The stone walls of the Order's barracks stood silent around them, their quiet nothing like the watchful silence of the Archive or the sacred hush of the Church. Here, the world had fallen away. Just still air, a single candle flickering, and warmth beneath worn blankets.
Koda lay on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting against Maia's back. Their legs tangled lazily, the soft touch of skin grounding them in a moment that, for once, asked nothing.
Her breath moved slowly, sleep just out of reach. Koda watched the lines of her face, the way the firelight softened her edges but never dulled them.
"Maia," he said quietly, voice barely more than a thought.
She opened her eyes, the soft blue of them catching the flame.
He hesitated, then asked, "Your healing… I know how it looks. I've seen what it does. But what does it feel like? What is it, really? Sanctuary of the Heart—it's more than power."
She was quiet a moment, but not closed. Just gathering words like pebbles from a riverbed, worn smooth with use.
"It's… not mine, really," she said. "It never felt like something I learned. It was something I remembered. Like I'd always known it, but only when I needed it most did it show itself."
Her fingers idly traced a small scar just under his collarbone.
"When I first used it, it wasn't even to save someone. It was to hold someone. A child. During the attack on the orphanage. You saw, we were helpless, nothing I could do could help the boy. But I wanted—no, I needed—to be enough. And in that moment… I felt it open."
Koda watched her, silent.
"The Sanctuary isn't a place. It's a truth. That if someone's soul is still tethered, if their will isn't broken, they can find safety in another heart. Not forever. But long enough. A breath between life and death."
She swallowed, voice steady but honest. "Sometimes it burns. When I take their pain into me. It hurts, Koda. But it's never cruel. Never empty."
He shifted closer, his forehead brushing hers. "And what does it mean to you?"
She blinked at him, and for a second the healer was gone, and only Maia remained—flawed, tired, beautiful.
"It means I'm still here," she said, simply. "That something in me stayed soft, when it could've hardened. It means… I haven't given up on the idea that we can hold each other through the worst of it."
He took that in with a slow breath.
"I want to understand it," he said. "Not just how it works. I want to know it the way you know it. If I'm going to carry more than power, if I'm going to understand others… I want to start with you."
Her eyes softened, lids heavy now. "You already do," she whispered. "But I'll show you everything I can. As long as we don't forget what we're fighting for, not just what we're fighting against."
They stayed that way, the candle burning low. No need for vows. No need for declarations.
Only the warm touch of a lovers embrace, truth wrapped in silence, and the smallest sanctuary—one heart willing to hold another.
Koda waited until Maia's breathing slowed into that familiar rhythm—deep, even, unguarded. The kind of sleep only found in safety, the kind she rarely allowed herself. He didn't move right away. Just watched her, her body relaxed, one hand curled under her chin, strands of pale hair caught against her lips.
Only when he was sure she had drifted beyond dreams did he slowly pull himself upright. The sheets fell from his chest, warmth fading slightly in the night-chilled air, but his mind was elsewhere. Focused.
Sanctuary of the Heart.
He'd heard the name a dozen times. He'd watched it work, felt its effect settle in him like a soft hand on a wound. But tonight, for the first time, he carried the right to reach for it himself.
He closed his eyes, Kindness answering the quiet pull of his intent. Not forceful. Not demanding. A slow tide rising.
He thought of how Maia had described it—not as power, but as memory, as need. The place beyond technique where compassion made itself real.
He pictured the moments he had received it. That warmth that didn't come from heat, but from presence. The way it unraveled the sharpest threads of pain and stilled the heart just enough to breathe again.
Then he reached further. Tried to imagine her experience. The ache of taking in someone else's suffering. The steady core it required to hold them without breaking yourself.
And something shifted.
It was like stepping into another room within himself—one he had never opened. A space both familiar and foreign. There was no incantation, no sigil, only intent. Only feeling.
And then it came.
Not the full Sanctuary—that still belonged to Maia. But a shard of it. A quiet spell, gentle and soft-edged, wreathed in her tone. A magic meant not to heal, but to comfort.
He looked down at her again.
Koda placed his hand lightly near her heart—not to wake her, not to disturb—but to let the magic pass through him and over her.
A spell of rest. Of peace.
