The flames had died, but the heat still lingered.
What was once the Dawn Citadel now lay buried beneath a sheet of scorched glass. Black sand stretched to the horizon, rippling faintly with mana that refused to settle. The air tasted like burnt incense and broken vows.
Lyn walked through the ruins, boots crunching over crystallized ash. Umbra's shadow trailed close behind him, its form less distinct than usual—thinned by the battle, muted by grief.
—You should rest, Umbra murmured softly within his mind. Even gods need silence after they fall.
"I'm not a god."
—No. But you killed one again.
He said nothing. His gaze drifted toward the center of the devastation, where a faint light still glimmered beneath the glass.
Rhea knelt there, her cloak torn, hair streaked with soot. She was tracing glowing symbols etched into the earth. "Residual energy," she said quietly. "The Flame didn't die. It condensed—like it's sleeping."
Arden limped beside her, armor dented and blackened. "Sleeping gods, huh? Never a good sign."
Rhea looked up, eyes tired but steady. "She's gone, isn't she? Solenne."
Lyn stared into the glow. Beneath the translucent ash, he saw faint outlines—wings folded, still glowing faintly, protecting a fragile silhouette.
"No," he said softly. "She's still here."
Umbra's form rippled uneasily. —Then the war isn't over. A spark like that never dies—it waits.
Arden exhaled through his teeth. "Then what? We bury her? Seal her? You know how this ends if someone digs her up again."
"No seals," Lyn said. "No cages. The world's had enough of those."
Rhea's brow furrowed. "Then what do we do?"
He crouched, placing a hand over the glass. The warmth pulsed faintly against his skin—alive, faint, fragile. "We watch her. We remember what she tried to become."
The silence stretched between them, heavy but not hopeless.
Umbra's tone softened. —Even in ruin, they will still build faith from ashes. It is their nature.
"Then let them," Lyn murmured. "As long as they remember why it burned."
The wind rose, scattering the last of the ash into the horizon. The crimson veil above the sky flickered once—then faded completely, leaving behind the true stars.
For the first time since the Seals broke, the heavens were clear.
Rhea tilted her head upward, whispering, "It's beautiful."
Lyn closed his eyes. "It's quiet."
Arden gave a small, humorless laugh. "That won't last long. You know that."
Lyn nodded slowly. "It never does."
He turned away from the ruins. Each step carried faint echoes of power that no longer existed—scars in the world's mana, lingering like ghostly footsteps.
Behind him, Umbra's whisper followed, fading into the wind. —And so ends belief. Not with fire… but with memory.
That night, the survivors gathered on the ridge overlooking the ruins. No prayers were spoken, no songs sung—only silence, shared between those who had lost too much to worship anything again.
Rhea broke it at last, her voice low. "What now?"
Lyn watched the horizon, where dawn crept over the dead city. "Now we start again."
"And if the next world builds new gods?"
He looked down at his reflection in the blade—dim, tired, but still burning faintly within. "Then we remind them that even gods bleed."
The light touched his face as the first rays of dawn crossed the ridge.
For a brief moment, he thought he saw Solenne's wings flicker far below—folding gently before fading into the earth, leaving only the whisper of a promise: not chains… wings.