The stars did not speak on the return to Rygartha.
No firestorms. No declarations. Only silence.
They landed in the Front Courtyard in silence—Qaritas, Ayla, Cree, Hydeius, Komus, Niraí, and Daviyi—each trailing light like ghosts trying to remember warmth. The amphitheater accepted their weight without question, its grass a soft carpet of velvet memories. Trees rustled, leaves shifting between colors like emotions too old for names. The sky above arched black and deep—stars blinking not in rhythm, but in thought.
Rygartha was never just a place.
It was the question that came after pain: Now what?
The other Ascendants said nothing as they dispersed, their footsteps too soundless, too careful. Not out of disrespect.
Out of guilt.
Except two.
Rlaucus, the Ascendant of the Abyss, and Najen, the Ascendant of Death, approached like inevitability wrapped in humor and shadow.
Najen clicked his tongue as he surveyed the group. "What a mess," he said cheerfully. "I hope the Rite comes with an insurance plan."
Najen's grin held—but wavered, just a hair. Not enough to break the room. Just enough to prove he still bled somewhere beneath the jokes.
"We joked through every war, remember?" he said softly, mostly to Cree. "Because if we didn't laugh... we'd be what they made us."
Rlaucus's gaze dropped to the ground—unblinking. But his voice, when it came, didn't echo like judgment. It folded. "We were supposed to be more than weapons."
Najen reached for his partner's hand. Brief. Barely there. "Still time."
Rlaucus's mouth didn't move, but something behind his eyes recoiled—like he was remembering a version of himself that had once been soft.
Then Rlaucus's voice cut the air: smooth, abyssal. "The Rite will not save us from what Hrolyn buried."
Silence.
Then Najen chuckled. "Well, someone has to acknowledge the trauma elephant in the room."
Cree's voice barely surfaced. "You're right. We should've told you. We should've..."
They looked up at Rlaucus and Najen, eyes rimmed in blue flame.
"It wasn't just anger. Or grief. It was shame. Shame that we let him do it to us again. That we let it happen to them."
Daviyi added, voice a cracked whisper: "We told ourselves we were protecting others. But really... we just didn't want to admit we were broken."
Rlaucus looked between Cree, Hydeius, and Daviyi. "Especially you three. You're part of the Primarch Ten. We should have been informed. About Ecayrous. About what Hrolyn did."
Najen raised a hand lazily. "What's done is done."
Rlaucus's voice dropped to a whisper. "Najen."
Cree's voice cracked—but not from weakness. "We were angry. And relieved. And hurt. Hrolyn lied. Again. We were the loyal ones, and he used us. No different than Eon."
Daviyi's silence trembled like paper held too close to flame.
Hydeius nodded slowly. "He wiped our memories. Gave our children to Eon. Said it was mercy."
Cree stared at Qaritas, voice steady. "You were right. We were cowards. But not because we chose survival. Because we let him chain our worth to his approval."
"We were the Primarch Ten," Hydeius said softly. "The blueprint. And he used us like satirical lambs. Meant to die. Over and over again."
Qaritas didn't interrupt.
But Ayla did.
Her voice didn't scold—it held.
"No one here is to blame. Except Eon. And Hrolyn. You all survived what should've killed you—and you should never be ashamed of surviving. Each of us was hurt differently. But we're here. And Cree—without you, none of the others would have made it. Including me."
She stepped forward and hugged them.
Qaritas didn't move. But something in him cracked—small, quiet. Not pain. Not vindication. Just the echo of a boy who once begged to be seen.
Qaritas didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Daviyi reached out—just a hand, resting lightly on his shoulder. "This time," she said, voice steady, "we stand with you. No more silence. No more blind loyalty."
For a breath, something old loosened inside him. Not pain. Not hope. Space.
"I wasn't ready before," Ayla said, hand resting on the box at her side. "But now I am."
"I will help you kill Eirisa. Again."
Cree didn't speak. Just burned softly, like a vow returned.
Najen clapped. "Well. On that note—time for gifts and ominous equipment!"
He turned. "Follow us. We're taking you to our room."
