The air over the city hung heavy with ash and frost. The aftermath of the last battle etched its scars everywhere—from scorched iron bridges to smoldering rooftops where once banners had flown proudly. Now, even the skies seemed subdued, painted in dull shades of gray that never quite gave way to light. Every echo in the ruins seemed to carry memory—of pain, defiance, and promises that had slipped through trembling hands.
Eira walked through the silent streets, her boots cracking ice over puddles tinged red by old blood. The faint hum of magic still clung to the wreckage like a whisper of mourning. Her pulse throbbed in slow rhythm with the trembling earth beneath her—an echo of both the Mirror Engine's fragile heartbeat and the hunger that refused to die.
The city felt hollow now. Mira was gone—vanished after the rebellion's last desperate strike—and Jorin's last message had come through broken and garbled, promising nothing but uncertainty. The rebellion had fractured. Trust had dissolved into dust.
And Eira was left in its ruin, her hands still aching from channeling too much light, her soul torn between duty and despair.
She could feel the hunger within still gnawing at the edges of her will, whispering to her in every silence. Every breath came with the metallic taste of fear—and temptation. It begged her to surrender, to sink into the sorrow of what she had lost, to trade the unbearable weight of leadership for oblivion.
But she refused.
The path that led to the citadel glowed faintly under dim arcs of dying energy. She followed it without haste or hesitation, though her heart thudded like a mournful drum. The city's ruins loomed high around her—watchful giants of steel and memory—and as the wind carried the smell of ashes, she heard the faintest echo of a voice behind her.
"Eira."
The sound cut through the stillness—low, deliberate, commanding.
She turned sharply, every instinct flaring. Her pulse stilled when she saw him: her mentor, Aric Kael, the man who had trained her in the old ways before turning his back on the rebellion. His dark cloak rippled like spilled ink, his once-kind eyes now clouded with disillusionment.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice taut, quiet.
"Neither should you," he replied. "You weren't meant to survive the last battle. You were meant to end it."
Eira's breath hitched. "Was that your design then? That I would burn out like the others? Like Mira?"
Aric's expression faltered for an instant, remorse and anger warring behind his hardened features. "You weren't supposed to carry this burden alone. The city will consume you. You already feel it, don't you? The hunger gnawing deeper every time you wield that light."
The accusation struck true. The hunger was stronger now, whispering through her blood. She could almost feel it smile—the weight in her chest tightening, craving release.
She drew a slow, trembling breath. "If I stop, everyone dies. You taught me that mercy without courage is surrender."
"And I taught you that power without restraint becomes ruin," he countered. His gaze hardened. "You are dancing too close to the edge, child. The light you wield isn't healing this world—it's burning it faster."
Eira stepped closer, fire in her eyes. Damp air chilled her face, the rain beginning to fall slow and heavy between them. "Then what would you have me do? Let the city rot? Let those who believed in us fade into nothing?"
"What if saving them demands letting go?"
His words sliced through her resolve like frostbite. The hunger inside her pulsed violently, hungry for emotion—anger, grief, defiance—each feeding its quiet power. She tasted iron as tears, salt, and blood mingled on her tongue.
"You've changed," she whispered. "You sound just like them—the ones who built the Wall, who gave up before the fight began."
"And you," Aric said softly, "are starting to sound like the hunger itself."
Lightning flared across the storm-choked sky, and in that moment, their eyes locked—teacher and pupil, both broken by the same world. The Mirror Engine's hum deepened, echoing through the ground beneath them, resonating with the void between their defiance and despair.
"I can't stop," Eira said finally, voice trembling like a blade drawn too tightly. "If the light consumes me, so be it. But I won't let the dark win."
Aric's stare lingered, sorrow written deep into his expression. "Then when you fall," he said, "remember that it wasn't the dark that destroyed you—it was your refusal to rest."
She turned away from him, the rain now pelting against her cloak in rhythmic defiance. He did not follow. She didn't need to look back to know his heart was breaking—she could feel it reflected in her own.
By the time she reached the cathedral again, the streets were quieter than before, the storm silencing the world in a curtain of gray. The hunger whispered, soft and coaxing, as her magic pulsed in concentric rings beneath her skin.
But as she touched the ruined altar, a faint light hummed in the depths of the stone—a light not born of power alone, but of remembrance. The rebellion's sigil shimmered faintly there, a sign that somewhere, someone still believed.
And so she knelt—not in prayer, but in promise.
Through tears that burned like amber, she whispered to the shadows: "I will bear this. Even sorrow can be a weapon."
The city's heartbeat stuttered once, then steadied—a fragile rhythm of survival's defiance.
Eira rose, her cloak trailing smoke and ash. The hunger still thrummed, but so did her will. Sorrow could wound, but it also forged steel.
From that moment forward, she was no longer just Eira the protector, nor Eira the flawed savior.
She was Eira, Warrior of Sorrow—child of ruin, keeper of the flame.
And the city, buried in its trembling silence, listened.