The mansion was quiet.
That was the first thing Qaritas noticed.
Not peaceful.
Not safe.
Just—
Quiet.
Which was impressive, considering that less than an hour ago, the place had contained enough screaming to make him seriously reconsider whether the universe possessed any redeeming qualities.
Apparently—
it did.
Unfortunately, most of those redeeming qualities were currently sitting outside a murderer's mansion, wrapped in stolen blankets, eating food purchased with stolen money.
Qaritas considered that an improvement.
A significant one.
He stood beneath the enormous entrance archway of Baron Vaedric Solvayne's estate.
Or—
Former Baron Vaedric Solvayne's estate.
Considering the man was dead, Qaritas felt the distinction mattered.
Behind him, servants who had not participated in the trafficking were helping carry supplies from the kitchens.
Some looked frightened.
Others looked ashamed.
A few had spent the last twenty minutes explaining that they hadn't known what happened beneath the mansion.
Qaritas believed some of them.
Not all.
He was learning that ignorance came in several varieties.
There was genuine ignorance.
Willful ignorance.
And the particularly convenient kind that disappeared the moment someone threatened to investigate.
He disliked the third.
Quite intensely.
"Q!"
Qaritas turned.
Ylaris approached from the eastern courtyard carrying three enormous ironbound chests.
Not dragging.
Carrying.
One beneath each arm.
The third balanced against his shoulder.
Qaritas stared.
"...Are those heavy?"
Ylaris looked at him.
"Yes."
"Good."
"Good?"
"I was worried you'd tell me they were decorative."
Ylaris lowered the chests.
THUD.
The courtyard stones cracked.
Qaritas looked down.
Then back up.
"You're paying for that."
Ylaris glanced toward the mansion.
"With whose money?"
Qaritas considered.
"...Excellent point."
Ylaris opened the first chest.
Gold.
So much gold that Qaritas briefly forgot what he had been about to say.
Coins.
Jewels.
Silver ornaments.
Enchanted gemstones.
Documents bearing ownership seals.
The second contained more.
The third—
even more.
Qaritas stared.
"How rich was this bastard?"
"Rich enough to purchase three estates in Vaelkaris."
"Three?"
"Possibly four."
Qaritas slowly looked toward the mansion.
Then toward the people huddled beneath blankets.
Then back at the gold.
Something unpleasant settled in his chest.
All those rooms.
All those beautiful windows.
The gardens.
The fountains.
The polished floors.
The elaborate meals.
And beneath them—
People starving.
People dying.
People begging to go home.
"Give it to them."
Ylaris nodded.
"I've already started."
"All of it."
"I know."
"Every coin."
"Qaritas."
"Every ridiculous golden spoon, too."
Ylaris's mouth twitched.
"Even the spoons?"
"Especially the spoons."
Qaritas pointed toward the mansion.
"If that man owned a golden toilet, I want it melted down and turned into something useful."
"Such as?"
"Food."
"Gold is not edible."
"I KNOW THAT, YLARIS."
For the first time that morning—
Ylaris laughed.
Not loudly.
Not for long.
But enough.
Qaritas appreciated it.
Because after everything they'd seen—
he was beginning to forget what laughter sounded like.
Then a voice called from the steps.
"Qaritas?"
Kysena.
She stood beside a long table beneath the shade of an enormous red-leafed tree.
Several survivors surrounded her.
Some were bandaged.
Others slept.
A few stared at nothing.
Kysena had removed the elaborate outer layers of her clothing and rolled her sleeves above her elbows.
Her pale-blue hair had come loose.
Moonlight shimmered faintly beneath her starry skin despite the approaching dawn.
Her gray eyes were tired.
Very tired.
But steady.
Qaritas approached.
"How are they?"
Kysena glanced toward the survivors.
"Alive."
A pause.
"Most of them."
Qaritas understood what she wasn't saying.
Some hadn't survived long enough to leave the underground chambers.
Others had died after being brought outside.
Kysena had done everything she could.
He knew that.
She knew that.
Neither found it particularly comforting.
"I've stabilized the ones who can travel," she continued. "The others will need proper treatment once we reach town."
"Can they manage the train?"
"With assistance."
"Good."
She looked toward the chests.
"Ylaris found the treasury?"
"Apparently the baron was saving for retirement."
Kysena's expression didn't change.
Qaritas sighed.
"Sorry."
"No."
Her gaze softened.
"Don't apologize for trying to make the morning less terrible."
He looked at the survivors.
"Is it working?"
"Occasionally."
"Excellent. I'll continue being occasionally useful."
Kysena almost smiled.
Then—
"Qaritas?"
He turned.
Tavek stood beside the table.
Sixteen years old.
Exhausted.
His clothes were dirty.
His eyes were swollen from crying.
And both hands gripped the handles of a wooden chair.
Not an ordinary chair.
A chair Ylaris had reinforced with metal supports, padded with blankets, and modified so its occupant could rest one injured leg without pressure.
Rhevan sat inside.
Twenty-five.
Pale.
His dark hair hung untidily around his face.
Bandages covered his hands.
One foot was gone.
The other rested beneath a blanket.
He looked as though standing too close to a strong wind might break him.
But he was awake.
And Tavek was beside him.
That mattered.
More than Qaritas could explain.
"Morning," Qaritas said.
Rhevan looked toward the sky.
"Is it?"
"Technically."
"Feels like yesterday."
"Yesterday was terrible. I recommend avoiding it."
Rhevan laughed.
It hurt him.
Qaritas saw the pain cross his face.
The laughter stopped.
Tavek immediately leaned forward.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I'm alive."
"That's not the same thing."
Rhevan looked at his younger brother.
Then—
smiled.
"No."
His voice softened.
"It isn't."
Tavek's grip tightened around the chair.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Rhevan looked at Qaritas.
"We wanted to help."
Qaritas blinked.
"Help?"
"With the others."
"You've done enough."
Rhevan shook his head.
"Some of them won't trust strangers."
Kysena approached.
"He's right."
Qaritas looked at her.
She continued.
"Familiar faces may help. But Rhevan needs rest."
"I can sit and talk," Rhevan said.
"You can sit," Kysena replied. "You can talk. And if I tell you to stop, you stop."
Rhevan glanced at Tavek.
"She's worse than you."
Tavek nodded solemnly.
"Good."
Qaritas grinned.
"Congratulations. You've been adopted by two extremely stubborn people."
Rhevan looked between his brother and Kysena.
Then sighed.
"Wonderful."
For a few precious seconds—
the world felt almost normal.
Then Xheavend screamed.
Not loudly.
Not at first.
Just—
"Q."
Qaritas turned.
She stood at the edge of the courtyard.
Still wearing the appearance of a man.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Black hair.
Features that reminded Qaritas far too much of Zcain.
Her disguise had survived everything beneath the mansion.
The blood.
The violence.
The confrontation with the Guard.
The baron's death.
But something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Xheavend stood perfectly still.
Her mismatched eyes were fixed on the gardens beyond the western wing.
One red.
One pink.
Blood slipped from beneath the red.
Then the pink.
Thin streams.
Silent.
Qaritas's smile disappeared.
"Xhea?"
She didn't answer.
Her lips parted.
Another whisper.
"No..."
Qaritas approached.
"Xheavend?"
She took one step.
Then another.
Past the fountain.
Past the abandoned servants' quarters.
Toward the rear gardens.
"Xhea."
She began walking faster.
Qaritas followed.
"Where are you going?"
Nothing.
Ylaris looked up from the treasury.
Kysena noticed immediately.
Tavek turned.
Rhevan raised his head.
Xheavend reached the garden wall.
Stopped.
And looked toward a narrow passage concealed behind flowering vines.
The flowers were beautiful.
White petals.
Gold centers.
A sweet fragrance.
Qaritas hated them immediately.
He wasn't sure why.
Perhaps because he'd spent enough time inside Solvayne's estate to recognize that beautiful things had an unfortunate habit of concealing horrifying ones.
Xheavend pushed through the vines.
Qaritas followed.
Beyond them—
the garden changed.
No fountains.
No carefully trimmed hedges.
No sculptures.
Only uneven ground.
Old trees.
Tall grass.
And a long stretch of earth beneath the mansion's rear boundary wall.
Qaritas stopped.
Something about the ground was wrong.
Not obviously.
Not to someone passing through.
But he'd spent enough time around battlefields to recognize disturbed soil.
Different shades.
Different levels.
Grass growing unevenly.
And small rectangular patches arranged in rows.
Xheavend made a sound.
Qaritas had never heard it before.
Not from her.
Not even after everything Yzer had done.
It was the sound of someone trying to breathe around a grief too large for their body.
Then—
she dropped to her knees.
"Xhea!"
She dug.
Her hands plunged into the earth.
Fingers clawing through soil.
Roots.
Stones.
She didn't summon Death.
Didn't command Famine.
Didn't call upon Conquest or War.
She simply—
dug.
Like an ordinary person.
Desperate.
Frantic.
Blood dripped from her eyes onto the dirt.
"Xheavend!"
Qaritas knelt beside her.
