The next dawn rose pale and quiet.
No flames, no alarms — only a cold wind brushing through the nameless outskirts of a forgotten town far from Velith. The kind of place that didn't exist on any Guild map.
The Nineveil sat scattered across an abandoned chapel at the edge of the settlement. Dust filtered through the broken roof, catching in the rays of the early sun. They looked nothing like the infamous crew that had shaken a city — just tired people, nursing wounds that went far deeper than the flesh.
No one spoke for a long while. The silence itself felt heavy, like it was waiting for someone brave enough to end it.
---
Mael stood near the altar, his back to them, staring at the faintly glowing shards of morning light that bled through the cracks in the wall. His coat hung loose, one sleeve torn, the faint mark of a burn tracing his left hand.
He looked almost human again — almost.
> "We're not going back, are we?" asked the boy with the Mirra-thread arm, breaking the stillness.
Mael's voice came, calm as always.
"There's nothing to go back to."
A few of them exchanged glances.
Velith was gone. Their names erased. Their cause — forgotten before it had even begun. They'd failed to secure the shard, and worse, they didn't even know why Mael had wanted it.
The silence pressed harder. Then one of them — the older woman with streaks of silver in her hair — finally asked what everyone else wouldn't.
> "Was it worth it?"
Mael didn't turn.
> "Worth?" He let the word roll off his tongue like it was foreign. "That depends on what you expected."
> "I expected us to live," she muttered.
He smiled faintly — not out of mockery, but something close to sorrow.
> "Then you got what you came for."
---
The others looked uneasy. The exhaustion, the loss, the distrust — it all hung in the air between them.
Mael finally turned around. His gaze swept over each of them — the survivors of something that should've killed them all. For a heartbeat, it almost seemed like he was proud. Then, he spoke again.
> "You've done enough. From this point, every path is your own."
Confusion rippled through the group.
> "You're disbanding us?"
"Not disbanding," Mael replied, voice steady. "Just setting you free."
He walked down the steps of the altar, boots echoing softly across the cracked stone floor.
> "The Guild will start hunting ghosts soon. Best not to give them a shape to find."
> "And you?" someone asked quietly.
He stopped near the doorway, the sunlight drawing a faint halo around his silhouette.
"There are things I still need to confirm," he said. "Old debts. Old questions."
Then, after a pause:
> "One year. Meet here again, same day, same time. If you're alive, that is."
The words landed like the toll of a bell — final and absolute.
---
The boy with the Mirra-thread arm stood up slowly.
> "And if we're not?"
Mael gave a half-smirk.
"Then I suppose I'll drink alone."
A few faint chuckles broke the tension. For a moment, it felt almost normal — like they were still a crew, like none of the blood or chaos had ever happened. But it didn't last.
As Mael turned to leave, the woman called out,
> "You never told us why you wanted that shard."
He stopped in the doorway, the light cutting his face in half — shadow and dawn.
> "You wouldn't believe me if I did."
And with that, he stepped outside.
---
The morning air hit cold and sharp. The ruined town stretched before him — a skeleton of a world that never learned from its scars. He took a long breath, the smoke from the distant city still faintly visible across the horizon.
> "One year," he murmured. "Let's see who survives."
Behind him, the Nineveil drifted apart — some north, some west, a few without direction at all.
Their names would fade. Their deeds would rot in the silence the Guild built.
But legends don't need truth — only survivors.
And as Mael walked down the empty road, a faint tune whistled past his lips — slow, haunting, familiar. The kind of melody that didn't belong to the living.
---