Jaxom let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging as if something inside him had finally given way. He didn't look at Linaxi when he spoke—his gaze drifted somewhere past her, unfocused, as though the strength to hold eye contact had slipped through his fingers.
"Believe what you want," he said, voice roughened by fatigue. "I'm tired, Linaxi. I don't have anything left for this."
The words fell flat, but the weight behind them lingered.
Before Linaxi could respond, a quiet rustle passed through the hall—not of cloth or footsteps, but of presence itself shifting. The spirits who had followed Lita moved as one. They stepped forward and bowed deeply toward Ishulane, their forms bending with a grace untouched by the decay of time.
"Thank you, Lady Ishulane," one said, their voice trembling, stretched thin with emotion. "Your reign… it brought peace. Even if it was only for a short while… we were happy."
Another lifted their head slightly, hollow eyes glistening with something that looked too human to be dismissed. "We don't like how it ends," they admitted softly. "But… we are grateful."
The air thickened.
No one spoke. Even breathing felt intrusive, as though sound itself might shatter the fragile stillness that settled over them. Regret, relief, sorrow—so many things left unsaid pressed against the silence, until it became almost tangible, like a weight resting on the chest.
One by one, the spirits began to fade.
It wasn't sudden. Their forms loosened at the edges first, outlines dissolving into drifting motes of light. Faces blurred, voices vanished mid-breath. They unravelled quietly, like threads pulled free from an ancient tapestry, until nothing remained but faint glimmers swallowed by the morning air.
Gone.
Forgotten by the living world.
Lita stepped forward at last, her movement gentle but deliberate, as if she were stepping through something fragile. Her gaze lingered on the empty space where the others had stood, then shifted back to the group.
"There is… one more thing," she said.
Her voice was softer now, the clarity in it thinning like mist under sunlight.
"In the west wing, there is a stone tablet. It contains trials—ones that can sharpen perception." She glanced at them, searching their faces, as though weighing something unseen. "If you wish to understand more… follow me."
Then her eyes found Ishulane.
The shift in her expression was subtle, but unmistakable. Something warmer. Something quieter.
"May I walk with you one last time, my lady?"
She didn't wait for an answer. Her hands closed gently around Ishulane's right arm, fingers trembling just enough to betray the strain beneath her calm. Lita leaned her head against Ishulane's shoulder, the gesture intimate, almost childlike.
Together, they began to walk.
Jaxom moved ahead without a word, his steps steady but distant, as if his mind lagged behind his body. The others followed in silence, the group stretching into a slow procession—living and lingering, bound for a moment by memory and farewell.
Linaxi remained at the back.
Her eyes never left Jaxom. Questions crowded her chest, pressing against her ribs, demanding a voice—but none came. Instead, she followed, drawn forward by something she couldn't quite name. Not trust. No doubt.
Something in between.
As they walked, Lita's form flickered.
At first, it was easy to miss—a slight distortion at the edges, like heat rising from stone. But with each step, the instability grew more pronounced. Her outline wavered, her presence thinning, as if the world itself were beginning to forget how to hold her.
"Thank you… My lady," she whispered.
The words brushed against Ishulane's shoulder more than they reached her ears.
They stepped into the west wing.
Or what remained of it.
The chamber opened wide, its ceiling long since claimed by time. Broken stone framed the sky above, where the early morning sun had just begun its ascent. Light spilt inward in long, slanting beams, illuminating drifting dust and fractured walls in hues of gold and pale amber.
At the centre stood a monolithic stone totem.
Its surface was carved with intricate symbols—curving, interlocking, layered in a pattern that resisted comprehension. The markings shifted if stared at too long, as though refusing to settle into meaning. A faint glow pulsed beneath them, subtle but constant, like a heartbeat buried within stone.
Six seats encircled the totem.
They were worn—edges smoothed by time, surfaces cracked—but something about them remained untouched. Not preserved, but enduring. As if the passage of years had simply… chosen not to take them.
Lita's grip tightened slightly on Ishulane's arm. Her form flickered harder now, light bleeding through her silhouette in brief flashes.
"All you need to do… is sit," she said, her voice beginning to fray at the edges. "Meditate. What you receive…" A faint smile touched her lips. "That depends on you."
Silence answered her.
No one moved.
The chamber felt different. Heavier. The faint glow of the totem pressed against their senses, not violently, but persistently—like something watching, waiting to see who would step forward first.
Then Darius exhaled.
"If Lady Ishulane trusts her… then I will too," he said, more to himself than to the others.
His gaze lingered on Lita—on the way her form flickered, on the quiet urgency in her eyes.
"And I already carry the Fulgurion's legacy," he added under his breath. "Maybe this is where it leads."
He stepped forward.
"Let me."
Lita's expression brightened instantly, relief and something like pride flickering through her fading features.
"Then I will give you a reward," she said, a hint of mischief surfacing despite everything. "But there's a condition."
Darius didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee, fist pressing firmly against the stone floor. Dust stirred at the impact, curling faintly around his hand.
"Speak it."
"You must aid Lady Ishulane," Lita said, her voice steadying for a moment. "Whenever she calls. No matter the cost."
A flicker of tension crossed Darius's face—brief, but real.
Then he lowered his head.
"I swear upon the heavens," he said. "So long as her requests do not harm the innocent or betray my principles… I will stand by her." His fingers tightened against the stone. "Even if it costs me my life."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Lita stepped forward.