He watched the way her brow eased, the subtle shift in her breath as the tension left her bones completely. Not forced, not commanded. Merely invited.
It was nothing like any ability he'd ever used. It didn't feel like him. It felt… borrowed, yet not stolen.
Kindness had no edges. No recoil. It flowed through him like water over open palms. And yet it left behind something solid—a trace of understanding that had not been there before.
He smiled faintly. The kind of smile no one else would see. Then lay back down beside her, the spell still warm in his chest, and let sleep take him with a mind quiet for the first time in what felt like years.
———
The mess hall was quiet this early. Morning light filtered through narrow windows, pooling in strips across long stone tables. The Order's presence lingered in the discipline of the space—clean, spare, useful—but there was comfort in that, too. No distractions. Just the shape of the day ahead.
Koda stood near one of the tables, armor absent—condensed into the pendant that hung just under his collarbone. He rolled it between his fingers as the others trickled in from their rooms.
Maia was first, a warm smile passing between them as she slid into a seat beside him, her presence effortless and grounding.
Terron arrived next, his hammer slung across his back like it had always been there. He dropped into a seat with the comfortable weight of someone who didn't need to make noise to take up space. "Mess hall's empty," he muttered. "Either we're early or we're the only ones with guts to eat Order food before noon."
"Or maybe you're just hungry again," Koda said dryly.
Terron grinned, eyes glinting with the kind of humor that always felt like a dare. "Maybe. You don't lift a warhammer on hope and salad."
Thessa entered silently behind him, every movement precise. She took a seat at the end of the table, hands folded, posture straight. She didn't speak, but her eyes flicked to Koda, waiting.
Junen followed a moment later, her expression unreadable. She chose a chair with its back to the wall and her eyes on the room—a subtle but practiced choice. Her fingers brushed over the edge of the table, once. Always aware. Always shielding.
Wren slipped in with barely a breath of sound, seating herself beside Thessa with a quiet nod. Her eyes scanned the room like it was a battlefield waiting to form—controlled, contained, deliberate.
Deker tumbled in last, balancing a small glass vial in one hand and a half-melted piece of metal in the other. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he chirped, half to them, half to the alchemy accident probably still cooling in his room. "No fires today! Except the good ones."
He flopped into a chair across from Koda and leaned forward. "So. Big speech? New plan? Cool death-defying mission?"
Koda shook his head slightly but smiled. "We leave tomorrow. The Order's tracking sightings related to Lust—trying to map patterns. While they work, we rest. But I need something from you all today."
They looked at him. No one interrupted. That alone was an answer.
"I'm getting stronger. Not just from battle. From understanding. 'Kindness'—it's a trait I gained recently. It lets me borrow power—not by stealing it, but by knowing what it means to someone. Their beliefs. Their truths."
He looked to each of them in turn. "I want to understand yours. Not just to use your strength… but because I need to. If I'm going to stand with you again against Wrath—against anything that comes after—I have to know more than your stats. I need to know you."
Terron raised an eyebrow. "You want a damn group therapy session?"
"If that's what it takes," Koda said without flinching.
Deker looked delighted. "Can mine be about explosive gel? It's not technically magic, but it makes me feel really alive."
"Yours will be a full-day lecture," Wren muttered, half to herself.
Thessa finally spoke, her voice calm and low. "Understanding power is close to sacred. If you seek to know ours, you must be ready to carry the weight it's built from."
"I am," Koda said.
Junen didn't say anything, but she nodded once. That was enough.
Wren folded her hands. "Then let's do it right. One by one. Focused. No overlapping voices. No interruptions. You listen. We share, if we choose to."
Koda gave her a grateful look. "Exactly that."
Silence stretched for a breath. Then Maia laid her hand lightly over his.
"We'll start with me," she said.
Maia sat close beside Koda, their shoulders nearly touching. The mess hall had quieted further, the rest of the party respectfully still. Her fingers, warm and steady, rested on the table beside his, but she didn't look at him when she began to speak. She looked ahead—like she was watching the memory form again in front of her.
"You asked last night about how Sanctuary feels. About what it meant to me." Her voice was soft, but it carried. "I've been thinking more about it since then. About that moment I awakened it… and what came after."
She took a breath, her brow creasing slightly—not with pain, but with the weight of remembrance.