"Stop. You're hurting yourself."
She shook her head.
Her fingers scraped against a stone.
Skin split.
She continued.
"Xhea!"
"They're here."
Qaritas froze.
"What?"
Her voice cracked.
"They're here, Q."
She dug harder.
"They've been here the whole time."
Qaritas looked around.
The disturbed ground.
The rectangular patches.
The grass.
And suddenly—
he understood.
"Oh..."
Xheavend's shoulders shook.
"They're screaming."
Qaritas swallowed.
"Who?"
She looked at him.
Blood covered her cheeks.
Her mismatched eyes were filled with something so terrible that Qaritas forgot every clever thing he'd ever considered saying.
"The ones nobody came back for."
Her voice broke.
"They're screaming to go home."
Silence.
Qaritas looked down.
Then slowly stood.
He turned toward the mansion.
"YLARIS!"
His voice carried across the gardens.
"GET SHOVELS!"
Footsteps.
Fast.
"Qaritas?"
"KYSENA!"
More footsteps.
"WHAT IS IT?"
Qaritas looked toward the rows.
Then toward Xheavend.
His throat tightened.
"WE FOUND THE OTHERS!"
The first coffin lay four feet beneath the earth.
Wood.
Cheap.
Unmarked.
No ornamentation.
No name.
Nothing.
Ylaris lifted it carefully from the ground.
Kysena knelt beside it.
Qaritas stood nearby holding a shovel.
Xheavend remained on her knees.
She hadn't stopped crying.
Not once.
But she was speaking now.
Softly.
To someone Qaritas couldn't see.
"What's your name?"
Silence.
Then—
"Mira."
Qaritas looked at her.
Xheavend nodded.
"Thirty-two."
Her voice trembled.
"From Namaris."
Kysena opened a ledger recovered from the mansion's office.
Qaritas had originally intended to use it as evidence.
Apparently—
it would serve another purpose first.
Kysena dipped her pen.
"Family?"
Xheavend listened.
Then—
"Her husband."
A pause.
"His name is Daeron."
Kysena wrote.
"He works near the eastern harbor."
Another pause.
"She says he always burns the bread."
Qaritas looked at her.
Xheavend's mouth trembled.
"She wants him to know she never minded."
Kysena stopped writing.
For a moment—
the only sound came from the wind moving through the grass.
Then Kysena continued.
Name.
Age.
Hometown.
Family.
A life reduced to a few lines.
But not forgotten.
Never again.
They opened the second grave.
Then the third.
Then—
the fourth.
The fifth.
The sixth.
Qaritas stopped counting after twelve.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he didn't want to.
The dead came from everywhere.
Vharos.
Tharuun.
Aelthir.
Namaris.
Travelers.
Merchants.
Servants.
Children.
People who had boarded a train expecting to arrive somewhere.
People who had accepted an invitation.
People who had trusted a smiling man.
Some coffins were small.
Too small.
Qaritas hated those most.
At the twenty-third grave, Tavek arrived carrying another ledger.
He had insisted on helping.
Kysena had objected.
Tavek had insisted again.
Rhevan, seated beneath a nearby tree, had finally said—
"Let him."
Kysena had looked at the boy.
Then at his brother.
And reluctantly agreed.
So Tavek wrote.
Names.
Ages.
Families.
Places.
His handwriting wasn't particularly elegant.
Some letters leaned.
Others crowded together.
Occasionally his hand shook so badly that he had to stop.
But he kept writing.
Rhevan helped from his chair.
Reading old manifests.
Comparing dates.
Identifying names he remembered hearing beneath the mansion.
Every so often, he would recognize someone.
And his face would change.
Once—
he whispered, "I knew her."
Tavek stopped writing.
Rhevan looked toward a coffin.
"She used to sing."
Nobody spoke.
"Not loudly."
His eyes filled.
"Just when the guards weren't listening."
He swallowed.
"She said her daughter liked that song."
Kysena knelt beside him.
"Do you remember her name?"
Rhevan nodded.
"Anessa."
A pause.
"Her daughter was called Liri."
Kysena wrote both names.
Then rested one hand gently on his shoulder.
"Thank you."
Rhevan looked at the coffin.
"I'm sorry."
Qaritas heard him.
So did Tavek.
Rhevan continued.
"I'm sorry I couldn't—"
"Rhevan."
Tavek's voice.
Firm.
His older brother looked at him.
Tavek swallowed.
"You were trying to survive."
Rhevan's eyes filled.
"I know."
"No."
Tavek stepped closer.
"You don't."
His voice cracked.
"You keep apologizing."
Rhevan looked away.
Tavek grabbed his brother's uninjured arm.
"You're here."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
"You're here, and I'm not letting you apologize for that."
Rhevan stared at him.
Then—
his face crumpled.
Tavek leaned forward.
Careful of the injuries.
And hugged him.
Qaritas looked away.
Not because he didn't want to see.
Because some moments belonged to the people living them.
He returned to digging.
By the thirty-seventh grave—
Qaritas's hands hurt.
By the forty-second—
his shoulders burned.
By the fiftieth—
Ylaris had broken three shovels.
At some point—
Qaritas stopped digging.
Not because he was tired.
Although he was.
Not because his hands hurt.
Although they did.
He stopped because he'd found something.
A shoe.
Small.
Red.
With a little golden flower stitched near the heel.
It wasn't attached to anyone.
It lay beneath the soil, half-buried beside a root.
Qaritas crouched.
Carefully—
he picked it up.
The leather was stiff.
The stitching had begun to rot.
But the flower remained.
Five golden petals.
One crooked stem.
He turned it over.
There was a name written inside.
Not clearly.
The ink had faded.
He could make out only three letters.
Eli.
Qaritas stared.
For a long time—
he didn't move.
Then—
"Qaritas?"
Kysena.
He looked up.
She stood beside him, carrying a fresh bundle of identification tags.
Her gray eyes moved toward the shoe.
Then back to him.
"Are you alright?"
Qaritas opened his mouth.
Something sarcastic nearly escaped.
Something about the universe having an unreasonable number of children's shoes.
Something about how he'd prefer to spend the rest of his existence fighting monsters rather than digging graves.
But—
nothing came.
He looked down.
"...Do you think someone made this?"
Kysena approached.
She knelt beside him.
Studied the little golden flower.
Then—
"Probably."
Qaritas rubbed his thumb over the stitching.
"Someone sat down."
Kysena looked at him.
"With a needle."
He swallowed.
"Thread."
A pause.
"And spent time making a flower on a child's shoe."
Kysena said nothing.
Qaritas stared at the faded name.
"...They probably thought it was going to last."
Silence.
Then—
Kysena gently rested her hand over his.
"Perhaps it did."
Qaritas looked up.
She smiled sadly.
"Long enough for someone to find it."
He looked toward the rows of graves.
Then—
slowly—
placed the shoe beside the identification ledger.
"Keep it."
Kysena nodded.
"We will."
A pause.
"And if we find the other one?"
Qaritas swallowed.
"Keep that too."
He picked up his shovel.
Returned to the next grave.
And continued digging.
CRACK.
Qaritas stopped.
Slowly—
he turned.
Ylaris stood beside another grave.
Holding half a shovel.
The other half remained buried in the earth.
Qaritas stared.
"...Again?"
Ylaris looked at the broken handle.
"It broke."
"I can see that."
"Then why are you asking?"
Qaritas closed his eyes.
"...Did you do that intentionally?"
Ylaris considered.
"No."
A pause.
"Probably."
Qaritas wasn't entirely convinced.
The Sun Ascendant looked at the remains of the wooden handle.
Then at Qaritas.
"...It was poorly made."
Qaritas stared.
"You said that about the last two."
"They were also poorly made."
"You're an Ascendant."
"Yes."
"Of the Sun."
"Yes."
"How are you losing a battle against gardening equipment?"
Ylaris considered.
Then—
"Earth is not my preferred element."
Qaritas closed his eyes.
"I hate everyone."
"That seems excessive."
"Especially you."
Ylaris smiled.
It was brief.
Then—
his gaze moved toward Xheavend.
The smile vanished.
Qaritas closed his eyes.
"I hate everyone."
"That seems excessive."
"Especially you."
Ylaris smiled.
It was brief.
Then—
his gaze moved toward Xheavend.
The smile vanished.
She sat beside a row of recovered coffins.
Kysena had wrapped her damaged hands.
Xheavend hadn't complained.
Hadn't even noticed.
Blood continued slipping from her eyes.
Qaritas approached.
"Xhea."
She looked up.
He crouched beside her.
"How many?"
She stared toward the field.
Then whispered—
"More."
Qaritas swallowed.
"How many more?"
Her lips trembled.
"I don't know."
He looked toward the rows.
The disturbed soil continued farther than he'd first realized.
Beneath trees.
Beyond the wall.
Toward an abandoned orchard.
A mass grave.
Not one.
Dozens.
Possibly hundreds.
Qaritas sat beside her.
For a moment—
neither spoke.
Then he asked—
"Is this how you knew?"
Xheavend looked at him.
"About the mansion."
She lowered her eyes.
