Azriel was distraught—
And for good reason.
Who wouldn't be?
He had carried the weight of a title he never asked for.
Hero.
And to keep carrying it meant losing the comfort he had finally begun to taste.
He walked now with a silent yearning—
A desperate hope that his friends were still alive.
The ones who made life feel worth it.
Above him, a distant moon shone brighter than ever.
As if the sky itself pitied the boy too stubborn to break.
But Azriel didn't cry anymore.
He had cried too much.
If he wanted to save anyone…
He had to let go of himself.
He couldn't shed tears for his own pain anymore.
Instead, his grief would become resolve.
His sadness would harden into strength.
He would be the pillar.
Even if no one else stood with him.
With clenched fists, he ran.
Faster than before.
Faster than pain.
Faster than exhaustion.
Emotionally drained.
Physically worn.
But none of that mattered.
He tore through forests like a wild beast—
Crushing branches, kicking up mud, wind howling behind him.
He didn't slow down.
Not for anything.
He flew past the charred remains of villages,
Ashes of homes and people he couldn't save.
Through a hollow city, emptied of life.
And finally—he reached it.
Heiard.
Or what was left of it.
He stopped at its shattered gates.
The city smoldered.
Fire still clung to stone.
Walls collapsed.
Gates broken.
Blackened scars everywhere.
If they fought until the end... what has become of them?
His chest tightened. He reached out, focused—
And summoned Leirza.
To his surprise, the spirit emerged from his palm without any sign of injury.
"What happened?!" Azriel demanded instantly.
Leirza blinked, expression unreadable.
"I don't know. When you died, I felt it. I was pulled into Reflection, same as you. I vanished."
That answer told Azriel something else—
Leirza's life was tied to his own.
"Did you catch a glimpse? Anything?"
Leirza shook his head.
"The last thing I remember was Gio struggling—trying to resist me as I carried him away. Then… nothing."
Azriel clenched his jaw. His concern deepened into dread.
Even Leirza—who saw more than anyone—had no idea what became of them.
Back in Jinah, he had killed only a few hundred.
But there were thousands. He had no clue how far the army had marched.
How much damage they had done since.
He stepped forward.
Into the ruins of Heiard—
Each step heavier than the last.
The city was shattered.
Hope, dim and dying.
Corpses scattered in the rubble—
Faces so disfigured by fire, ash, and magic they were barely human anymore.
He moved in silence through streets that once held laughter, now filled with ghosts.
Their base—once hidden in the wall—was destroyed. Caved in. Rubble everywhere.
Where were they?
He stood in the center of devastation—
Surrounded by echoes, unanswered questions, and the crushing weight of advance grief.
But he didn't stop. He wouldn't stop.
Not until he knew.
Leirza returned to Azriel after scouting half the city.
His expression was unreadable.
"I have found four resistance members," he said quietly.
"No sign of Gio or Lysara."
Azriel's heart skipped.
But then—he smiled.
They were alive. At least some of them were.
"Take me to them," he said, almost gleefully.
Leirza gave a small nod.
They walked through smoke-stained streets, past broken stones and the stench of ash, until they reached what remained of an alley hidden behind fallen walls.
Then Azriel froze.
"What?!"
His voice cracked.
His world spun into numbness.
The sight before him felt like drowning in dry air.
Leirza had said he found them—
He just hadn't said they were alive.
Thorne.
Veyra.
Dalaen.
Thorne had protected the others to the very end—his body a canvas of stab wounds, arms still locked in a defensive stance.
Veyra—gentle, radiant—her ankle clearly dislocated, a blade still embedded in her skull.
Dalaen…
He didn't even have a head.
Just his robes and the tattered book he carried like a sacred limb.
Azriel stumbled forward, knees shaking, breath short.
Then Leirza spoke again, softer this time.
"Master… I found two more."
Azriel turned slowly.
Iro.
Corren.
They had never been built for battle. They were the support—brains and light in the dark.
But the dark had swallowed them, too.
They hadn't stood a chance.
Azriel's fists trembled. He wanted to scream, to collapse, to bring them all back with his bare hands if he could.
Instead, he turned to Leirza—eyes wide, lips trembling.
"Is that… all?"
His voice fractured like glass.
Leirza paused.
"Yes."
That was the final blow.
Azriel dropped to his knees—
Silent.
Still.
Tears welled behind his eyes, but none fell. His grief had reached a point where even weeping felt too generous.
He clenched the dirt with shaking fingers.
If only I had been stronger.
If only I had stayed alive just a little longer.