"It didn't come from power. Not at first. It came from helplessness."
Her eyes flicked to Koda now, not shying away. "The first time Sanctuary awakened, I wasn't trying to be strong. I wasn't thinking about protection, or healing, or even fighting. I just… couldn't let them break. I was watching someone I loved fall apart. I felt their grief and fear clawing at the edge of everything. And in that moment, something inside me just said—not here. Not in my presence. Not while I'm still breathing."
She paused, swallowing. "It felt like the world pulled back, just a little. Like a circle was drawn around us that pain couldn't cross. And it wasn't me doing it—not really. It was something that happened because I meant it with everything I had."
Koda listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable but open. Focused.
"Later," she continued, "when it evolved… that moment was different. It wasn't a reflex. It was a choice. That was the first time I used it knowing what it was."
Her hand curled slightly on the table.
"It became Sanctuary of the Heart when I used it not just to protect, but to connect, to understand. I could feel your pain—not just shield it, but share it. Hold it, even if only for a moment. That was what changed it. It became more than a barrier. It became a vow."
She finally turned her body toward him. "It's not just a spell. It's an answer. When someone's world is collapsing, and they believe no one can hold them—Sanctuary says, 'I can. I will. And I'll still be here after the storm.'"
The quiet that followed was total. Even Deker, normally fidgeting or humming, was still.
Koda's eyes didn't leave hers.
He nodded once, slowly.
And then, in silence, he let the memory of her words settle within him—not agreement, but understanding.
Kindness stirred.
And the spell she described—a circle drawn against despair, a promise made with presence—took faint, gentle shape within him.
Koda closed his eyes.
He didn't reach with force or incantation, but with memory—her memory. The warmth of her voice, the steadiness in her hands, the quiet ferocity in the way she stood between pain and those she loved.
He thought of the space she created in the midst of chaos. The way Sanctuary didn't silence suffering, but cradled it. How it didn't resist sorrow—it held it with understanding. And in that reflection, he called forward Sanctuary of the Heart.
A gentle ring pulsed out from where he sat. No flash of magic. No rush of sound. Just a deep, radiant stillness that seemed to settle over the room like the hush before dawn.
The system flared quietly to life before him.
Sanctuary of the Heart.
Exist Soul Bond detected.
Reciprocating Effects:
– Permanent Damage Reduction for your bonded.
– Drastically Increased Healing Affinity for your bonded.
– Soul Link Formed. If one perishes, the other follows. A life together, even in death.
Light—not blinding, not showy—wove gently between them like threads of gold. It wrapped once around Maia's wrist, once around Koda's, before fading into the skin.
Maia exhaled sharply—not in pain, but from the sudden swell of something sacred. Her eyes met his, wide and unguarded.
"…You felt it too," she said.
Koda nodded, quietly. "It's not just yours anymore. But it's not mine either."
They sat together in that light, no words needed.
Two lives, distinct, but now undeniably intertwined. Not through power. Not through fate.
Through choice.
And in that moment, the loop was complete. Sanctuary no longer belonged to one soul.
It belonged to both.
The divine light faded, but the weight of it lingered.
No one spoke at first. No spectacle remained, but they'd felt it. That kind of connection didn't need fanfare.
Deker, uncharacteristically still, muttered something under his breath.
Even Wren looked up from the notes she'd been pretending to study, eyes narrowed, thoughts clearly spinning. Thessa's hands had stilled from their usual meditative gestures. Junen blinked slowly, a quiet awe behind the usual veil of silence.
It was Terron who finally shattered the quiet, leaning back in his chair and stretching with a groan.
"Well," he said, voice gruff but amused, "guess the rest of us gotta step up our drama game. Maybe toss a lightning bolt or two. Or have a divine awakening mid-meal. That's still on the table, right?"
Maia let out a quiet laugh. Even Koda smiled.
Terron gestured toward Koda with his mug. "That was beautiful. No joke. But also terrifying. I'm just sayin'—if anyone does go full god-mode at breakfast, warn me first. I nearly choked on this bland-ass porridge."
The tension broke, just enough. The air warmed again. And with a more serious tone, Terron sat forward and tapped his chest.
"My trait's simple," he said. "Strength. Big, dumb, heavy strength. Lets me toss the hammer around like it's a kid's toy, even after it gets charged up."