"The dead."
Qaritas nodded slowly.
"You heard them."
"Yes."
"Before we found the underground chambers?"
"Yes."
Qaritas remembered.
The strange pauses.
The way Xheavend had watched certain hallways.
Her expression when the baron smiled.
The way she'd looked at Seralyne.
Or—
the thing pretending to be Seralyne.
"That's how you knew they were lying."
Xheavend nodded.
"Their victims were screaming it to you."
"Yes."
Qaritas stared at the ground.
Then—
"Why didn't you say anything?"
She was quiet.
Long enough that he wondered whether she would answer.
Then—
"Because I wanted to see what they would do."
Qaritas looked at her.
Xheavend continued.
"The spirits knew what happened to them."
Her voice remained soft.
"But they didn't know where the living prisoners were being kept."
She looked toward the mansion.
"Not until we found the chamber."
Qaritas frowned.
"You wanted the baron to reveal himself."
"Yes."
"And Seralyne?"
Xheavend went still.
Qaritas remembered the girl's smile.
Her gentle voice.
The way she'd spoken about Ayla.
The way she'd looked at him.
Then—
the black liquid.
The skin.
The creature beneath it.
He swallowed.
"How did you know she was fake?"
Xheavend didn't answer immediately.
Instead—
she looked toward the final row of coffins.
One stood slightly apart from the others.
A narrow coffin.
Old.
Its wooden surface bore scratches along one side.
Qaritas followed her gaze.
Something cold settled in his stomach.
"Xhea?"
"Because the real Seralyne was standing behind you."
Qaritas stopped breathing.
"...What?"
Xheavend looked at him.
"She was there when you spoke to the creature."
Silence.
"She watched you smile at it."
Qaritas remembered.
Seralyne offering him food.
Asking questions.
Laughing.
Being kind.
He'd thought—
For one ridiculous moment—
he'd thought she was simply a lonely girl living with a wealthy father.
Xheavend continued.
"She was crying."
Qaritas looked toward the coffin.
"That's her?"
Xheavend nodded.
"Her father gave her to the Guard."
The words landed like stones.
Qaritas stared.
"His own daughter."
"Yes."
He remembered the baron.
The pleasant smile.
The gracious hospitality.
The polished manners.
The way he'd spoken of his daughter.
As though he loved her.
Qaritas felt something ugly twist inside him.
"That bastard."
Xheavend said nothing.
He looked toward her.
"Did she know?"
"About what?"
"That the thing wearing her skin was living in her home."
Xheavend's eyes filled again.
"Yes."
Qaritas closed his eyes.
He didn't know what to do with that.
He had seen monsters.
Killed monsters.
Met beings whose very existence made reality feel like a poorly constructed joke.
But somehow—
a father sacrificing his own daughter so that something else could wear her face—
still found a new way to disgust him.
After a while—
Qaritas spoke.
"You called that creature the Guard."
Xheavend looked at him.
"How did you know its name?"
Her expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just—
enough.
The blood beneath her eyes darkened.
"Yzer."
Qaritas went still.
Of course.
Somehow—
everything terrible eventually returned to that name.
"What about him?"
Xheavend looked toward the graves.
Then—
"Eight years ago."
Her voice became distant.
"After I fought Goro."
Qaritas listened.
"My body couldn't handle what I'd done."
She looked at her hands.
"I was too young."
A pause.
"I used too much power."
Qaritas remembered what she'd told him.
The battle.
The collapse.
The coma.
"The curse took over while I was unconscious."
Qaritas frowned.
"Your dreams?"
"More than dreams."
Xheavend looked toward the trees.
"For the first time, I saw paths."
"Paths?"
"Leading to people."
She swallowed.
"Victims."
Qaritas said nothing.
"Not just in the Third Universe."
Her mismatched eyes lifted.
"All of them."
Qaritas felt his stomach tighten.
"All the universes?"
"Even the First."
Silence.
The wind moved through the orchard.
Xheavend continued.
"I followed the paths."
Her voice trembled.
"I saw things happening to people."
"Things?"
She looked at him.
Qaritas understood.
He didn't ask her to describe them.
"I couldn't always stop what was happening," she whispered.
"But sometimes..."
She hesitated.
"Sometimes I could reach them."
Qaritas leaned closer.
"How?"
"I don't know."
Her fingers tightened around the bandages.
"I could make the pain feel farther away."
A pause.
"Not disappear."
She shook her head.
"I couldn't make it disappear."
"But you could help them endure it."
"Sometimes."
Her eyes lowered.
"I could help them feel like they were somewhere else."
Qaritas listened.
"Some stopped panicking."
"Some remembered who they were."
"Some found the courage to fight."
Her lips trembled.
"And some..."
She stopped.
Qaritas waited.
Xheavend whispered—
"Some were already dying."
Silence.
"I stayed with them."
Qaritas felt his chest tighten.
"Until?"
She nodded.
"Until."
For a while—
neither spoke.
Then Qaritas asked—
"Do you know where that ability came from?"
Xheavend shook her head.
"Not for certain."
She looked at him.
"My grandfather."
Qaritas frowned.
"Tysesh?"
"Ascendant of the Veiled Mind."
Qaritas nodded.
One of the Primarch Ten.
An ancient being whose domain extended into secrets of thought, perception, and the hidden architecture of consciousness.
"I think it might come from him," Xheavend said.
"But I've never met him."
She looked down.
"So I don't know."
Qaritas considered that.
Then—
"The Guard."
Xheavend nodded.
"During one of those paths, I saw Yzer."
Her voice became quieter.
"He was speaking to something."
Qaritas waited.
"I couldn't see its face."
"Why?"
"It didn't have one."
Silence.
"Not then."
She looked toward Seralyne's coffin.
"But Yzer called it the Guard."
Qaritas stared at the ground.
"So you recognized it."
"Yes."
"Before it revealed itself."
"Yes."
He rubbed his face.
"Wonderful."
Xheavend glanced at him.
"Q?"
"Nothing."
He sighed.
"Just discovering that every terrible thing we find has apparently attended the same social gathering."
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Then—
a whisper.
Not from Qaritas.
Not from Xheavend.
Something else.
Xheavend turned toward the graves.
Her expression softened.
"Yes."
Qaritas looked around.
"What?"
She listened.
Then nodded.
"I know."
Another pause.
"We're going to take you home."
Qaritas stared at her.
"Who?"
Xheavend looked toward the recovered coffins.
"All of them."
The survivors began helping before noon.
Not all.
Some couldn't stand.
Some were too injured.
Others were still frightened of enclosed spaces, unfamiliar voices, or anyone wearing the colors of Solvayne's household.
Kysena made certain nobody was pressured.
Those who wanted to help—
helped.
Those who needed rest—
rested.
Ylaris organized the excavation.
Qaritas carried coffins.
Tavek recorded names.
Rhevan compared the records with the mansion's manifests.
And Xheavend—
listened.
Sometimes she spoke aloud.
Sometimes she whispered.
Sometimes she smiled through tears.
Once—
she laughed.
Qaritas turned immediately.
Xheavend sat beside a small coffin.
Her head tilted.
Then—
she laughed again.
Softly.
A strange, broken little sound.
Qaritas approached.
"What?"
She looked up.
"His name was Perrin."
Qaritas glanced at the coffin.
"How old?"
"Eight."
His chest tightened.
Xheavend continued.
"He says his older sister still owes him three copper coins."
Qaritas blinked.
"...What?"
"She borrowed them to buy sweets."
A pause.
"She never paid him back."
Qaritas stared.
Xheavend smiled sadly.
"He wants her to know he's forgiven her."
Qaritas looked toward the coffin.
Then—
he laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because an eight-year-old boy had died in a monster's estate—
and apparently still cared about three copper coins.
It was such a small thing.
Such a human thing.
Qaritas felt his eyes burn.
"Tell him..."
He stopped.
Xheavend waited.
Qaritas swallowed.
"Tell him his sister probably owes interest."
Xheavend listened.
Then—
her smile widened.
"He says you're annoying."
Qaritas placed a hand against his chest.
"Rude."
"He likes you."
"Naturally."
Xheavend looked toward the coffin.
Her smile faded.
Then she whispered—
"We'll find her."
Qaritas nodded.
"Yes."
A pause.
"We will."
By late afternoon—
the field was empty.
The last grave took longer than the others.
Not because it was deeper.
Not because the ground was harder.
Because nobody wanted to be the first to say they were finished.
Ylaris stood beside the open earth.
His golden flames had dimmed.
Kysena sat beneath a tree, her ledger balanced across her knees.
Tavek had fallen asleep with his head resting against Rhevan's shoulder.
Rhevan remained awake.
Watching.
Xheavend sat near the final coffin.
Her bloodstained hands rested in her lap.
And Qaritas—
stood in the middle of the ruined garden.
Surrounded by empty graves.
He looked around.
At the broken shovels.
The piles of soil.
The torn roots.
The abandoned orchard.
The long rows where bodies had rested for years without names.
It was strange.
How much work it took to undo even a small part of someone's cruelty.
