Lytharos rubbed his eyes, slow and tired, as though the weight of the past two days had finally caught up to him all at once. His fingers lingered at his temples, pressing against a headache not caused by injury.
“So we’ve got two kids with no formal training...”
He dropped his hands and leaned back against the table, voice edged with dark humor.
“...linked to an interdimensional relic...”
“...being hunted by a corruption cult...”
“...and now we’re down one of the last warriors who could’ve trained them.”
Selene didn’t look up from the scroll.
She simply rolled it closed, slow and precise, then tucked it back into her satchel.
“It’s a short list of problems.”
She clicked the clasp shut with a soft snap.
“But each one’s enormous.”
Lytharos exhaled, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the fire muttering in its sleep.
“What would you do?”
Selene didn’t answer right away.
She straightened, let her fingers rest gently on the edge of the table.
Then she took a breath.
Not a sigh.
A decision.
“Take them to somewhere face.”
“Hide them in plain sight. Let them train. Let them grow.”
“The Circle won’t strike openly. Not yet.”
Lytharos tilted his head, eyeing her.
“And the book?”
Selene’s gaze flicked toward the hallway. Her voice dropped.
“We seal it.”
“Or find someone who knows what’s on the other side.”
A beat of silence.
The fire crackled. Outside, the wind had stilled, as if the night itself was waiting.
“...You still looking for a reason to go back?”
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Selene turned, her eyes reflecting the last amber flickers of the coals.
A pause.
Then—just barely—a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Always.”
The fire had burned itself down to embers—just scattered coals now, their glow pulsing faintly in the dark like dying stars.
But they were warm.
Still alive.
Elliot had slipped back into sleep, his arms folded tight across his chest, head lolled against the wall. Ink stains smudged his fingertips where they curled loosely around the forgotten book. His breathing was deep, even—the first real rest he’d gotten in days.
Towan remained awake, his gaze fixed on the way the hearth’s fading light painted Rheon’s face in flickering gold and shadow. The rise and fall of his chest was barely visible beneath the blanket.
Silence pooled thick and heavy—just the occasional crackle of settling ash, the mournful sigh of wind through the broken shutters.
Then—
—the soft creak of the door.
Lytharos stepped inside, his coat draped over his shoulders like a second skin. Exhaustion lingered in the lines around his eyes, but the storm behind them had quieted.
"Selene’s going to stay here a while," he murmured, nodding toward the door. "Watch over him."
Towan dipped his chin in acknowledgment, then glanced back at Rheon.
"Is he... dreaming?"
Lytharos studied the figure in the bed—the warrior who had once led them, the legend who had saved them, the man who now lay broken by his own power.
"Maybe."
A beat. The embers whispered.
"If he is…" Lytharos’ voice was barely louder than the wind. "...I hope it’s somewhere peaceful."
Outside, an owl called—a lone, haunting note that hung in the air like a prayer.
Towan’s fingers traced the edge of his sleeve, his voice barely above the ember-glow:
"We’re really doing this, huh?"
A thread unraveled from the fabric. He didn’t tug it.
"The Academy. Training. Fighting back."
Lytharos crossed the room in three strides—ruffled his hair with rough affection, the way he might’ve done years ago to a younger sibling after a scrap in the streets.
"You’ve already started."
Towan’s half-smile flickered—there and gone, like the last coal catching before it dims.
"Can’t help but feel like we’re late to our own story."
Lytharos shrugged, the motion effortless, but his eyes were sharp as flint. "Then catch up fast."
He moved to Elliot next—draped the blanket over his legs with a precision that spoke of practice, of nights spent doing this very thing in darker places. The boy didn’t stir.
The chair by the door groaned as Lytharos sank into it, his coat settling around him like battle-worn wings.
Silence stretched—not empty, but full.
Full of the fire’s last whispers.
Full of the weight of what came next.
The question hung between them—
"Do you think we’ll be ready? A year from now?"
Lytharos studied them in the firelight:
Elliot’s ink-smudged fingers twitching in sleep, still clutching his book like a ward against the dark.
Towan’s shoulders squared with a weight no sixteen-year-old should know.
Their faces were maps of battles they shouldn’t remember, half-shadowed by a fire that couldn’t last.
"No one ever is."
A log collapsed in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks that danced across Lytharos’ scarred knuckles.
"But you’ll be closer than you think."
Outside, the wind shifted—carrying with it the distant chime of temple bells from a village neither boy had ever seen.
Somewhere between warning and promise.
Somewhere between midnight and dawn.