He cracked his neck, then smirked. "Problem is, it doesn't make me tire less. Just lets me hit harder before I drop. So I try not to drop."
He paused, glancing at Koda. "Don't think I've told anyone that directly. Figured you'd see it eventually. But if you're gonna know us—really know us—then hell, I guess this is how it starts."
There was something unspoken in the way he said it. Not fear. Not pride. Just… honesty.
And one by one, the others began to shift. Quietly preparing themselves to speak.
To be known.
Koda watched Terron for a moment longer after he finished speaking, his easy grin doing little to mask the truth in his words. Beneath the humor, the bravado, was a kind of silent endurance. Not just physical. Something deeper.
He carries more than his weapon, Koda thought.
He closed his eyes, letting the memory of Terron's presence on the battlefield come forward—each swing of that enormous hammer, the way it arced and returned like a thing alive, the sheer gravitational pull of the man in combat. Force incarnate. Brutal, relentless, dependable.
Koda reached gently into that memory, not to steal, not to own—but to understand.
He let Kindness open.
The trait reached out with a subtle grace, tethering not to the hammer's strength but to Terron's will behind it. And then, like a soft echo through his limbs, Koda felt it.
Power surged through him. Not chaotic or sharp, but solid. Weighty. A subtle rearrangement of his body's limits. His already vast strength shifted upward—maybe twenty percent more. Small on paper. But with his stats, it was enough to cleave a street in half or shatter walls without trying.
He bent slightly and picked up the table one-handed.
A simple act. One he could do before the increase in strength.
Yet even there, he felt it—that slight catch, that increase in drag against his stamina. Not unsustainable. But real. A balance, like Terron himself.
Koda set the table down and looked out at him.
"That's incredible," he said, sincerely. "It feels… exact. Heavy. Grounded. But not free. You weren't exaggerating about the cost."
Terron shrugged. "That's life, ain't it? Nothing hits like something you earned. Glad you got a taste of it."
Koda smiled and nodded. "Thank you."
Terron just raised his mug again. "Don't break anything important."
Koda glanced at the stone table.
"No promises."
That got a snort out of Junen.
And now the others watched him with a new kind of curiosity—no longer asking if Koda could understand them, but wondering what parts of them he might carry.
Terron leaned back in his chair and cracked his neck with a loud pop. Then he glanced toward Junen, grinning.
"Well, since you're already chiming in with snorts, why don't you be next, eh?"
Junen stiffened slightly at the attention, her fingers curling around the rim of her mug. Her eyes flicked to Koda, then to Maia, before settling briefly on her lap. There was a long pause, and for a moment it seemed like she might just shake her head and let the silence settle.
But then she spoke. Soft at first. Measured.
"I wasn't born strong," she said. "Not even brave, really."
The room quieted. No one dared interrupt.
"When I was younger… there were people. People I should've protected. Friends. My brother. I froze when it counted. I watched them die."
Her voice didn't shake, but there was a tightness to it. A practiced grip on pain long held.
"I was taken in by the Holy Mother's order after that. Not out of faith. Just… nowhere else to go. They taught me to endure. To listen. And eventually, to fight. But it wasn't until I was eighteen that I awakened."
She looked up at the others, eyes steady now.
"It wasn't violent. Or grand. It happened while I was shielding a village from a plague beast. I stepped between a child and a corruption pulse without thinking. Something clicked."
Junen pressed her palm flat to her chest.
"It wasn't about fighting. Not for me. My trait—it doesn't make me stronger or faster. It makes me present. Unbreakable. I can take in flames, blades, even madness. And instead of twisting me, I keep it. I hold it back. Not just with my shield," she added, tapping the side of her leg where the edge of her weapon usually rested. "With all of me."
"A shield for body and mind," Maia murmured.
Junen nodded. "I never wanted anyone near me to die again. So I became something that can stand."
There was a long, reverent silence.
Koda sat forward slightly, seeing her now not just as the quiet wall at their side—but as the soul who had chosen that stillness. Who had turned her pain into a sanctuary for others.
He closed his eyes again, feeling her words, her conviction, her trait—and then Kindness responded.
It reached into the calm fortress that was Junen, and brought a piece of it forward.
