I stood there longer than I should have.
The world felt too quiet for what we'd just survived—too intact, too careless. Newoaga still stood. The sky was still blue. People were still breathing, laughing, moving as if nothing beneath their feet had cracked open and tried to swallow the world whole.
I would be lying if I said I knew we were going to make it out alive.
I didn't.
Not when Azazel stood there smiling.
Not when Kazen screamed.
Not when blood hit the floor faster than anyone could react.
During the battle—during that moment when my sword met his—I wasn't thinking about survival at all. I wasn't thinking about tomorrow. I wasn't even thinking about victory.
I was thinking about time.
How much of it I could steal before someone died.
I lifted my head and stared up at the morning sky, lungs burning as I pulled in air that tasted like dust and ash instead of blood. My body hurt in places I didn't want to acknowledge yet. Bruises were setting in. Cuts were sealing wrong. My muscles felt hollowed out, like something fundamental had been wrung from them.
We were alive.
That didn't mean we were untouched.
When we returned to the Drayle villa, the silence shattered.
Voices—panicked, relieved, horrified—exploded around us the moment the doors opened. Maids gasped. Butlers froze mid-step. Someone dropped a tray, the sound sharp and pointless against the stone.
And then Kazen's parents were there.
They didn't hesitate.
They crossed the space between them and their son in seconds, pulling him into an embrace so tight I felt it in my chest. His mother's hands trembled as she touched his arm—his twisted, broken arm—and her face paled in a way no amount of noble composure could hide.
Kazen didn't say anything.
He didn't joke.
Didn't deflect.
Didn't laugh it off.
He just stood there and let them hold him.
That hurt more than anything else.
Because I knew.
I knew exactly why his arm was broken.
Why his blood stained the floor.
Why his father's voice cracked.
It was because of my call.
My judgment.
I'd chosen to push forward. I'd decided the risk was acceptable. I'd believed—arrogantly—that I could keep everyone safe if I stayed sharp enough.
The tides don't care about confidence.
They don't care about intent.
They only decide who sinks first.
We eventually retreated into the villa, each of us peeling off into rooms like survivors scattering after a storm.
Varein collapsed on the bed beside mine the moment the door shut. No armor removed. No words spoken. His breathing evened out almost instantly—deep, exhausted, empty.
I watched him for a while.
I didn't envy his sleep.
I didn't feel capable of it.
I lay down on my own bed and stared at the ceiling.
Hours passed.
I didn't eat.
Didn't drink.
Didn't move.
Thoughts circled endlessly, cruel and methodical.
What if I hadn't issued the command?
What if I'd ordered a retreat?
What if I'd waited—just five minutes longer?
I tried to justify it.
Lumiel needed help.
The swordmaster's commandments were clear.
We couldn't abandon the helpless.
All of that was true.
And yet—
—truth didn't erase consequence.
I had chosen the course.
The tides decided the rest.
Eventually, the room felt unbearable.
I stood, changed out of blood-soaked clothes I'd ignored for too long, and left without waking anyone. My steps carried me back to the beach almost without conscious thought—like gravity had shifted and pulled me toward the shoreline.
By the time I arrived, night had fully settled.
The sky was dark.
The wind brushed against my face, gentle but persistent, nudging me forward.
The ocean waited.
I stopped at the edge.
Stared.
It stared back.
Neither of us spoke.
The silence between us felt older than language—vast, patient, absolute.
Was this really the path I wanted?
Everything I'd sacrificed to get here.
Everything still expected of me.
Every step forward dragging more people into danger.
I stepped closer.
Cold water swallowed my boots, then my knees. My pants soaked through instantly, the chill sharp and honest. It wasn't like blood—blood was warm, heavy, accusing.
The ocean was different.
Still.
Enduring.
Unmoved.
I wanted to be like that.
Vast enough to endure.
Deep enough to hide fear without being ruled by it.
Strong enough to break resistance without hatred.
The ocean didn't hesitate.
It didn't justify.
It didn't mourn what it swallowed.
It simply moved on.
"I'll be like you," I murmured quietly, the words barely audible over the waves. "Not loud. Not fast. Just… inevitable."
I didn't need clarity.
I didn't need permission.
I would rise—not as a legend chasing glory, but as something unavoidable. Something that endured long enough to matter. Enough that even gods and constellations would hesitate before dismissing me.
Let the ocean hear it.
The waves pulled back, then surged forward again—not violently. Not gently. Just… present.
I took it as acknowledgment.
I turned toward Newoaga, the lights glowing warmly in the distance.
Laughter drifted through the night. Music. Life continuing—because we'd bled for it.
That was enough.
As I stepped away, the water suddenly grew rougher, surging forward and knocking into me harder than before. I stumbled, catching myself, already half-turning.
"What the he—"
I stopped.
There—standing calmly upon the water—was the white figure.
Unmoving.
Silent.
Familiar.
The ocean bent to him as if it always had.
I blinked.
He was gone.
A breath left me in something close to a laugh as I rubbed the back of my head, exhaustion finally catching up.
"Well," I muttered softly, "at least I know you're still watching."
The waves answered with a gentler splash, cool and deliberate.
I smiled.
Then I turned fully toward the city.
Toward recovery.
Toward consequence.
Toward whatever came next.
Because being lost in the waters didn't mean drowning.
Sometimes, it meant learning how to breathe differently.
And this time—
I wouldn't forget the cost.