Solvayne had buried these people and forgotten them.
Qaritas and his companions had spent an entire day trying to remember them.
He looked toward Ylaris.
"...Are we done?"
Ylaris surveyed the ground.
Then—
"No."
Qaritas's expression changed.
"More?"
Ylaris shook his head.
"The graves are empty."
He looked toward the coffins.
"But we're not finished."
Qaritas followed his gaze.
The names.
The records.
The people waiting somewhere beyond the estate.
He understood.
"...Right."
Kysena closed her ledger.
"We still have to bring them home."
Nobody moved immediately.
For a few moments—
they simply remained where they were.
Not celebrating.
Not speaking.
Just—
resting.
And Qaritas realized that sometimes finishing something terrible didn't feel like victory.
Sometimes—
it only meant there was another difficult thing left to do.
By evening—
the garden no longer resembled a burial ground.
Not because the graves had disappeared.
Those remained.
Long trenches.
Dark earth.
Rows of holes beneath the trees.
But the coffins were gone.
Every recovered body had been carefully recorded, marked, and prepared for transport.
Kysena had organized the names by kingdom.
Vharos.
Tharuun.
Aelthir.
Namaris.
Some identities remained uncertain.
For those, they recorded every detail they could establish without inventing anything.
No one would be assigned a name simply because the records were incomplete.
Xheavend had insisted on that.
Qaritas agreed.
Then—
he remembered something.
Something currently attached to his clothing.
He reached into his pocket.
An oval keychain.
Black metal.
Smaller than his thumb.
One silver button.
Three overlapping symbols.
A clock.
An eye.
A spiral galaxy.
Qaritas stared at it.
Then—
"Oh."
Ylaris looked over.
"Oh?"
Qaritas smiled.
A dangerous expression.
Ylaris narrowed his eyes.
"What are you thinking?"
"Something brilliant."
"That usually means something terrible."
"Unfair."
"Accurate."
Qaritas pressed the button.
Reality unfolded.
Not exploded.
Not shattered.
Unfolded.
The air bent outward.
Space stretched.
Black cosmic metal rose from nothing.
Silver gears materialized.
Chains of pale light spiraled through the clearing.
The ground trembled.
And within seconds—
a colossal grandfather clock stood forty feet tall beneath the afternoon sky.
Fragments of frozen stars glimmered along its frame.
Behind transparent panels, hundreds of silver gears rotated through impossible arrangements.
Some clockwise.
Some counterclockwise.
Others through directions Qaritas refused to contemplate.
An enormous pendulum swung through empty space.
Tick.
Tock.
The sound vibrated through the clearing.
Several survivors screamed.
Tavek dropped his pen.
Rhevan stared.
Kysena closed her eyes.
Ylaris sighed.
And the Chronolock spoke.
In Qaritas's voice.
Only older.
Rougher.
And considerably more irritating.
"Traveler recognized."
A pause.
"Ah."
Qaritas smiled.
"Hello."
"You're alive."
"Disappointed?"
"Statistically surprised."
Ylaris folded his arms.
Qaritas ignored him.
"I need storage."
The Chronolock paused.
"Clarify."
"Space."
"Clarify."
"A room."
"Clarify."
Qaritas stared.
"...Are you doing this deliberately?"
"Yes."
Kysena made a sound suspiciously resembling a laugh.
Qaritas pointed at the enormous clock.
"I need somewhere to safely transport coffins."
Silence.
The pendulum swung.
Tick.
Tock.
Then—
"Understood."
The Chronolock's voice changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Its enormous doors opened.
Beyond them stretched a corridor of stars.
Not merely stars.
Moments.
Possibilities.
Fragments of histories that had happened, might happen, or had never been permitted to exist.
Qaritas looked inside.
Then immediately regretted it.
Because one of the images passing through the corridor—
was himself.
Older.
Bleeding.
Carrying something wrapped in white cloth.
The image vanished.
Qaritas swallowed.
"...Nope."
"Your discomfort has been recorded."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
A section of the corridor shifted.
A wide chamber opened beyond the doors.
Black walls.
Silver light.
Rows of empty platforms.
The air inside remained perfectly still.
"Temporary storage prepared," the Chronolock announced.
"Temporal preservation active."
Qaritas blinked.
"You can do that?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You did not ask."
Qaritas looked at Ylaris.
Ylaris looked away.
Clearly hiding a smile.
"I hate this machine."
"Sentiment reciprocated."
Tavek stared at the clock.
Then at Qaritas.
Then at the clock again.
"...Is that you?"
Qaritas sighed.
"Unfortunately."
Rhevan looked genuinely fascinated.
"How?"
"Future me."
Silence.
Tavek blinked.
"Future you built a talking clock?"
"Apparently."
"Why?"
Qaritas looked toward the Chronolock.
"Excellent question."
The clock answered.
"Because future you possesses superior judgment."
Qaritas stared.
"...I am going to dismantle you."
"Threat recorded. Again."
Even Xheavend laughed.
A real laugh.
Small.
Tired.
But real.
Qaritas would have endured considerably worse insults for that sound.
Then—
the work began.
They carried the coffins into the chamber.
Carefully.
One by one.
No rushing.
No careless stacking.
Kysena checked each identification marker.
Tavek read the names aloud.
Rhevan confirmed the records.
Ylaris carried the heavier coffins.
Qaritas carried the smaller ones.
He hated those.
Every single one.
And Xheavend walked beside them.
Listening.
Sometimes nodding.
Sometimes whispering.
Sometimes simply remaining quiet.
The Chronolock didn't make another joke.
Not once.
Qaritas remained inside after the others left.
The chamber was enormous.
Silent.
Perfectly still.
Rows of coffins rested upon black platforms beneath silver light.
Each had been given its own place.
Its own identification marker.
Its own name, where one could be established.
He walked between them.
Slowly.
Reading.
Mira.
Anessa.
Perrin.
Seralyne.
And dozens more.
Some names he recognized.
Others he didn't.
Some belonged to people Xheavend had spoken with.
Others remained unknown.
He stopped beside the smallest coffin.
The one belonging to Perrin.
Eight years old.
Three copper coins.
Qaritas stared.
"...You know."
The chamber remained silent.
He looked toward the ceiling.
"Usually, you'd have something irritating to say by now."
A pause.
The Chronolock answered.
"Usually."
Qaritas frowned.
"...That's it?"
"Yes."
He looked around.
The silver gears beyond the chamber walls continued rotating.
Slowly.
Silently.
Qaritas glanced toward the coffins.
"Can you keep them safe?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
"Nothing happens to them while they're here?"
"Temporal preservation is stable."
Qaritas exhaled.
"Good."
A long silence followed.
Then—
the Chronolock spoke again.
"Qaritas."
He looked up.
"What?"
"Your future self has transported many things through these corridors."
Qaritas frowned.
"Such as?"
"Artifacts."
"Naturally."
"Weapons."
"Unsurprising."
"Creatures."
"Concerning."
"Entire structures."
"That sounds expensive."
A pause.
Then—
"Never this."
Qaritas went still.
He looked toward the rows.
The coffins.
The names.
The silver light.
"...Oh."
The Chronolock continued.
"I was not designed for funerary transport."
Qaritas swallowed.
"Sorry."
"An apology is unnecessary."
He looked toward the ceiling.
Then—
the older voice softened.
"Preservation will remain active for as long as required."
Qaritas stared.
For once—
he didn't have a clever answer.
He simply nodded.
"...Thank you."
The Chronolock said nothing.
Qaritas turned toward the exit.
Then stopped.
Looked back.
And whispered—
"Take care of them."
Behind him—
the silver lights dimmed into something gentler.
"Understood."
Qaritas left.
And the doors closed quietly behind him.
They burned the mansion at sunset.
Not immediately.
First—
they removed the records.
The money.
The jewelry.
The documents.
The private transport manifests.
The evidence connecting Solvayne to other estates.
Ashenwatch.
Mossmere.
Virellune.
Selyr.
And one particularly unpleasant entry that Qaritas had not stopped thinking about.
QARITAS. XHEAVEND. AWAITING COLLECTION.
No signature.
No explanation.
Only—
Preapproved.
He hated that word.
Almost as much as he hated the fact that someone had apparently arranged for their collection before they'd even arrived.
Once the evidence was secured, Kysena checked the estate again for anyone who might still be inside.
Ylaris inspected the grounds.
Qaritas made certain the recovered property had been removed.
And Xheavend stood beside the fountain.
Looking at the mansion.
Qaritas approached.
"Ready?"
She nodded.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He looked toward the beautiful building.
The towers.
The balconies.
The stained glass.
The elaborate gardens.
He remembered the underground chambers.
The blood.
The cages.
The coffins.
Then—
he turned toward Ylaris.
"Do the honors."
Ylaris raised one hand.
Flame gathered.
Not wild.
Not uncontrolled.
A precise, brilliant fire that flowed across the mansion's empty corridors and climbed its walls.
Windows burst outward.
Golden balconies collapsed.
The roof ignited.
And Baron Solvayne's beautiful estate began to burn.
Qaritas watched.
No triumph.
