Rain swept across the high cliffs of Aerthalin, where the sky seemed to weep with the world. The horizon bled into silver, and beneath it, Caelen stood still, his cloak soaked through, eyes fixed on a small village nestled below. The storm had no lightning, only the quiet lament of a realm still remembering.
Beside him, Elira tightened her cloak, the Weeping Blade strapped across her back like a promise she would never break. "You've been quiet," she said gently.
Caelen's jaw was tight. "They've rebuilt. But the scar's still there. I feel it."
"The pain?"
He shook his head. "No. The fear. They remember what it felt like to almost lose everything. And they know how fragile peace really is."
They descended into the village, boots squelching in mud. The people recognized them—not as gods or heroes, but as survivors. As the ones who kept the sky from falling.
Children peeked from behind fences. Elders watched with quiet reverence. One young girl approached, holding a lily carved from ashwood. "Is it true?" she asked. "That you carried everyone's pain so we didn't have to?"
Caelen knelt to her height. His voice was soft. "No. I carried it so we would all remember how to feel. Even when it hurts."
The girl placed the flower in his hand. "Then thank you. For not letting us forget."
As the villagers gathered, Elira stepped forward and told the story—of the final battle, of the blade that wept, of the fire that could not be extinguished. Her voice was clear, strong, though her heart still bled with memory.
Afterwards, a man approached with an urn clutched tight to his chest. "My brother fell during the Void War. His soul never found peace." He looked to Caelen. "Can you help?"
Caelen hesitated, then nodded. He took the urn, pressing his palm to the cold surface. The curse within him stirred—not like fire or agony now, but like a river, guiding lost pieces home.
The wind stilled.
And the man dropped to his knees, tears falling. "He's… he's gone," he whispered. "He's finally gone."
Elira watched, her chest tight. The world still needed Caelen's gift. But every time he used it, a little more of him dimmed. She saw it—in the lines around his eyes, the way he moved more slowly, like he was always carrying something too heavy.
That night, under shelter, they sat together by a dying fire. Caelen's fingers traced the edge of the carved lily. "I thought I could stop," he murmured. "After we won. I thought I could be something else."
Elira shifted closer. "You are. You're Caelen. Not the Ashbound. Not the cursed. Just… you."
He met her gaze. "Do you still see me that way? After everything I've done? Everything I've become?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she took his hand and pressed it over her heart. "This still beats because of you. Because when I was lost in that illusion, you pulled me out. Not with power. With love."
His breath hitched. "I thought I lost you."
"You never did," she whispered. "And I won't let the world take you again."
They sat in silence for a long time, the storm finally fading. Above, stars peeked through the clouds—tender, tentative.
But the peace was short-lived.
At dawn, the village elder approached with a map. "There's something you need to see," she said. "A forest to the west. It's… wrong. Things don't grow. The trees cry at night. And something walks there, gathering the numb."
Caelen's jaw tightened. "Another remnant."
Elira nodded. "Another echo."
They packed their things, the villagers offering food, water, prayers. As they left, the little girl with the ashwood lily ran after them, pressing a second flower into Caelen's hand.
"One to carry with you," she said. "And one to give to someone who's forgotten how to feel."
Caelen ruffled her hair gently. "Thank you."
And with that, they walked into the rising sun.
Side by side.
Scarred, but whole.