If only…
The sight before him shattered something inside Azriel—
Not in a way that wounds or pain could explain,
But in a way that killed something quietly, permanently.
A part of him that would never come back.
This was a death even he couldn't resurrect from.
Because death wasn't inevitable for him.
But for everyone else?
It was reality.
And then—
A sudden sound.
A faint, static crackle.
The Whisperspike.
It came from Corren's satchel, half-buried beneath rubble.
Azriel blinked. It was a third spike—
But why would Corren have carried a third?
Then, the static cleared, and a voice spoke through it—
Soft. Familiar.
"The rest of us are east of Riome.
We're planning to find the remnants of the army."
"The two of us ran to a village... we don't know the name yet.
But we're hoping to find Azriel when he resurrects."
Azriel stared at it.
His breath caught in his throat.
They broke off… after the others died.
They're still alive.
They're looking for me…
I'm already here... he whispered, trying to respond.
He clutched the Whisperspike with shaking hands—
But before he could speak—
It sparked once—
And broke.
The silence returned. But it wasn't as heavy now.
Not completely.
It was reassurance.
A spark in the cold.
Gio. Lysara. Remaining Members.
They were out there.
And they were waiting for him.
He looked down one last time at the lifeless forms of his fallen friends.
The sky began to lighten.
Dawn broke—
Soft golden light stretching across the ruins.
Azriel rolled up his sleeves.
He picked up a shovel with the same hands
he had once used
to bury his parents.
One by one,
he gave his friends a resting place of honor.
No words.
Only silence, and the weight of love.
When the last grave was marked,
he stood.
Not as a boy.
Not as a symbol.
Not even as a hero.
But as Azriel.
And then—he set off.
East. Toward Riome.
Toward the flickering hope
that not everyone was lost.
Azriel carried the broken Whisperspike in his satchel—
A fractured lifeline, maybe useless…
But to him, it was a thread of hope.
And that was stronger than grief now.
He walked alongside Leirza, the strange shard-born companion who had never left his side.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—
It was simply... different.
Azriel took a longer look at Leirza now.
He wasn't human.
Didn't laugh. Didn't cry.
He spoke in a flat, deliberate tone like a machine.
But in a world where everything had died,
even a machine made of glass and magic felt like comfort.
Eventually, Azriel broke the silence.
"Hey… when I inherit something from Reflection…
Does it affect you too?"
Leirza glanced at him with expressionless eyes.
"Yes. I gain the powers you gain. Our link is mutual."
Azriel paused. That made him think.
"So… can you use magic?"
Leirza held up his hand.
A thin layer of frost coiled around his palm, forming into a replica of Azriel's ice sword.
Then, with a flick, he released an elegant wave of ice—
clean, cold, and precise.
Azriel's eyes widened.
"Whoa... that's not just mimicry."
"You can use magic. That means you're not just a copy of me."
He blinked, then looked down at his own empty hands.
Wait… my sword...
He turned sharply to Leirza.
"What happened to my sword?!
I died with it! I thought it would've been lost… or swallowed… or—stolen!"
Leirza extended his arm, and from the glassy surface of it,
the original sword emerged—crafted seamlessly from within him, as if it had been resting there all along.
"I can tell what you're thinking, Master."
"This is the original."
Azriel took it in his hands, disbelieving.
He turned it over—scratches, the weight, even the faint heat on the grip.
Frenel's sword.
The one passed down to him with blood and love.
He stared at Leirza, stunned.
"But... how did you get it?"
Leirza's gaze remained steady.
"There's a detail I never told you.
When you died and returned to Reflection…
I absorbed everything you carried.
Your sword. Your clothes.
Your memories—some, not all."
He reached out his other arm, morphing it briefly into Azriel's worn old coat.
"These are all original."
Azriel's throat tightened.
His grip on the sword weakened—not from doubt, but from emotion.
Without a word, he stepped forward and hugged Leirza.
Even if Leirza didn't know how to hug back.
Even if he didn't care or understand.
Still, Azriel whispered into the silence between them.
"...Thank you."
Because the sword wasn't just steel.
It was Frenel's legacy.
The proof that someone once believed in him
when no one else did.
He pulled away, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.
"We'll find someone to fix the Whisperspike."
"And we'll find Gio. And Lysara. And the others."
Leirza didn't respond.
But his steps fell beside Azriel's like a shadow that chose to stay.
And together, they walked east—
toward Riome, toward war,
toward whatever came next.
But now, Azriel walked with a sword that remembered his past—
And a companion who, despite being made of glass and reflection,
was becoming something far more than just a shard of him.
He was becoming a friend.