

  “You mean… someone’s?” Zafran asked, slowly.

  The crimson-robed magus gave a curt nod. “Not merely animated. Possessed. There’s no consciousness left—but the planar remains. A soul, stripped of voice and self, trapped in metal.”

  Wren’s mouth opened slightly—but she said nothing.

  Even Ealden looked shaken. “That’s… forbidden.”

  “Worse than that,” said the soft-voiced magus. “It is desecration.”

  The room was quiet again.

  Then the red-robed one turned to the map.

  “Lucian has crossed every line. What happened here… was not an accident of pursuit. It was calculated. And if we do nothing—he will escalate.”

  Ealden’s voice was a low growl. “We cut the rail. We sever the north.”

  “Prepare for war,” the elder mage confirmed. “There’s no other word for it now.”

  Zafran stared at the floor. “And the Azure Wind?”

  The silence was colder this time.

  Wren finally spoke, voice dry.

  “There is no more Azure Wind.”

  Her words weren’t angry.

  Just final.

  She didn’t look up from the floor.

  Then—

  The tent flap stirred.

  A figure entered—older, tall, cloaked in the silver blue of Ocean Tide’s royal line. He walked with quiet authority, a guard at his side.

  The King.

  Seren’s father.

  The Archmagi stepped back. Even Ealden stood, bowing stiffly.

  The king raised one hand—enough.

  His eyes passed over the map, the shattered helm… and the faces.

  Then he spoke.

  “If the Azure Wind lives no more as caravan… then let it live as people.”

  He turned toward Wren. “Those who remain may stay in Ocean Tide, should they choose. No tax. No condition. Land will be granted on the inner ring. Housing. Rights.”

  The king’s eyes drifted to Zafran again.

  He studied him.

  Not as a soldier.

  Not as a squire.

  But as a man who had returned from shadows the crown itself once cast.

  A pause lingered—just long enough to be noticed.

  Then the king spoke, quieter now. Not to the room.

  To Zafran.

  “What happened to your father… should have ended differently.”

  Zafran didn’t move.

  Didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.

  Just kept his eyes on the floor, jaw locked, unmoving.

  The king didn’t press it.

  But he inclined his head—just slightly.

  A gesture no one would imagined from a king.

  But no one speak against it.

  Then he turned back to the map.

  “We rebuild the ridge. We seal the northern track. And we prepare—because war is no longer a question. It has arrived.”

  No one spoke.

  The broken helm on the table still glowed faintly—its light cold and silent.

  Then, the king’s voice came again, softer. Directed only at one man.

  “Zafran.”

  Zafran looked up.

  The king’s gaze held steady. “The old manor at Crescent Hill still stands. Your father’s land. It was never claimed.”

  A pause.

  “If you wish it, it’s yours again. The staff who once served there… they’ll be contacted. Housemaid. Steward. A squire, if you’ll take one.”

  Zafran didn’t answer at first.

  Then he gave a small, deliberate nod.

  The king said nothing more.

  Outside, beyond the canvas walls, the wind shifted once more.

  Not carrying ash this time.

  But change.

  The road curved up through the mist, cobbled and overgrown. Grass licked at the wheels of the carriage. Trees leaned close, as if trying to remember the last time they’d seen a banner fly this way.

  At the crest, the manor waited.

  Crescent Hill—an old stone estate, weatherworn but proud. Ivy draped the sides. The windows were shuttered, the gates long untouched. But the structure stood firm. Silent. Waiting.

  Zafran stood before it now, cloak drawn tight. He didn’t speak.

  Beside him, Isolde looked up at the high arch of the door, then back at him. Her arms were folded. Her sword still on her back.

  Behind them, Ealden following closely.

  “The staff will be here by morning,” he said. “Some of them served under your father. They remember.”

  Zafran nodded once.

  Then turned to Isolde.

  She stepped back slightly. “I’ll find an inn. Something in the lower ring.”

  Ealden raised a brow. “You’re not a passing traveler. You’re a guest of the court now. I’ll have a room prepared at the keep.”

  But Zafran cut in—quietly. “There’s plenty of space here.”

  Isolde glanced at him.

  He didn’t meet her eyes. Just looked up at the house. “If you’d rather not… I understand. But you’re welcome to stay. Really.”

  A pause. Wind stirred her hair. The path behind them was empty.

  Isolde hesitated, then exhaled. “It’ll be easier to keep you out of trouble this way.”

  She stepped past the gate.

  Zafran gave a half-breath that might’ve been a laugh—but didn’t reach his mouth.

  Ealden nodded once and turned back toward his horse. “I’ll send someone by noon.”

  He left without another word.

  The manor doors groaned open under Zafran’s hand.

  Dust rolled in the light. The air inside was still, smelling faintly of old wood and colder years. His boots echoed across the stone floor as he stepped inside, slow.

  Isolde followed, quieter. Her fingers grazed the doorframe once as she passed through.

  No words. No grandeur. Just space—untouched and waiting.

  She glanced around. “Bit emptier than I thought.”

  Zafran gave a faint shrug. “It always was.”

  They stood there a moment, not looking at each other, not needing to.

  Outside, Ealden mounted his horse without ceremony. “I’ll send someone by noon,” he said over his shoulder.

  Then he was gone, the sound of hooves swallowed by fog.

  Inside, Zafran reached for a lantern on the wall. The flint struck twice before catching.

  Warm light flickered across stone and shadow.

  He didn’t say welcome home.

  She didn’t say thank you.

  But neither of them left.

  And that, for now, was enough.