No satisfaction.
Just—
the strange emptiness that followed something terrible finally ending.
Beside him, Xheavend whispered—
"Goodbye, Seralyne."
A breeze moved through the garden.
For one heartbeat—
Qaritas thought he saw something.
A girl.
Standing beneath the fountain arch.
Young.
Pale.
Smiling sadly.
Then—
nothing.
He looked at Xheavend.
She was crying again.
But this time—
not blood.
Ordinary tears.
Qaritas said nothing.
He simply stood beside her until the roof collapsed.
The private railway waited beyond the estate's eastern grounds.
Qaritas had expected something impressive.
After all—
Solvayne had been wealthy enough to purchase entire neighborhoods.
He had not expected—
That.
"...Oh."
Tavek stopped beside him.
"...Oh."
Rhevan, seated in his chair, looked up.
"...Oh."
Ylaris sighed.
"Must everyone do that?"
Qaritas pointed.
"THAT IS A TRAIN?"
The Cinderyn waited above two ribbons of polished black crystal.
Not on them.
Above them.
Nearly half a kilometer of magnificent architecture stretched through the valley.
Its enormous forward crown resembled the head of a mythical serpent fused with a royal cathedral.
Eight backward-curving horns rose above overlapping plates of Nightforge Obsidian.
Sunwoven Gold formed sweeping ribs across the structure.
And beneath the armored exterior—
Emberheart Crystal glowed with living fire.
Red.
Orange.
Yellow.
Blue.
White.
Green.
Violet.
Pink.
Eight colors.
Eight flames.
Flowing.
Moving.
Alive.
Crimson fire rolled along the lower hull.
Orange curled around enormous golden arches.
Yellow illuminated royal insignias.
Blue burned beneath the floating passenger palaces.
Green danced around observation gardens.
Violet twisted through towering crystalline spires.
Pink threaded through delicate balcony railings.
And at the center of the forward crown—
a white-burning crystal floated between rotating golden rings.
The Octaflame Heart.
Qaritas stared.
"That is not a train."
Ylaris folded his arms.
"It is."
"No."
"Yes."
"That's an entire palace having an identity crisis."
Tavek laughed.
Rhevan looked toward the enormous structure.
"Solvayne used it to transport his private guests."
His expression darkened.
"And the others."
Silence.
The beauty became something else.
Qaritas looked toward the glowing passenger palaces.
All that luxury.
All that elegance.
And somewhere beneath it—
people had been transported toward cages.
Toward suffering.
Toward death.
His smile disappeared.
"Well."
He looked at Ylaris.
"Let's give it a better purpose."
The Hearthmind did not appreciate Qaritas.
That became obvious almost immediately.
The moment he entered the Sovereign Crown, the eight flames along the walls flared.
A low, resonant hum filled the chamber.
Ylaris approached the central controls.
Golden rings rotated around the Octaflame Heart.
Symbols appeared across the crystal.
Qaritas leaned closer.
"What does that mean?"
Ylaris studied them.
"It is asking for authorization."
"Tell it we're authorized."
"We aren't."
"Details."
"Important details."
Qaritas folded his arms.
"Fine. Tell it the previous owner is dead."
Ylaris touched the crystal.
The flames shifted.
Crimson.
Yellow.
Blue.
Then—
white.
The chamber hummed.
Qaritas waited.
"...Well?"
Ylaris looked surprised.
"It accepted."
Qaritas blinked.
"Seriously?"
"The estate's private charter has been terminated."
"By death?"
"Apparently."
Qaritas stared at the enormous crystal.
Then—
"I like you."
The white flame brightened.
Ylaris raised an eyebrow.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"The Hearthmind appears to approve of the change."
Qaritas grinned.
"Naturally. I am delightful."
The blue flames flickered.
Ylaris looked toward them.
Then at Qaritas.
"...It disagrees."
Qaritas's smile vanished.
"I hate this train."
They boarded the survivors through the largest passenger palace.
The Grand Ember Salon.
Polished obsidian floors.
Golden columns.
Enormous stained-glass windows depicting the four elemental kingdoms.
Living flames danced inside transparent crystal pillars.
Soft chairs lined the walls.
Long tables stood beneath chandeliers made from suspended Emberheart Crystal.
And beyond the salon—
private suites.
Dining rooms.
Bathing chambers.
A botanical observatory.
Enough space to accommodate everyone comfortably.
Kysena immediately claimed several suites for the most severely injured.
Ylaris helped organize bedding.
Qaritas carried supplies.
Tavek pushed Rhevan toward a quieter compartment.
And Xheavend—
stood beside the doors.
Watching the survivors enter.
Some hesitated.
A few recognized the train.
Their expressions changed.
One woman began shaking.
Another refused to step aboard.
Kysena approached them.
"Nobody will force you."
The woman looked at the train.
Her voice trembled.
"They took us in something like this."
Kysena nodded.
"I know."
The woman swallowed.
"I can't..."
"Then we'll wait."
Qaritas stood nearby.
He wanted to say something.
Something reassuring.
Something clever.
Something that would make the woman believe everything was different now.
Nothing came.
Because he couldn't promise she would never be afraid again.
He couldn't promise she would forget.
He couldn't promise the world had suddenly become kind.
So he simply waited.
Eventually—
the woman looked toward the other survivors.
Then at Kysena.
"Will you stay with me?"
Kysena smiled.
"Of course."
The woman took her hand.
And stepped aboard.
Qaritas watched them disappear into the salon.
Then—
looked away.
Some victories were very small.
He was beginning to think those were the ones that mattered most.
The Cinderyn departed at dusk.
Its eight horns ignited in sequence.
Red.
Orange.
Yellow.
Green.
Blue.
Violet.
Pink.
Then—
white.
The Octaflame Heart blazed.
The entire train trembled.
Blue levitation rings rotated beneath its passenger palaces.
And the magnificent serpent of black crystal and gold began moving above the glowing rails.
No wheels.
No grinding metal.
No smoke.
Only—
a deep hum.
The gentle whisper of living flame.
And the soft movement of a palace gliding through the evening.
Qaritas stood beside one of the enormous observation windows.
The burning mansion disappeared behind the hills.
For a long time—
he watched the smoke.
Then—
"Qaritas?"
He turned.
Rhevan sat near the window.
Tavek stood beside him.
Kysena had insisted Rhevan remain seated.
Rhevan had apparently decided to obey.
For once.
Qaritas considered that miraculous.
"Yes?"
Rhevan looked toward the flames outside.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether it involves borrowing money."
Tavek laughed.
Rhevan smiled faintly.
"No."
"Excellent. Proceed."
Rhevan hesitated.
Then—
"The four."
Qaritas frowned.
"Four?"
"The rulers."
His expression changed.
"Altest."
Qaritas went still.
"Arthan."
Tavek looked toward his brother.
"Ariyion."
Rhevan's jaw tightened.
"Akaizu."
Silence.
Qaritas glanced toward Ylaris, who stood near the far end of the salon speaking quietly with the Hearthmind's conductor interface.
Then—
"Actually."
He approached.
"I've been meaning to ask about them."
Rhevan looked up.
"What do you want to know?"
Qaritas considered.
"Where are they?"
Silence.
Not merely from Rhevan.
From the surrounding passengers.
A woman near the dining table stopped eating.
An elderly man looked up.
Two merchants exchanged glances.
Someone laughed bitterly.
Qaritas noticed immediately.
"...What?"
Rhevan's expression hardened.
"Nobody knows."
Qaritas frowned.
"Nobody?"
"No."
A woman spoke from nearby.
"Nobody cares anymore."
Qaritas turned.
She sat beneath a blanket.
Her arm remained bandaged.
Her face was tired.
Angry.
"Excuse me?"
She looked at him.
"Those four abandoned us."
Another survivor nodded.
"People prayed."
A third spoke.
"Begged."
Someone near the window laughed.
"Built temples."
"Made offerings."
"Waited."
The elderly man lowered his head.
"My daughter disappeared three years ago."
Silence.
"I prayed to Akaizu every morning."
His voice trembled.
"Every morning."
He looked toward Qaritas.
"Nothing."
Qaritas felt something tighten in his chest.
Another woman spoke.
"Altest hasn't answered the fire temples."
A man from Tharuun shook his head.
"Arthan's sanctuaries have been silent for years."
"People say Ariyion vanished."
"People say they're dead."
"People say they left."
"People say they never cared."
The voices overlapped.
Anger.
Grief.
Bitterness.
And beneath all of it—
something worse.
Disappointment.
Qaritas looked around.
These people had believed in their Ascendants.
Trusted them.
Loved them.
And somewhere along the way—
that belief had broken.
He understood anger.
He understood hatred.
But this—
Mortals who had stopped expecting their gods to answer.
That was something else.
Qaritas looked toward Ylaris.
Their eyes met.
Ylaris's expression was unreadable.
Qaritas wondered—
What had happened?
Four Ascendants.
Four brothers.
Sons of Marasailyn and Qirak.
Rulers of an entire elemental world.
And none of their people knew where they were.
He remembered the Convergence.