Qaritas blinked. "Your... room?"
________________________________________
Later, once the hallways stopped echoing with ghostlight and side-eyes.
They followed.
The hallway shimmered—lit by dreamlight that pulsed like a heartbeat in sleep. The air was cooler here, kissed by the chill of old secrets. A faint hum drifted from the glowing doors, like lullabies sung backward. Qaritas's steps made no sound—but he felt pressure in the floor, like something beneath remembered him.
Each door whispered like a god asleep. Each symbol was a lie remembered.
But it was the final door—a mist-thickened veil with a bleeding skull etched into it—that stopped Qaritas cold.
Najen waved a hand through the mist.
The mist parted, and the air shifted—colder, denser, thick with the metallic scent of iron and something more intimate: candlewax and blood warmed by memory. The room opened like a cathedral made from shadows—every stained-glass panel a sin immortalized in color. Light slanted down in beams that didn't touch the floor. The bed was a contradiction: reverent and feral, skulls polished to a mirror sheen, the chains coiled like serpents waiting for their name.
Qaritas froze. "Why... do you have chains on the bed?"
Ayla immediately covered his mouth with her hand.
"We don't ask those questions," she said telepathically.
Najen grinned. "Someone likes to be chained up."
Rlaucus said flatly, "They make things more... intense."
Komus screamed. "WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW."
Najen winked. "Prudes."
Then he walked over to Hydeius, pulling out two small vials—one blue, one silver.
"These are soul pills. Blue for when you have too many souls and they're fighting. Silver for when you're running low."
Hydeius blinked. "Thank you."
Najen beamed. "Gotta take care of my brother-in-law."
Qaritas blinked, his brain lurching like a misfired engine. "Wait—what?"
Najen spun in place and threw up jazz hands. "Surprise! Cree's my twin. We shared a womb and some very awkward teenage years."
Qaritas looked at Cree. "You have a brother? Are you... male? Female?"
Cree laughed—loud and whole.
"I don't have an assigned gender. I'm Rebirth. I take all forms. I am all forms."
Hydeius added, "Ascendants can change genders freely. Most choose a form eventually. It's... easier, especially if we want to raise children."
Qaritas didn't respond aloud. But something shifted behind his ribs—a slow, measured acknowledgment of how little he still understood. Not just about Cree, but about all of them.
They were fluid in ways he had never been allowed to be. Unshaped by rules he'd once thought were universal.
Not confusion. Not judgment. Just... gravity.
Cree was Rebirth. And he—Qaritas—was still becoming.
He lowered his eyes briefly, not out of shame, but reverence. A quiet thought slid through his mind like a ribbon through fire:
Maybe someday I'll be more than what they made, too.
________________________________________
Then Rlaucus stepped forward.
He held out a small box of skin-colored bracelets—simple bands, matte-black until they touched skin, then vanishing.
"Put them on. They erase your presence from any Fragment of Eon. As far as they're concerned, you never existed."
Ayla narrowed her eyes. "You had these the whole time?"
Rlaucus said nothing. Najen just smirked. "Some secrets are sweeter when saved."
Then Najen pulled open a massive obsidian chest.
Inside: gear. Undergarments, light armor, skin-adhered plating woven from Abyss-fiber and Dreamthread.
"It won't prevent pain," Najen explained, "but it will prevent death. I've been working on it for a while. You're welcome."
Qaritas took a breath.
His body hurt—burned with the curse, throbbed with Becoming. He couldn't tell where his bones ended and his fire began.
But he nodded.
"Thank you."
Najen tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he studied Qaritas like a healer appraising a cracked relic.
"Hold up," he muttered. "You're twitching like someone poured stardust into your veins and dared it to simmer. That's curseflare. One wrong breath and your nervous system's gonna try to teach you geometry through agony."
Qaritas blinked. "Thanks. I needed that image."
Najen didn't respond—he was already digging through a drawer built into the side of the obsidian chest. It let out a soft click, followed by a low hum like something inside resented being disturbed.
