The sun bled its last over the twisted boughs of Slitherroots Woods, drowning the gnarled branches in hues of crimson and gold. Velzael watched in silence as the Protectors led the Virtusian's two wretched underlings away, their wings bound, their fates sealed. She had waited for her comrades to arrive, and while she waited, she had done what needed doing—securing the prisoners, ensuring they could not flee. Meanwhile, Feyn had busied himself with small rituals, gathering stones and carving crude memorials with paws that trembled but did not falter.
Two Fulmenians lay cold and lifeless before them. Feyn could scarcely bring himself to meet their vacant eyes, knowing that he had failed them. He did not know their names, had never heard their voices speak them, and now they never would. And yet, the dead should not go nameless into the dark. Grim-faced, he rifled through their meager belongings, searching for something—anything—that might give him the truth of who they had been. The names, once found, he passed to the Protectors, ensuring they would be carried back to the Guild. The families must be told. The families must know.
The last slivers of sunlight stretched long and thin through the trees as the day gasped its final breath. Feyn was the one to speak the words over the dead, his voice heavy with sorrow, his grief settling over the clearing like a hush before a storm. A mother and child, gone before their time, their lives snuffed out by a rogue's hoof. Velzael let him take the lead. She did not know the ways of the Fulmenians, did not know the rites they spoke for their dead, and Feyn—Feyn needed this. This was his grief to bear, his burden to carry. And so Velzael stood by in silence as the dusk swallowed them whole.
Shrouded in fabric, the two lifeless forms began to glow, a soft, ethereal light seeping through the coarse weave of the cloth. Feyn lifted his gaze as the radiance flickered to life, the sight pulling a shuddering breath from his lips. This was the final part of the rite. He murmured the last of his prayer, a plea to the Pantheon to watch over them, to guide them beyond the veil, and—if they were kind—to grant them another life, a gentler life, untouched by cruelty. Their time had been too short, their fates too cruel.
The light swelled and shimmered, and then, like embers caught on a breeze, it began to lift. Tiny motes of brilliance drifted upward, spiraling into the air, rising higher, higher—until mother and child were nothing more than a fading glimmer against the darkening sky. The process was slow, painstaking, and neither Velzael nor Feyn moved a muscle. They would not leave. Not yet. They would not risk the scavenger spirits descending, feasting on what remained of the Fulmenians' essence. Only when the last lingering speck of light had vanished did Feyn move, placing two small stones upon the spot where the bodies had lain. One bore the name Pulvy, the other Isha, nestled within its curve like a child in its mother's embrace.
Velzael was the first to turn away. There was still work to be done. She strode toward the fallen rogue leader, her movements steady, practiced. The dead could not change what had been, but they could still serve a purpose. She rummaged through her satchel, getting out a smooth crystal with her telekinesis—one of her Bounty Hunter's tool. Holding it firm, she let the stone drink deep of the rogue's magic, absorbing the signature of the slain alicorn. The hunt was over. The deed was sealed.
Turning back to Feyn, she softened her voice. "Feyn…It's time we moved on." She knew what this moment was for him. In her years as a Bounty Hunter, she had seen death many times, too many to count. But he…he was still young. A young alicorn taking his first steps beyond the shadow of his mother's wing.
Feyn hesitated, his eyes lingering on the stones, on the empty space where the Fulmenians had lain. Then, with a slow breath, he bowed his head one last time. A silent farewell. A promise never spoken aloud. When he finally turned, he followed Velzael without a word, the two of them stepping beyond the clearing, leaving Slitherroots Woods behind as they made their way toward Aemna.
They pressed on beneath the cold gaze of the moon, its pale light spilling over the road like a river of silver. The hours dragged, and with them, so did their steps. Weariness crept into their limbs, weighing them down like sodden cloaks clinging to their backs. When at last they stopped to make camp, Velzael let her pack slip on the ground, rolling the stiffness from her muscles as she set to work.
Feyn barely moved. His body sagged with exhaustion, his breath slow and heavy. Yet, even as he fought to keep his eyes open, his gaze caught on the crystal resting near Velzael's things. It pulsed with a dim, sullen red glow—the same shade that had once burned in the soul of the rogue they had slain. He stared at it, his mind sluggish, too tired to form words, too drained to voice the thoughts clawing at the back of his skull.
Velzael saw the way his shoulders slumped, the shadows beneath his eyes, the turmoil that lingered in the set of his jaw. She sighed, shifting her weight as she turned toward him.
"Feyn…lay down. Rest," she murmured, softer than she usually spoke. "You're exhausted."
Her apprentice lifted his gaze to meet hers, and for a moment, he looked like the innocent one he had so recently stopped being. His voice wavered, fragile as cracked glass. "Am…Am I allowed to?"
The words struck her deeper than she expected. Velzael had never been good with comfort, never had much use for it. She hesitated, searching for the right thing to say. In the end, all she could offer was the truth.
"Yes…You did everything you could." She reached out, placing a hoof on his shoulder, the gesture stiff, unfamiliar. Awkward, perhaps, but meant in earnest.
It was not enough to mend what had broken in him, but it was all she had to give.
Feyn hesitated before settling onto the hard earth, curling in on himself like a child seeking warmth where none could be found. Velzael watched him for a moment, then turned her attention to the fire. She doused the last of the embers with careful precision, snuffing out the glow that had once licked at the night. A fire was a beacon, and she had no desire to draw the wrong eyes—rogue alicorns, bandits, worse things that prowled the woods when the world lay sleeping.
She was about to seek her own rest when she heard it—a sound so faint the fire's crackle had swallowed it before. A quiet sob.
Her ears flicked toward the noise, her steps halting. Feyn.
In the stillness, his sorrow was no longer masked, the ragged tremor of his breath betraying him. For a moment, Velzael stood unmoving, uncertain. She was no stranger to grief, had seen it wear many faces—rage, silence, denial. But this, this quiet mourning in the dead of night, was something else entirely.
She almost turned away, almost let the boy grieve alone. But something stirred in her memory, something buried deep—a lullaby, soft as a whisper, the warmth of her mother's wings wrapped around her when the world felt too vast, too cruel. A pang of old sorrow clenched in her chest, but with it came a gentler ache, the remembrance of comfort, of safety.
Velzael swallowed down the ghosts of her own past and stepped toward her apprentice. Moving carefully, she lowered herself behind him, the shift of her weight silently rustling the leaves beneath her. He trembled even in sleep, his small frame quaking with the remnants of stifled sobs, an occasional whimper slipping through the quiet.
Her expression softened, her guarded edges dulling in the dim light. Without a word, she unfurled her wing, draping it over him, her touch slow, deliberate. She pulled him close, the warmth of her body pressing against his back, his head coming to rest against the curve of her neck. A silent promise.
Bit by bit, the shaking eased. His breaths grew steadier, his sorrow quieting in the shelter she offered. And as the last shudder left him, silence reclaimed the midnight hour, the forest once again still.