It didn't make him stronger. It didn't give him armor.
But suddenly Koda felt grounded. Balanced. As if a storm could rage around him and he would remain unshaken. There was a dense stillness inside him now. A shield not raised, but simply there.
He opened his eyes, meeting hers.
"Thank you, Junen."
She gave a small nod, then looked away, quiet once more.
But the others could feel it now—that whatever bound them as a group was no longer just duty. It was understanding. And it was growing.
Deker didn't wait for an invitation.
The moment Junen looked down again, he sprang forward—half-rising from his chair with his hands spread like he was about to present a masterpiece. His wild curls bounced as he grinned wide, eyes alight with excitement.
"Okay, okay, my turn!"
Thessa sighed softly, but even she didn't try to stop him. Maia gave a small smile. Terron just leaned back with a mock groan.
Deker didn't care. He was in his element now.
"So, I know I come off like a madman—and to be fair, that's not entirely wrong—but let's not pretend I'm just throwing things at walls hoping they explode, alright? I study things. Obsessively. Every formula. Every mix. Every combustion pattern. Fire is art and math and chaos all at once."
He paused, snapping his fingers. A small, contained flare sparked to life between his palms and danced along his fingers before vanishing in a puff of violet smoke.
"But I'm not driven by fire. Not really. What drives me is discovery. The what-ifs. The maybe-if-I-just-tweak-this-one-thing-and-oh-look-now-it's-a-miniature-sun!"
Maia blinked. "That sounds… unsafe."
Deker beamed. "Exactly! And that's what makes it exciting!"
He clapped his hands together, sending another ripple of ember-light across the table.
"My trait's tied to that hunger. Not greed, no—it's curiosity. It lets me channel volatile energy, store it, and then shape it into whatever I've imagined in advance. Bombs, barriers, jets, grenades—you name it. I run hot, literally. If I sit still too long, I feel like I'll ignite."
Terron chuckled. "That'd explain a lot."
"But here's the fun part," Deker continued, pacing slightly. "The more pressure I'm under, the better it works. My mind speeds up. Ideas link together faster. It's like adrenaline, but for imagination. The limit's always just ahead—and I have to chase it."
He finally settled again, breath quick, eyes bright.
Koda had watched it all quietly—Deker's raw energy, his refusal to restrain passion, his mind constantly dancing three steps ahead of his body. It was chaotic, but it was alive.
He focused.
Kindness flickered.
And for a moment, Koda felt it: the swirl of calculations that happened so quickly they became instinct. The heat of stored reaction curling under the skin. The push and pull of danger as a necessary tool—not to wield recklessly, but to test the boundaries of possibility.
His body felt almost too light for a second. Like he could burst forward with no thought but perfect timing. A single mistake would end him—but done right, it would be brilliance.
He blinked hard, then exhaled.
"Deker," he said with a half-smile, "I honestly don't know how you sit still long enough to eat."
Deker laughed, loud and delighted. "I don't! I burn more calories thinking than most people do fighting!"
"Thank you for sharing," Koda said, sincere. "It's chaos. But it's beautiful."
The table hummed with something warm.
Deker nodded, clearly proud.
Wren rose with a calm that felt sculpted—precise, deliberate, like each motion was selected rather than made.
She took a breath, eyes flicking once to Thessa, then resting on Koda and the others.
"I never wanted to fight," she began. Her voice was smooth, clear. Controlled. "I worked in city mediation before the awakening—civil discourse, legal restructuring, social architecture. I helped people who hated each other understand why they did, and where that hate could be dissolved."
She stepped forward slightly, fingers folding behind her back, like a lecturer settling into her rhythm.
"When the Silence hit, people like me—planners, mediators—we were supposed to stabilize things. But structure means nothing when panic takes hold. So I adapted. My work didn't change. The setting did."
Wren lifted her hand. With a small pulse of mana, delicate lines shimmered in the air—like faint threads forming a web around her fingers, shifting with her breath.
"My trait came after. It manifests as Control, but not in the crude sense. I don't command minds. I align momentum. I feel how emotions, actions, and intentions flow in a space. It starts in a room. Then a street. Then a battlefield. I can redirect aggression, reinforce unity, predict divergence."
