Chapter X -- Part II
The tide pulled at Rhea's boots as she stood ankle-deep in the surf.
Gulls cut through the morning light, their cries sharp and distant. The air smelled of rain and rusted metal; even here, the sea carried a hint of smoke from faraway cities.
She turned when she heard the crunch of gravel behind her.
Mira approached, holding a folded newspaper sealed in plastic.
"Courier dropped this off at the bar," she said. "Postmark from Corvane."
Rhea took it, her stomach tightening. The front page showed what was left of the Vale tower: scaffolding wrapped around its ruins, cranes rebuilding the skyline as if nothing had happened.
At the bottom corner was a smaller photo — the unveiling of a memorial wall. Hundreds of names engraved into black stone.
Her fingers trembled as she traced the letters until she reached the one that made her stop.
Luciana Vale – Beloved Daughter of Corvane.
Below it, someone had scratched another line by hand:
"And the fire she left behind."
Rhea swallowed hard. "They made her a legend."
Mira watched her carefully. "Maybe she already was."
"She'd have hated this," Rhea murmured. "She wanted the city to forget her."
"Cities don't forget," Mira said. "They just rewrite."
They walked back through the narrow streets of Gavrielle. The storm had cleared; the air felt washed clean. Rhea stopped by a shuttered café, where a public phone stood half-broken under the awning.
She dug into her pocket and pulled out a card — old, creased, stamped with a number from Corvane's north exchange. Luciana's personal line, once encrypted and unreachable.
She hadn't looked at it since the night of the fire.
"You really think it still works?" Mira asked.
"No," Rhea said. "But maybe it should."
She fed a coin into the slot and dialed.
One ring. Two.
Static filled the receiver — the soft hum of a connection that shouldn't exist.
Then a voice, faint and fractured:
"...If you're hearing this, then I didn't make it out."
Rhea froze. The recording. Luciana's voice — brittle, intimate, alive in a way memory never was.
"I made choices I can't defend," the voice went on. "But if Rhea's still breathing, then maybe there's still something left worth saving. Don't rebuild Corvane. Let it rest."
The line clicked dead. The silence afterward was unbearable.
Rhea lowered the receiver slowly, her throat tight.
Mira stood behind her, saying nothing.
Finally Rhea whispered, "She knew I'd find this."
"She wanted you to stop fighting," Mira said.
Rhea nodded once, eyes glistening. "Then I'll stop. Just… not yet."
That night she packed a small bag — the pistol, the pendant, and the photo Mira had taken of the two of them years ago, laughing in the back of a stolen car.
She left her room key on the counter and stepped out into the fog.
At the edge of town, the road curved toward the coast highway. Trucks rumbled past, heading inland. Rhea waited until one slowed, climbed onto the step, and banged the door. The driver looked down, startled.
"Where you headed?" he asked.
"East," she said. "Anywhere east."
He nodded and pulled her up.
As the truck rolled away, Gavrielle shrank behind them — a blur of dim lights and salt air swallowed by the dawn.
Hours later, when the sun rose over the hills, Rhea took the pendant from her pocket and turned it over in her hand. The Vale insignia caught the light like a scar. She pressed it against the window glass and watched the reflection burn gold.
For the first time since Corvane, she felt the faintest pull of warmth in her chest. Not peace. Not forgiveness.
Just the quiet acceptance of someone who has outlived the story that was supposed to end her.
"Luciana Vale," she said softly, voice barely audible over the hum of the road, "I'll carry what's left of you. But not your fire."
Outside, the landscape opened wide — endless fields, a horizon unscarred by smoke. The road curved toward whatever waited next, and Rhea didn't look back.