"Ah-ha!" Najen grinned, holding up a small black jar, sealed with a twist of silver wire and a sigil that blinked once, then vanished. He unscrewed the top, and a faint glow pulsed out—lavender and dark red. The smell was sharp, almost metallic, with an undertone of crushed lilac and something electric.
"This," Najen announced, "is Rrel'stran balm."
He wiggled his eyebrows. "Originally designed to suppress Skotosar mutations in prisoners. I improved the recipe. Added soul-stabilizers, grief dampeners, and a tiny bit of Abyss venom for... texture."
Cree gave him a look. "Please stop describing medicine like it's a cursed cocktail."
Najen grinned wider. "But it is cursed. That's what makes it work."
He dipped two fingers in the jar and scooped out a shimmer of the balm—thick as molten pearl, slightly vibrating. He turned to Qaritas, pausing just long enough to check for permission.
"Neck and spine first. It'll sting—but then it'll numb. Not the good kind of numb. The kind that means your fire stops trying to chew through your spine."
Qaritas gave a small nod and rolled his shoulders forward. Ayla moved aside instinctively, then hovered—close, protective, but giving space.
Najen's fingers touched his skin.
The curse pulsed instantly in protest—violet lines spidering across Qaritas's shoulder blades, glowing briefly like a warning flare.
But Najen didn't flinch.
Instead, he whispered something under his breath—a language Qaritas didn't understand, old and harsh and soft all at once. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a joke. Maybe both.
The balm hissed as it met the curse-light. Qaritas jolted, his breath catching—but didn't cry out.
The pain bloomed sharp, then dulled, spreading down his spine like silence uncoiling. The pressure in his chest loosened—not entirely, but enough that he could breathe again.
"…Stars," Qaritas exhaled. "That's... better."
Najen sealed the jar and handed it to Ayla. "One application every few hours. He won't like it. That means it's working. If he starts seeing visions of melted clocks, cut back. If he starts humming languages he doesn't speak, double the dose."
Komus stared at him. "How do you know this stuff?"
Najen shrugged. "You try dying a few times with your spinal column on fire, you pick up hobbies."
Rlaucus added, almost quietly, "He kept a lot of us functional. Especially during the Second Fracture."
Hydeius gave a soft hum of agreement.
Cree looked over at Najen, something older in their gaze now. "You always did carry more than anyone thought."
Najen turned away from the praise, tossing a soul-pill in his mouth like it was candy. "Please. I'm Death. It's my job to keep you all from rushing the line."
A soft chime echoed through the chamber—three low notes, flat and distant, like someone plucking a string in a locked room.
Rlaucus frowned and turned toward the far wall, where a strip of darkness peeled itself open—revealing a rift of slow-moving black smoke threaded with white veins.
"Time's up," he said. "The Writhe needs purging."
Cree raised an eyebrow. "You keep your trauma in a room that needs to be purged?"
Najen grinned. "Don't we all?"
Daviyi tilted her head. "Why does it chime?"
"Because the longer we ignore it," Najen said lightly, "the stronger it gets."
Ayla stepped forward. "Is it... alive?"
Rlaucus gave a single nod. "Of course. All memory is. Especially the parts we seal away."
Komus took a step back. "I hate this room."
Najen flapped a hand. "Anyway, ritual's timed. Very dramatic, very sacred, very inconvenient. We have to do it alone." He looked to Cree, then Qaritas. "The rest of you—out."
Daviyi narrowed her eyes. "You sure you're okay to—"
Najen cut her off with a smile too wide and a wink too fast. "Please. We're professionals. We only almost die once a week now."
Rlaucus had already begun drawing a symbol in the air—serrated, fluid, somehow sharp.
The air thickened.
Hydeius put a hand on Cree's shoulder, gently steering them toward the door. "Come on. Let the weird couples do their weird magic."
Cree grinned but didn't disagree.
As they stepped through the misted threshold, Ayla turned back once—just long enough to see Najen place his hand over Rlaucus's, guiding the sigil with a tenderness that made the air ache.
For a moment, they looked like what they could have been: not soldiers, not icons. Just two people trying to keep the darkness from spreading.
Then the mist closed.
And they were gone.