They stepped into a hallway that felt older than the light within it.
The air shifted behind them—sharp and final—as the veil sealed. Whatever Najen and Rlaucus were about to do in that room was not meant for others to witness. Not anymore.
For a moment, no one spoke. Not out of discomfort—but respect. Some silences are earned.
Then Hydeius muttered, "And I thought my room was dramatic."
That broke the stillness.
A small laugh escaped from Cree—just a breath. Ayla exhaled slowly. Komus stretched his neck like he'd been holding tension too long. Daviyi said nothing, but her fingers curled inward like she was counting seconds she hadn't earned.
They didn't need direction. Their feet already knew the way.
Back down the winding halls of Rygartha, dreamlit and memory-lined. Past the statues that whispered riddles. Past the mural of the world that could have been. Through the heavy doors carved with timelines no longer true.
Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck once—not for time, but for reckoning.
Qaritas walked in silence. The balm still tingled under his skin, cooling the edges of the curse. Not gone. Never gone. But... quieter. Bearable.
He noticed Ayla still carried the jar like a relic, held tight to her chest with both hands. As if it might evaporate if she looked away.
He didn't comment.
They reached the Heartbridge—where the winged statues stood vigil. The part of the palace that chose who was allowed to rest.
As if sensing them, the walls trembled gently. Then opened.
Light spilled through. Gentle. Golden. Like the warmth of an old friend returning.
One by one, they stepped into the glow. Doors appeared where none had been—each etched with a symbol only the intended bearer would recognize. A fractal. A sigil. A memory.
Cree looked over their shoulder. "We meet in eight hours?"
"Seven," Daviyi corrected. "Mrajeareim bends slower. The longer we wait, the more chance it unravels."
"Lovely," Komus muttered. "Nothing says restful sleep like impending entropy."
Cree grinned faintly. "Try to dream of something that doesn't kill you."
Hydeius shrugged. "That narrows it down."
They began to split. No ceremony. No grand farewell.
Just the soft gravity of needing a moment alone. Of needing to choose how to spend the last hours of peace.
As Ayla and Qaritas reached their door, it pulsed once—recognizing them both. Not as soldiers. Not as weapons. As something more dangerous.
As witnesses.
Ayla touched the door's edge as it opened, but didn't step through immediately. She looked back once—at the others, at the fading warmth of shared breath and quiet promise. Komus was already gone. Hydeius lingered only a second longer, then disappeared into a door etched with the broken helix of his first death. Niraí traced the frame of hers like it was a lover's jaw before vanishing.
Cree met Ayla's eyes—just a glance, but it carried the weight of all they hadn't said. Not everything could be spoken aloud. Not anymore. They nodded once and turned away, flame dimming as they passed into their own quiet.
Daviyi stood a little longer, staring at nothing in particular. Or maybe everything. "Tomorrow," she whispered, mostly to herself. Then she followed the echo of her own footsteps.
Silence settled like ash. Soft. Final.
Ayla finally crossed the threshold with Qaritas at her side. The door pulsed closed behind them—not with a click, but a sigh. As if the room, too, understood what was coming.
Twenty-eight gods had watched him burn. Now, twenty-eight sent offerings. Some from duty. Some from guilt. A few from belief.
Packing wasn't just armor and soul pills. It was folding old pain into quieter corners. It was deciding which memories to wear, and which to leave buried—at least for now.
Each of them returned to their personal chambers.
There, beside their beds or armor stands or scrying pools—gifts. From the others.
Each gift arrived not with a knock, but a soft shift in air—like the room had briefly remembered another version of itself. Magic curled off the edges of wrapping paper. Some hummed. Some shivered. One smelled like an extinct flower Qaritas couldn't name.
Each item had a note.
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From Jrin, Ascendant of Order: A silver compass that only works in chaos. "Because you'll need direction when even gods forget the way."
From Senyn, Ascendant of Harmony: A small harp with three strings. "Pluck it once to find peace. Twice to find someone who's lost it." From Yonzei, Instinct: A wrapped claw-talisman. "In case thinking fails. Trust your breath." Zyoku, Gravity: Boots laced with stardust. "To anchor you when even time turns on you."
Erivyane, Dark Energy: A whisper-threaded cloak. "It absorbs light—and secrets."
Ræzun, Infinity: A charm shaped like a Möbius strip. "You are never out of time. You just have to twist it right."
Skersaus, Memory: A vial of golden mist. "Breathe it when you forget who you are."
Tyalithe, Truth: A mirror that only shows your soul. "To remind you: lies die, but you don't have to."
Isaeus, Potential: A seed. "Plant this in despair. Something will grow."
Nysaeon, Dimensions: For Niraí, a multiversal knife. For Komus, nothing. Just a note: "I still hate you."
Orhaiah, Law: A floating scale fragment. "It will balance only when you're honest. Use it wisely."
Irteia, Dreams: A dreamcatcher woven with silver threads. "Hang it on your heart."
Elios, Sleep: A black satin mask. "Not for rest—for memory."
Xriana, Fate: A thread-bound ribbon. "Tie it around a weapon to know its end."
Tysesh, Mind: A small pendant. "It will protect your mind from mental attacks."
Kelene, Matter: A set of reshaping armor. "Form reflects will. Shape it well."
Oreian, Planets: A stone carved from gravity well. "Drop it. Watch the universe flinch."
Lsori, Sound: An earpiece. "It lets you hear lies. Even your own."
Ona'Sha, Resonance: A vial of harmonized blood. "Drink it before you fall apart."
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Qaritas folded the gear carefully—then winced.
The lining burned faintly against his palm. Not heat—memory. For a moment, light fractured through his skin, curling into shapes that resembled script but never settled long enough to read. His arm trembled. The curse flared—brief and bright—and his mouth tasted like ash and starlight.
A thought not his own whispered through the fracture: *You were never meant to survive this.*
He exhaled hard, blinking the fire out of his vision.
Packed with flame. Holding steady. Just barely.
Across the hall, Niraí stared at her gift in silence. The blade shimmered through dimensions—daring her to cut open something old. Komus read his empty note from Nysaeon and didn't blink.
He folded the blank paper and tucked it into his sleeve—like it, too, deserved remembering.
But his hand lingered on the edge of the paper—just long enough for guilt to pretend it was grief.
Each of them read in silence.
Then they packed.
________________________________
He didn't look up. Her presence answered the question first.
Armor. Notes. Soul pills. Threads of memory and regret.
He watched them move through the halls—Ayla folding her armor with methodical care, Komus sharpening something that might've once been a prayer, Cree tracing each gift like it might vanish. And for a moment, Qaritas realized: none of them were preparing for war. They were preparing for memory.
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That night, when silence had curled itself around every room in Rygartha
Qaritas sat at the edge of his bed, the pain rising again in his bones. The curse still pulsed—alive, wanting.
A soft knock at the door. Ayla entered without waiting.