The imprisoned parents.
The strange disturbances spreading across Lamentis.
The black-glass barriers.
The missing travelers.
The Guard.
The ledger.
QARITAS. XHEAVEND. AWAITING COLLECTION.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
And Qaritas was beginning to suspect Solvayne's estate had been only one small piece of it.
Then—
Rhevan spoke.
"I heard something."
Qaritas turned.
"What?"
Rhevan looked down at his bandaged hands.
"When they took my foot."
Tavek went still.
Kysena, standing nearby, slowly turned.
Rhevan continued.
"There were two men."
His voice became distant.
"One of them was angry."
Qaritas approached.
"About what?"
"Someone hadn't arrived."
"Who?"
Rhevan swallowed.
"I didn't understand at the time."
He looked toward the window.
"They kept saying they needed the four found."
Qaritas felt his pulse quicken.
"The four Ascendants?"
Rhevan nodded.
"One of them said the Warden was becoming impatient."
Xheavend went completely still.
Qaritas noticed.
Immediately.
Rhevan continued.
"They said someone was coming."
"Who?"
Rhevan frowned.
"Something about chains."
Qaritas's stomach dropped.
"What?"
Rhevan looked at him.
"The Chainmaker."
Silence.
Absolute.
Immediate.
Qaritas forgot the train.
The survivors.
The flames.
The beautiful evening sky.
Because he knew that name.
He knew it.
Not from this time.
Not from this world.
From a future that hadn't happened yet.
A future where certain enemies had become names spoken with dread.
A future where Xheavend—
Qaritas swallowed.
"Eirisa."
The name barely escaped his lips.
Across the salon—
Xheavend turned.
Her mismatched eyes widened.
One red.
One pink.
And for the first time since leaving Solvayne's mansion—
Qaritas saw fear return to her face.
Not the fear of battle.
Not the fear of dying.
Something older.
Something learned.
Something that had survived eight years.
"Q..."
Her voice trembled.
Qaritas looked at her.
"You know her."
Xheavend nodded.
He stepped closer.
"How?"
She swallowed.
Then—
"She was there."
Silence.
"Where?"
Xheavend looked down.
Her fingers curled.
"When Yzer took me."
Qaritas stopped breathing.
She continued.
"Ten years ago."
A pause.
"In the Flesh Ring."
The Cinderyn hummed beneath them.
Outside, violet and pink flames flowed along the windows.
Inside—
Qaritas felt the world grow cold.
"She was there when he kidnapped you?"
Xheavend nodded.
"I remember her."
Her voice became very quiet.
"Three dying stars where her eyes should have been."
Qaritas's jaw tightened.
He remembered what he knew of Eirisa.
The Fragment of the 1990th Universe.
The Chainmaker.
A being whose name would one day become inseparable from Xheavend's.
But—
not yet.
Not here.
He hadn't known the beginning reached this far back.
He hadn't known—
that it had started in the Third Universe.
Xheavend looked toward the window.
"She couldn't see me."
Qaritas frowned.
"What?"
"Tavran's covenant."
Her voice trembled.
"It was still hiding me."
She swallowed.
"But Yzer could feel me."
Silence.
"And she watched him take me."
Qaritas looked toward Rhevan.
"The men mentioned her?"
Rhevan nodded.
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
He thought.
Then—
"One said the Chainmaker could find the four."
Qaritas's expression hardened.
"Find them?"
Rhevan nodded.
"And that once she arrived..."
He stopped.
Tavek looked at him.
"Rhevan?"
His brother swallowed.
"They wouldn't have anywhere left to hide."
Silence.
Qaritas looked toward Ylaris.
Then Kysena.
Then Xheavend.
Four missing Ascendants.
A Chainmaker.
The Guard.
Yzer.
And an entire planet whose people believed their gods had abandoned them.
Qaritas slowly exhaled.
"...Well."
Nobody spoke.
He rubbed his face.
"That is considerably worse than I was hoping."
They reached the outskirts of Vaelkaris after nightfall.
The capital of Vharos rose within its enormous dormant caldera.
Golden towers.
Black crystalline bridges.
Terraces carved into volcanic stone.
Living flames illuminated the city in red, orange, and gold.
The Cinderyn approached along elevated crystal rails.
Its eight flames reflected against the mountainside.
And behind it—
far across the darkening countryside—
smoke still rose from Solvayne's estate.
Qaritas stood beside the observation window.
Tavek approached.
"Q?"
"Yes?"
"Are they going to believe us?"
Qaritas looked toward the city.
He considered lying.
Something reassuring.
Something simple.
Of course they will.
But—
he remembered the baron.
His reputation.
His wealth.
His charming smile.
The way people had spoken of his generosity.
Qaritas sighed.
"Probably not immediately."
Tavek looked down.
"Then what?"
Qaritas glanced toward the survivors.
Then toward the records.
Then—
"We tell them the truth."
Tavek swallowed.
"And if they don't listen?"
Qaritas looked toward the city again.
His expression hardened.
"Then we make certain they see what he did."
The Cinderyn entered Vaelkaris beneath a sky stained red by distant fire.
The station was enormous.
Crystal platforms stretched beneath towering arches.
Elemental lanterns burned along the walls.
Merchants waited beside luggage.
Travelers gathered near departure gates.
Children pointed toward the magnificent train.
Then—
someone noticed the smoke.
A man near the platform frowned.
"Is that coming from Solvayne's estate?"
Another turned.
"His mansion?"
A woman gasped.
"Look at the flames!"
The train slowed.
The Hearthmind dimmed its exterior fire.
The enormous passenger palaces settled above the crystal rails.
And the station began filling with voices.
"Where's the baron?"
"Why is his train here?"
"Who authorized this?"
"Was there an attack?"
Qaritas stepped toward the doors.
Ylaris stood beside him.
Kysena waited behind them.
Xheavend remained near the survivors.
Rhevan sat in his chair.
Tavek gripped the handles.
Qaritas exhaled.
"Well."
Ylaris glanced at him.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Good."
"Why good?"
"At least you're being honest."
Qaritas glared.
Then—
the doors opened.
Immediately—
shouting.
"YOU!"
A uniformed official pushed through the crowd.
"Who are you?"
Qaritas blinked.
"Hello to you too."
"Where is Baron Solvayne?"
"Dead."
Silence.
Then—
"What?"
Qaritas sighed.
"That usually means someone has stopped living."
Ylaris closed his eyes.
Kysena looked toward the ceiling.
The official's face reddened.
"You murdered him?"
Qaritas considered.
"Technically—"
"Qaritas," Kysena warned.
He sighed.
"Yes. He's dead. His estate is burning. And before anyone asks, no, we are not returning the furniture."
The crowd erupted.
"MURDERERS!"
"THE BARON WAS A GOOD MAN!"
"HE FED THE POOR!"
"HE HELPED TRAVELERS!"
"HE FUNDED THE HOSPITAL!"
Qaritas listened.
The words struck him strangely.
Because he'd heard them before.
Inside the mansion.
From the servants.
From the guests.
From people who had trusted Solvayne.
A good man.
A generous man.
A kind man.
Qaritas looked toward the crowd.
Then—
"No."
His voice wasn't loud.
But something in it carried.
The shouting faltered.
"He wasn't."
The official stepped forward.
"You're under arrest."
Qaritas stared.
"...For what?"
"Murder!"
Qaritas glanced at Ylaris.
Ylaris looked almost amused.
"Should I?"
"No."
Qaritas turned back.
"Before you do something you'll regret, I suggest you look inside the train."
The official frowned.
"What?"
Qaritas stepped aside.
And the first survivor emerged.
A woman.
Thin.
Bandaged.
Walking with Kysena's assistance.
The crowd quieted.
The woman looked around.
Her eyes widened.
Then—
she began crying.
Not softly.
Not politely.
She covered her mouth.
And sobbed.
A man near the front of the crowd went still.
His face changed.
"...Lysa?"
The woman froze.
Slowly—
she turned.
The man dropped the parcel he was carrying.
"Lysa?"
Her knees nearly gave out.
Kysena caught her.
The man stumbled forward.
"No..."
His voice broke.
"No, that's not—"
The woman whispered—
"Dael?"
He ran.
Through the crowd.
Past the guards.
Straight toward her.
They collided.
He caught her so tightly that Kysena had to remind him to be careful of her injuries.
He didn't seem to hear.
He was crying.
Laughing.
Sobbing.
Saying her name again and again.
"Lysa."
"Lysa."
"Lysa."
The crowd went silent.
Then—
another survivor emerged.
A young man.
His left arm bandaged.
An elderly woman screamed.
"MY SON!"
She pushed through the crowd.
The young man turned.
His face crumpled.
"Mother?"
She reached him.
And fell against his chest.
Another survivor.
Then another.
A woman recognized her sister.
A father recognized his daughter.
Two children ran toward a man who dropped to his knees before they reached him.
The station changed.
Shouting became crying.
Accusations became questions.
Questions became names.
Names became screams.
Not screams of fear.
Not all of them.
Some were joy.
Some were disbelief.