Her form was barely holding together now, strands of light unravelling from her shoulders as she moved. She placed her hands gently on Darius's shoulders. They felt real—solid—despite the fading glow that surrounded them.
She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his.
"The Lord chose well," she whispered, the words meant only for him. "You are worthy of what you carry."
A pause.
Then, softer—almost fond.
"I would have liked to meet that little scammer… Bart."
Darius's lips twitched.
"Ronan," he corrected quietly.
For the briefest moment, Lita smiled.
Then the world shifted.
Light surged.
It didn't explode outward—it rushed inward, drawn into Darius as though his body had become a vessel too small to contain it. Power coursed through him, sharp and overwhelming, threading through muscle, bone, and something deeper.
His breath caught.
The ground beneath him felt distant.
When the light settled, it didn't vanish—it remained, coiled beneath his skin, alive.
He rose slowly.
Something about him had changed.
Not visible, not obvious—but undeniable.
Lita stepped back, her form unravelling faster now, her edges dissolving into drifting light.
"Take care, Darius," she said.
Then she turned.
She stepped into Ishulane's space and wrapped her arms around her—not tightly, not for long, but with a quiet finality that carried more weight than any words.
"Take care… my lady."
Her voice faded into the light.
And then—
She was gone.
No collapse. No sound.
Just absence.
The space she had occupied felt strangely hollow, as if something essential had been quietly removed from the world.
No one spoke.
Darius turned without a word and walked to one of the stone seats. He lowered himself onto it, posture steady, eyes already beginning to close.
Kael followed next, silent, his expression carved into something unreadable. Then Sylphie. Then Orin.
One by one, they took their places.
Far below, beneath layers of stone and silence, another scene unfolded.
The underground chamber was dim, its air cool and unmoving. At its centre stood a statue of the Goddess of Light—not grand, not imposing, but quietly radiant. Its presence filled the space without demanding it.
Ronan and Alden stood before it.
Still.
Unmoving.
Their eyes were open—but empty, fixed on something far beyond the chamber.
Samantha frowned.
"Sir Alden? Ronan?"
No response.
She stepped closer, boots echoing faintly against the stone. The silence pressed in around her, amplifying the absence of reaction.
"Another vision…?" she muttered.
She reached out, placing a hand against Ronan's arm, then Alden's shoulder.
Nothing.
No shift. No flicker.
Her jaw tightened.
Her gaze drifted across the chamber, searching.
There.
Above a pedestal at the centre, a small object floated, suspended in the air. It pulsed with a soft, steady light—each pulse casting faint shadows that stretched and recoiled along the walls like silent spectators.
Samantha exhaled slowly, unease settling in her chest.
Meanwhile—
Ronan and Alden stood in the sky.
No ground beneath their feet. No wind against their skin.
Below them, a city burned.
Flames devoured rooftops. Smoke clawed its way upward. Screams echoed through the streets—raw, desperate, unending. Blood painted the stone roads in dark, uneven streaks.
Ronan stepped forward instinctively, his body already moving before thought could catch up.
"We can still help them," he said, his voice tight. "Why are we just standing here?"
Alden's hand caught his shoulder.
Firm.
Grounding.
"When did an Adept Tier learn to walk on air?" Alden asked quietly.
Ronan froze.
His gaze dropped.
There was nothing beneath him.
No platform. No support.
Just empty space.
"…I'm standing on nothing."
"Exactly."
The word settled heavily.
Ronan turned back, unease creeping into his chest.
Before either could speak again, a third presence emerged.
An old man.
His robes hung in tatters, edges frayed by time itself. His posture was straight, but there was a weight to him—something vast and worn, like a structure that had endured too many storms.
His eyes moved between them, measuring.
"This is the first time," he said slowly, "that outsiders have appeared here."
He turned, gesturing toward the city below.
"This," he continued, his voice sharpening, "is what becomes of those who wield power they cannot bear."
The scene shifted.
Another city.
Another fire.
"They were called the Threadwatchers," he said. "We held the Keen Eye—a skill that threatened the balance."
Flames rose higher.
"So they destroyed us."
The image twisted again.
Different streets. Different faces.
The same violence.
"Our descendants fled," the old man went on. "They carried what remained. And now…"
He watched the chaos below, his expression unreadable.
"They repeat the same mistake."
A long breath left him.
"They stole the skill. Not its source."
His gaze returned to Ronan.
"Over nine centuries, our name has been erased. Only fragments remain. Five pieces… scattered."
He stepped closer.
"We hid them. Hoped someone would gather them. Restore what was lost."
A pause.
Then his voice lowered.
"But I have watched too long."
Something in his expression shifted—subtle, but final.
"Revenge does not restore. It consumes."
Silence stretched.
Then—
"Help us," he said.
Not a command.
A request.
"Not for vengeance."
His gaze held Ronan's.
"For something better."
Ronan took a step forward, words already forming—
—but Alden's hand stopped him.
Firm.
Certain.
Ronan glanced back.
Alden's eyes met his, steady, unyielding.
Not yours.
Ronan exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders as he stepped back.
Alden faced the old man.
"I don't know what kind of help you expect from us," he said. "And more importantly…" His gaze sharpened slightly. "Why us?"
A beat passed.
"Others came before," Alden continued. "If this has been going on for centuries… why didn't you ask them?"
The question lingered in the air, unanswered—for now.