The night stretched endless, broken only by the ache in Cyrus's body. His chains dragged behind him, their clatter muted against the forest floor. Every step was a battle; every breath, a reminder of Wrath's fire still seared into his flesh.
He sank against the roots of an ancient tree, eyes fixed on the emptiness above. The stars, once sharp, blurred into faint smears of light. For a moment, he wondered if exile would end here—quiet, unmarked, forgotten.
Then came a glow.
At first, he thought it was the stars returning to focus, but no—it drifted closer, weaving through the mist. A lantern, faint yet steady, its light pushing back the dark as though it refused to surrender.
The bearer stepped forward. Cloaked in pale fabric, hair catching the glow like threads of silver, her eyes held no judgment, only quiet resolve. She stopped a few paces from him, lantern held low.
"You're dying," she said softly.
Cyrus let out a dry laugh, bitter as ash. "Then let me. The world has no need for an exile."
The lantern's glow warmed his face, softer than fire, steadier than the stars. "The world always needs those who endure. I am Hope. And I will not leave you to fade."
He turned his face away, though the light clung stubbornly to him. "Hope is fragile. A whisper in storms like this."
"Perhaps," she admitted. "But even whispers can be heard if the silence is deep enough."
Her words unsettled him more than Wrath's flames had. Fragile, yet unyielding. He wanted to scoff, to let bitterness shield him, but the warmth brushing his skin reminded him of something he thought long buried: the will to rise again.
For the first time since his exile, Cyrus closed his eyes—not to escape, but to listen.
And in the quiet, Hope's lantern did not flicker.