Kael did not die dramatically.
There was no final battle, no last stand beneath a broken sky. He simply grew old.
Wrinkles crept across his face like quiet claims from time itself. His hands, once steady enough to weave souls, now trembled when lifting a cup of water. His Sight: gone entirely never returned.
At first, people recognized him.
Then they recognized the story of him.
Then only the idea.
"Kael" became a name spoken with uncertainty, then curiosity, then skepticism. Scholars argued whether he had been one man or many. Some claimed he was symbolic a moral construct invented to explain the Age of Silence.
Kael listened to these debates from a shaded bench in a rebuilt city and said nothing.
Let them forget.
That, too, was part of freedom.