[Scene: Old Man's Shack – Midnight, Rain Still Falling]
The lantern flickered.
Eron stared at the floor, hands clenched.
He had no spell to fix this kind of broken.
No healing magic could rewind grief that had been mocked in marble halls.
No silence heavy enough to honor it.
But Ashen…
Ashen was the first to move.
He leaned forward — gently lifted the old man's chin with his palm.
Eyes locked.
Ashen (quiet but steel): "The Mossveil Guild will fall." "Your son will be given justice." "We — Whisper's Light — will do it."
The old man blinked. Tears long dried.
Ashen (firmer): "Those who twist power to crush the weak… deserve to be judged." "And gramps—"
"You're a fighter. Don't ever think you're weak." "You're stronger than Mossveil. Stronger than that marine snake. Stronger than a king who hides behind silk curtains."
His voice didn't waver.
Didn't rise.
But it echoed like it did.
Eron finally looked up.
A quiet fire behind his eyes.
The old man exhaled — like he'd been holding breath for years.
He looked at both of them.
Then stood, bones cracking slightly.
Old Man: "I'll take you." "My boat's still docked. She's old, but loyal." "If you're really going to end that cruelty… I want in." "Let me help you, in whatever way I still can."
Ashen smiled.
Eron (nodding): "Then welcome aboard. You've got Whisper's Light as your customer now."
Ashen (grinning): "Business, huh?"
They chuckled — just a little.
The kind of laugh that doesn't rise from joy, but from shared resolve.
Ashen: "We leave tomorrow morning then."
But—
The old man turned sharply. Stood tall.
Old Man: "Why not now?"
Ashen blinked.
Eron raised a brow.
Eron: "You sure you're feeling well?"
Old Man (with a breath of pride): "Better than ever."
Still, Eron shook his head.
Eron: "Even if we sail now, we won't reach Quinster before sunrise." "And we don't want to dock there in daylight." "Too many eyes. Too much risk."
He looked toward the lantern.
Eron (quietly): "Darkness is still our friend."
Ashen nodded.
Ashen: "Then we rest. Tonight. We sail at first shadow."
The old man gave a firm nod.
[Scene: Island of Quinster – Mossveil Guild Hall, 2:03 AM]
Luxury had a scent.
Polished teakwood. Imported incense. Silk sheets still warm from sleep.
Mossveil stirred, groggy.
Someone was knocking.
Hard.
Guard (muffled):
"Master Mossveil — Sir Tylon has arrived."
Mossveil sat up, rubbed his eyes.
Finally.
He threw on a coat, fastened his belt, and stepped into the hallway.
The moment he entered the foyer—
He saw him.
Tylon.
Leaning casually against a pillar, arms crossed, wearing the smirk of someone who'd just stepped out of a war he won blindfolded.
Mossveil's eyes lit up.
He crossed the floor and embraced him.
Mossveil: "Tylon, you monster—how was the exam?"
Tylon's grip was firm. Distant.
Tylon: "Pests. Weaklings. Except a few."
Mossveil (grinning): "So you passed?"
Tylon tilted his head.
Tylon: "Not yet. Main trials are in thirteen days."
Mossveil: "Thirteen, huh? Where?"
Tylon: "Some nameless island not so far from here."
Tylon: "Thought I'd drop in. Spend three, maybe four days."
Mossveil's eyes narrowed slightly — not suspicion, just calculation.
Mossveil: "You always did know when to show up."
He poured a drink.
Offered one to Tylon.
Mossveil: "To your future. To our future."