The intimidating visage of Arkenza's broken statue lingered, even as dawn broke across Callistor's soot-smeared rooftops.
She tracked him with ease.
Even without a name, the coin pouch at his hip marked him as prey—and she had a nose for blood-stained silver. In Callistor, few carried gold that reeked of children and flame. Fewer still left bodies behind with surgical precision.
And with him dead, there would be fewer still.
Kaelis, silver sword of the Ashen Order, had come seeking Stevan Gorr.
She found only his grave, a shallow pit behind the Fort Arsa orphanage, marked by a splintered signpost half-buried in ash.
"A small hole for such a foul man," she muttered, brushing soot from her greaves. "And who, I wonder, granted him penance?"
The locals knew nothing. Or pretended not to. But Kaelis asked enough questions—and scared enough cowards—to uncover the truth of a stranger who had arrived days ago. Dirty. Quiet. Damaged.
And carrying Gorr's purse.
Ren felt her before he saw her.
A presence that pierced the cold like a spear, slicing through silence, scent, and motion alike. Widow's Clarity rang like a bell in his mind.
He stiffened.
She stood by the cracked fountain, flame-orange hair loose beneath her helm, green eyes locked on him like a hawk sighting a field mouse. Her armor shimmered faintly, etched with ancient tongues across bronze plate and bracer. Her longsword hung at her hip, tilting slightly—waiting to be called.
Unlike Dane, where helicopters thundered overhead and rifles carved order from chaos, Callistor had resisted the pull of modernity. The city, out of pride or stubbornness, moved at the pace of memory—its guards still wore boiled leather, and its courtyards echoed with hoofbeats, not engines. Kaelis, however, was not of Callistor. She hailed from the Ashen Order, far beyond Mavros, where tradition wasn't just upheld—it was law. Her kind wielded steel, not out of necessity, but conviction
"You carry coin that once belonged to Stevan Gorr," she said. Her voice was crisp, archaic, but clear. "I have come for answers."
Ren stood slowly, cautious. Lying would be pointless. The question was ceremonial.
"He's dead," he said, without remorse.
She blinked once. No surprise. "Did he bleed?"
"…Yes."
"Then the souls of the children he slaughtered may find peace," she said simply.
Ren's voice was colder than the morning fog. "Did you come on behalf of their mothers?"
She hesitated, then introduced herself with practiced formality.
"I am Kaelis, Sword Saint of the Ashen Order."
Her gaze narrowed. "You look no stronger than a weasel. How does a man so slight bring down one who neared the Wyrd?"
Ren shrugged. "All men bleed the same when cut."
They both knew that wasn't the full story.
A chill wind passed through the courtyard, causing the ends of Kaelis' hair to flicker like flames.
"Fortunate, then, that you met him while he yet remained a man," she said quietly.
Ren didn't understand. Didn't care enough to ask. He turned to leave.
"Halt."
Her command was firm. Instinctive.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder, guarded but calm.
"You are guilty of vengeance not yours to take," she said. "Stevan Gorr was ours to reap."
Ren didn't move. "If you set aside your sense of entitlement, you might see he was as much mine as he was yours."
Kaelis studied him. "Curious. What was he to you?"
"A bag of coins and a change of clothes," Ren said flatly. "You wanted him alive?"
"Nay. We wanted witness."
She dropped a folded parchment at his feet. The seal—obsidian wax, stamped with the symbol of the Ashen Order—was unmistakable.
Ren bent, picked it up, and skimmed the decree.
He was to accompany Kaelis to the Tower. To testify. The Trafficker's soul must be judged by flame and ink.
He frowned. "I'm not going with you."
"You must."
"I'm not one of your soldiers. I did what was necessary. Your sycophant laws don't apply to me."
"The Ashen Creed applies to all," Kaelis replied.
Suddenly, silence.
Widow's Clarity pulsed again.
Ren sensed him coming. Said nothing.
A man lunged from the alley, twin knives gleaming—likely mistaking Kaelis for some noble with a full purse.
Her sword moved once.
The man collapsed in two neat pieces.
Kaelis didn't flinch. "Street rats grow bold. Their guts, bolder still."
Ren felt sweat bead down his back. Widow's Clarity spat more data than emotion could carry.
Threat Level: HIGH.
Reflex Match: LOW.
Moral Alignment: Obscured.
Data didn't lie. He didn't stand a chance if this turned violent.
"…Fine," he muttered. "I'll go. Just don't give me a reason not to."
She studied him, unreadable. Then turned and walked.
"Keep up, Widow-Eyes. There's no telling what monstrosities Stevan's actions may have invited."
He hesitated.
Then followed.
Not out of trust.
But because the system hadn't told him to kill her.
Not yet.
He knew that day might come. Sooner than either of them liked.
And that thought unsettled him more than anything else.
She led him through the broken archways of Old Callistor, past peeling prayer walls and burned-out watchposts.
He asked, almost casually, "Where in Mavros are we headed?"
She didn't look back.
"The world is wider than Mavros, slayer."