Some were the terrible sound of people realizing that someone they'd buried in their hearts was standing alive before them.
Qaritas watched.
He had fought monsters.
Seen impossible things.
Traveled through time.
Crossed universes.
But somehow—
nothing had prepared him for the sound of a mother recognizing her child.
Then—
the Chronolock's doors opened.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Qaritas turned.
The enormous clock stood within the passenger palace, its impossible interior concealed from the station beyond.
The coffins waited inside.
Kysena approached.
Her expression was gentle.
But sad.
"Qaritas."
He understood.
The living had come home.
Now—
the dead.
Qaritas looked toward the station.
A mother held her son so tightly that the boy was beginning to complain.
A man knelt beside his daughter, crying into her hair.
Two sisters clung to one another.
Everywhere—
people were finding someone.
But beyond them—
others waited.
Qaritas noticed them now.
A woman holding a faded portrait.
An elderly man clutching a small knitted scarf.
A young boy standing beside his father, searching every face that stepped off the train.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Qaritas felt something tighten in his chest.
Because he knew what they were about to receive.
Not everyone would see a loved one walk through those doors.
Some would receive a coffin.
A name.
A final message.
He looked toward Ylaris.
The Sun Ascendant stood beside the first coffin.
His expression was solemn.
Kysena held the identification records against her chest.
Xheavend stood motionless.
Listening.
Qaritas approached her.
"...Are you ready?"
She looked at him.
Blood glistened beneath her mismatched eyes.
"No."
He swallowed.
"...Me neither."
She looked toward the waiting families.
Then—
"But they deserve to know."
Qaritas nodded.
"Yes."
He stepped toward the coffin.
Placed his hands beneath the wooden frame.
And lifted.
Not because it was heavy.
Because it mattered.
Then—
they carried the dead into the light.
The first coffin was carried onto the platform beneath a sheet of pale cloth.
Ylaris held one end.
Qaritas held the other.
Kysena walked beside them.
Xheavend followed.
The crowd quieted.
Someone whispered—
"What is that?"
Qaritas didn't answer.
He lowered the coffin carefully.
Then another.
And another.
Each bore a name.
An age.
A hometown.
The records were carried alongside them.
Tavek stood near Rhevan, reading names from the ledger.
His voice shook.
But he continued.
"Mira."
A pause.
"Thirty-two."
He swallowed.
"From Namaris."
A man near the crowd stopped moving.
Tavek continued.
"Husband. Daeron."
Silence.
The man stepped forward.
"...What?"
Tavek looked up.
"Daeron?"
The man nodded.
His face had gone pale.
"That's my wife."
Nobody moved.
"She was traveling to visit her sister."
His voice trembled.
"She was supposed to come home."
Qaritas looked toward Xheavend.
She nodded.
He approached the man.
"She did."
The man stared at him.
Then—
his eyes moved toward the coffin.
"No."
His voice cracked.
"No, she can't—"
He stumbled forward.
Kysena caught his arm.
The man touched the wood.
His hand trembled.
"Mira?"
Silence.
He pressed his forehead against the coffin.
Then—
he screamed.
A terrible sound.
Raw.
Broken.
The kind of sound Qaritas wished no living creature ever had to make.
Xheavend closed her eyes.
Blood slipped from beneath her lashes.
Then—
she knelt beside the man.
"Daeron?"
He looked at her.
Her voice trembled.
"She wants you to know something."
The man stared.
"What?"
Xheavend swallowed.
"She says..."
Her lips quivered.
"You always burned the bread."
The man froze.
Silence.
Then—
his expression shattered.
Because nobody else could have known.
Nobody.
Xheavend continued.
"She says she never minded."
The man covered his face.
And sobbed.
Qaritas looked away.
He couldn't watch.
Not because the moment was unbearable.
Because it was sacred.
And he felt like an intruder.
The names continued.
One after another.
Some families arrived immediately.
Others were sent for.
Some had traveled from distant kingdoms and would need help returning home with their loved ones.
Kysena organized assistance.
Ylaris arranged transport.
Qaritas distributed the baron's wealth.
Every coin.
Every jewel.
Every document that could help compensate a victim or family.
The city's officials, having recovered from their initial enthusiasm for arresting him, were now considerably less interested in discussing murder.
Especially after the manifests appeared.
The trafficking records.
The names.
The dates.
The payments.
The signatures.
The destinations.
The underground chambers.
And the evidence of what had been done there.
One official stared at the ledger.
His hands trembled.
"Baron Solvayne..."
Qaritas looked at him.
"Yes."
"He was..."
"A monster."
The official swallowed.
Qaritas leaned closer.
"And if you want to be useful, find out who helped him."
The official nodded.
Immediately.
Good.
Progress.
Then—
Tavek approached carrying another sheet.
His expression was strange.
"Qaritas?"
Qaritas turned.
"What?"
Tavek held out the paper.
"There's one more."
Qaritas looked down.
A name.
Written carefully.
Seralyne Solvayne.
Age.
Nineteen.
Home.
The mansion.
Family.
Father—
Vaedric Solvayne.
Qaritas stared.
For a long moment—
he said nothing.
Then he looked toward Xheavend.
She stood beside the final coffin.
Her eyes were closed.
Her hands rested gently against the wood.
Qaritas approached.
"Xhea."
She opened her eyes.
"Is she still here?"
Xheavend nodded.
"Yes."
Qaritas looked toward the coffin.
Then—
"Does she have anyone?"
Xheavend listened.
Her expression changed.
A small smile.
Sad.
"Her aunt."
Qaritas blinked.
"An aunt?"
"She lives in Vaelkaris."
He exhaled.
"Good."
Xheavend looked toward the crowd.
"She's coming."
Qaritas turned.
An older woman pushed through the gathering.
Her silver-red hair had been pinned neatly beneath a dark shawl.
Her expression was confused.
Frightened.
She looked toward the coffins.
Then—
toward the name.
She stopped.
"No."
Her voice was barely audible.
Qaritas stepped aside.
The woman approached.
Her fingers touched the inscription.
Seralyne Solvayne.
She stared.
Then—
"No..."
Her knees buckled.
Kysena caught her.
The woman began shaking.
"She was supposed to visit me."
Her voice cracked.
"She promised."
She touched the coffin.
"She promised she'd come for my birthday."
Xheavend knelt beside her.
The woman looked at her.
"Did she suffer?"
Silence.
Qaritas felt something cold move through him.
He didn't know what answer could possibly be kind.
Xheavend's expression softened.
She didn't lie.
"Yes."
The woman broke.
Xheavend continued.
"But she's not suffering now."
The woman's shoulders shook.
"She was such a good girl."
Xheavend nodded.
"I know."
"She loved her father."
A pause.
"She loved him so much."
Qaritas closed his eyes.
The woman sobbed.
"He was all she had left."
Xheavend looked toward the coffin.
Then whispered—
"She says you weren't."
The woman froze.
Xheavend continued.
"She says she had you."
Silence.
"And she loved you."
The woman covered her mouth.
Then—
she reached toward the coffin.
And wept.
Qaritas thought that would be the end of it.
The crying.
The identification.
The terrible moment when a family learned the truth.
But he was wrong.
Because grief didn't end when someone stopped crying.
It continued.
In quieter ways.
A woman asked whether her husband's wedding ring had been recovered.
Kysena searched the belongings.
Found it.
Cleaned it carefully.
And placed it in her trembling hands.
An elderly man refused to leave his daughter's coffin.
Not because he was angry.
Not because he distrusted them.
But because he was afraid someone would take her away again.
Ylaris brought him a chair.
Then sat nearby.
He didn't speak.
He simply remained.
A young boy asked why his mother hadn't stepped off the train.
His father knelt before him.
Opened his mouth.
Closed it.
And began crying.
The boy looked confused.
Then frightened.
Then—
he began crying too.
Qaritas turned away.
Not because he didn't care.
Because he couldn't fix it.
And for someone who had spent so much of his existence fighting things that seemed impossible—
that realization hurt more than he expected.
Across the platform—
Xheavend sat beside Daeron.
Mira's husband.
He had stopped screaming.
Now—
he simply held the edge of her coffin.
His fingers traced the wood.
Again.
Again.
Again.
As though he were memorizing it.
Qaritas approached.
Slowly.
"Daeron?"
The man looked up.
His eyes were swollen.
His face pale.
"...Yes?"
Qaritas hesitated.
"Is there anything you need?"
Daeron looked toward the coffin.
Then—
"...Can I stay?"
Qaritas blinked.
"Stay?"
"With her."
His voice cracked.
"Just a little longer."
Qaritas looked toward the station officials.
Then back at the man.
"Of course."
Daeron swallowed.
"She hated being alone."
Silence.
Qaritas felt his throat tighten.
Then—
he sat down on the opposite side of the coffin.
Daeron looked at him.
Confused.
Qaritas shrugged.
"Well."
He glanced toward the wood.
"Then she won't be."
Daeron stared.
For a moment—
nothing happened.
Then—
his face crumpled.
He lowered his head.
And cried again.
Qaritas stayed.
Not because he knew what to say.