She looked toward Junen and Terron, then toward Koda.
"When we fight together, I feel where we could fall apart before we do. It lets me reinforce strategy with action, emotion with purpose. I don't stop chaos. I make it… rhythmic."
Deker let out a low whistle, impressed.
Wren gave the smallest smile, but her posture never relaxed. "It isn't flashy. But it's been the difference between collapse and cohesion more times than I can count."
Koda studied her quietly. She was order, but not rigidity. She was the calm before battle and the structure after impact. He focused—and Kindness stirred again.
He let it reach for her essence, not just her trait but her truth.
And then… he felt it. The sensation of standing at the center of moving parts—hearing where one gear would fail before it did, sensing which moment needed a breath and which needed a shout. In that moment, the world didn't feel random. It felt navigable. Like a tide that, if respected, could be ridden.
He blinked, returning to himself.
"I see why you always seem one step ahead," he said softly. "Thank you, Wren."
She nodded once and sat, breath steady, shoulders lightened ever so slightly.
Then, finally, all eyes turned to Thessa—last at the table, her fingers still steepled in front of her.
Thessa sat with her hands folded, shoulders slightly hunched, the silence pressing in—not out of fear, but care. The words came slowly, each one weighed before it left her lips.
"I… don't know if I can say everything right," she admitted, her voice hushed but unwavering. "Before Greed, I thought I could. That I knew who I was. But now…"
She exhaled, the breath shaking with more than weariness. With memory.
"I was raised in the church of the Holy Mother," she began. "Not in wealth or favor, but in balance. My father tended to crops—he understood patience, how to coax life from the soil without taking too much. My mother healed the sick. Her hands… always warm. She said healing didn't come from power, but presence. That kindness was stronger than pride."
Thessa's gaze lingered on the table before her, the flickering lamplight dancing in her eyes.
"So I grew up with that idea—that calm, humble kindness wasn't just good, it was necessary. Even sacred. I was taught to reject selfishness in all forms. Not just in action, but in desire. Even wanting too much strength felt like a betrayal."
She paused, swallowing.
"When I awakened, I felt joy. I wanted to believe I'd been chosen for something good—something greater. But the way I fought…" Her brow furrowed, pain surfacing. "The way I cleansed… It wasn't gentle. It was purging. And that tore at me. I told myself it was still holy, still right—but it didn't feel like the kindness I knew."
She finally looked at Koda. "Still, I found peace. I thought I did. I found you all. I thought I was healing again."
Her hand clenched.
"But Greed showed me otherwise. It forced me to see the parts of myself I ignored—the hunger for certainty, for meaning, for worth. I saw how easy it was to dress hunger in holy robes."
The words trailed off, not quite a full stop—more a hand reaching into the dark, unsure what it would find.
"I'm still putting the pieces together," she finished. "But if my story helps you… then I'm glad to offer it."
Silence held for only a moment.
Then Koda leaned forward, tone thoughtful—gentle, but clear. "Have you ever heard of how forest fires clear the deadwood? Burn away the rot so new life can grow?"
Thessa blinked, startled by the sudden shift. But he continued, voice gaining a quiet strength.
"Sometimes destruction and creation are closer than you think. The old trees fear the flame—but the seedlings need it."
Her breath caught. Something behind her eyes—tight for so long—began to loosen. Like the pressure she'd carried for years had found a crack to bleed through.
And in that moment—that exact instant of realization—Kindness awoke in Koda again. It didn't surge. It welled. Warm. Intimate. Soul-deep.
A glow moved through his arm as the borrowed essence took shape.
Burning Faith.
A fire, not of wrath, but of belief given form. Fire that didn't just consume—it measured. It judged only in proportion to what it protected.
It ignited in his palm, white and gold and impossibly dense. The nearby silverware, without even catching flame, crumbled—not melted, not warped. Unmade. The heat didn't travel—it defined its space. It didn't spread. It belonged.
And in that space, Koda felt the weight of souls—not his, but hers. The ones Thessa carried. The ones she failed to save. The ones she still shielded with every prayer and strike.
He looked to her, and Thessa's eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with something rarer.
Recognition.
"You're not broken," Koda said softly. "You're burning the path forward."
The flame died in his palm, but something far brighter remained in the air between them.