He didn't.
Not because he believed his presence would make the grief smaller.
It wouldn't.
He stayed because—
for once—
there was nothing else he needed to do.
And perhaps—
that was enough.
Night deepened over Vaelkaris.
The station became a place of reunions.
And mourning.
And questions.
And grief.
And something that might eventually become healing.
The city sent healers.
Food.
Blankets.
Transport.
Officials began recording testimony.
Families gathered around survivors.
Others sat beside coffins.
Some refused to leave.
Nobody forced them.
Kysena moved between them.
Healing where she could.
Listening where she couldn't.
Ylaris remained near the recovered treasury, ensuring every distribution was recorded and that none of Solvayne's wealth conveniently disappeared into official pockets.
Qaritas appreciated that.
Greatly.
He had developed a very personal dislike of wealthy people stealing from victims.
A shocking development.
Apparently.
Then—
he found Tavek and Rhevan near the station's eastern terrace.
The younger brother sat beside the older.
Both watched the city.
Neither spoke.
Qaritas approached.
"Well."
Tavek turned.
"Q!"
Qaritas smiled.
"How's our favorite extremely stubborn pair?"
Rhevan raised an eyebrow.
"Favorite?"
"Currently."
Tavek grinned.
"How many pairs do you know?"
"Too many."
Rhevan laughed.
Carefully.
Then—
his expression softened.
"We're staying."
Qaritas nodded.
"I thought you might."
"Kysena arranged a place for us."
"Good."
"And a healer."
"Even better."
Tavek looked toward his brother.
"He needs a lot of rest."
Rhevan sighed.
"Apparently."
"And proper meals."
"Yes."
"And no walking until—"
"Tavek."
"What?"
"I'm missing a foot."
Silence.
Then Tavek stared at him.
Rhevan stared back.
And—
both burst into laughter.
Qaritas blinked.
Then laughed too.
It was terrible.
Inappropriate.
Absolutely ridiculous.
And somehow—
exactly what they needed.
When the laughter faded—
Rhevan looked at Qaritas.
His expression changed.
"Thank you."
Qaritas waved a hand.
"Don't mention it."
"No."
Rhevan's voice became firm.
"Let me."
Qaritas stopped.
Rhevan looked toward Tavek.
"My brother spent months looking for me."
Tavek's eyes filled.
Rhevan continued.
"I thought..."
He stopped.
Swallowed.
"I thought I'd never see him again."
Qaritas said nothing.
Rhevan looked back.
"And then you came."
His voice trembled.
"You and your friends."
He glanced toward the station.
"Kysena."
"Ylaris."
"Xheavend."
His eyes filled.
"You brought me back."
Qaritas felt something tighten in his chest.
He opened his mouth.
A joke.
Something easy.
Something to make the moment less uncomfortable.
Nothing came.
Then—
Tavek stepped forward.
And hugged him.
Qaritas froze.
Completely.
The boy wrapped both arms around him.
Held tight.
And whispered—
"Thank you for finding my brother."
Qaritas stared over his shoulder.
For a moment—
he didn't know what to do.
Then slowly—
he returned the hug.
"You're welcome."
Tavek's shoulders shook.
Qaritas closed his eyes.
"It's alright."
A pause.
"He's here."
Tavek nodded against him.
"He's here."
They remained like that for a while.
Then Tavek stepped back.
Wiped his eyes.
And attempted to look dignified.
He failed.
Spectacularly.
Qaritas smiled.
"Very impressive."
Tavek sniffed.
"What?"
"Your attempt at looking like you weren't crying."
"I wasn't."
"Naturally."
"Q!"
Rhevan laughed.
Then—
he reached toward Qaritas.
His bandaged hand trembled.
Qaritas took it carefully.
Rhevan squeezed as much as he could.
"Thank you."
Qaritas nodded.
This time—
he didn't make a joke.
"Take care of each other."
Rhevan looked toward his brother.
Then smiled.
"We will."
Tavek nodded.
"Always."
A pause.
Then Rhevan sighed.
"Although I may need someone to stop him from treating me like an infant."
Tavek looked offended.
"You almost fell out of your chair!"
"I was adjusting the blanket."
"You were leaning over the edge!"
"I dropped something!"
"You dropped a spoon!"
"It was a perfectly good spoon!"
Qaritas stared.
Then—
laughed.
Loudly.
Because apparently—
some things never changed.
Even after horror.
Even after grief.
Even after nearly losing everything.
Brothers would still argue about spoons.
He liked that.
More than he could explain.
Qaritas found Xheavend on the station's upper balcony.
She stood alone.
The city stretched beneath her.
Thousands of lights.
Living flames.
Golden towers.
Black bridges.
And far beyond—
the enormous mountains surrounding the caldera.
Qaritas approached.
"Hey."
She turned.
"Hey."
He stood beside her.
For a while—
neither spoke.
Then—
"You did good today."
Xheavend looked down.
"Did I?"
Qaritas frowned.
"Yes."
She stared toward the city.
"They're still sad."
Qaritas followed her gaze.
Below them—
families gathered.
Some embracing.
Some mourning.
Some holding one another beside coffins.
"Yes."
"They're still hurting."
"Yes."
Xheavend's voice trembled.
"I couldn't make it stop."
Qaritas looked at her.
"Xhea."
She shook her head.
"I heard them."
Her fingers curled against the railing.
"All of them."
Qaritas waited.
"They wanted to go home."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"And I couldn't bring them back alive."
Silence.
Qaritas looked toward the city.
Then—
"No."
Xheavend turned.
He continued.
"You couldn't."
Her expression tightened.
He looked at her.
"But you brought them home."
Silence.
"You gave them their names back."
A pause.
"Their families know what happened."
Another.
"They aren't lying in an unmarked grave behind that bastard's mansion anymore."
Xheavend's lips trembled.
Qaritas looked toward the lights.
"That matters."
She stared at him.
He smiled sadly.
"Not everything we do gets to be a miracle."
A pause.
"Sometimes..."
He swallowed.
"Sometimes all we can do is make sure somebody isn't forgotten."
Xheavend began crying.
Quietly.
Qaritas didn't try to stop her.
Didn't tell her everything would be alright.
Didn't promise things he couldn't control.
He simply stood beside her.
Then—
she leaned against him.
Qaritas wrapped one arm around her shoulders.
And together—
they watched the city.
Below them—
a child laughed.
Somewhere else—
a woman screamed her husband's name.
Someone began singing.
Someone cried.
Someone prayed.
Life.
Grief.
Love.
Loss.
All of it existing together.
Qaritas looked toward the distant mountains.
Four missing Ascendants.
A Fragment called the Chainmaker.
A creature called the Guard.
And somewhere—
Marasailyn and Qirak remained imprisoned.
He thought about the people aboard the train.
The ones who no longer believed their gods would answer.
He wondered—
What happened to a world when its protectors disappeared?
And what would happen if those protectors returned—
only to discover their people had stopped waiting?
He didn't know.
Not yet.
But one thing had become painfully clear.
Solvayne's mansion hadn't been the beginning.
It hadn't even been the worst of it.
Somewhere on Lamentis—
something was hunting Ascendants.
And whatever it wanted—
the dead behind the mansion had only been collateral.
Qaritas's expression hardened.
He looked toward Xheavend.
She had finally stopped crying.
For now.
"Xhea?"
"Hm?"
He glanced toward the mountains.
"We're going to find them."
She looked up.
"The four brothers?"
"Yes."
"And their parents?"
Qaritas nodded.
"Eventually."
She studied him.
Then—
"What about Eirisa?"
Silence.
Qaritas looked toward the dark sky.
The name settled between them.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
A future enemy.
A past nightmare.
A Fragment who had apparently reached into the lives of four elemental gods.
He exhaled.
"Her too."
Xheavend's fingers tightened around the railing.
"And the Guard?"
Qaritas's expression darkened.
"Especially the Guard."
For a moment—
neither spoke.
Then Xheavend whispered—
"Q?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think we'll be able to save them?"
Qaritas looked toward the city.
The families.
The survivors.
The coffins.
The lights.
He thought about Rhevan.
Tavek.
Mira.
Seralyne.
The little boy who had forgiven his sister for three copper coins.
Then—
he looked at Xheavend.
"I don't know."
She blinked.
Qaritas smiled faintly.
"But I think we should try."
Xheavend stared at him.
Then—
she smiled.
Small.
Tired.
Real.
"Okay."
Qaritas nodded.
"Okay."
Far below—
the last of the recovered coffins was carried toward a waiting family.
A mother stepped forward.
A father followed.
They knelt together.
And somewhere beside them—
a child no living person could see stood quietly.
Xheavend watched.
Her expression softened.
Then she whispered something.
Qaritas looked at her.
"What?"
She smiled through the last of her tears.
"He says they're going to take him home."
Qaritas looked toward the family.
Then back at her.
"And?"
Xheavend's smile trembled.
"He's happy."
Silence.
The city continued breathing beneath them.
The flames continued burning.
The stars continued shining.
And for one night—
in a universe that had forgotten how to be merciful—
the dead finally went home.