The screaming had stopped five minutes ago.
Ilias stood in what used to be a market square, breathing hard, the Osh'Kora staff humming in his grip. Around him lay the bodies of twelve people. He'd known three of them by name.
Torrin knelt nearby, one hand pressed to the cobblestones, his scarred eye sockets turned toward the ground. Reading vibrations. Searching for more.
"Clear," the older man said after a moment. "For now."
Ilias didn't respond. Couldn't. His eyes were locked on the woman sprawled at his feet—Mrs. Karenna, who ran the fruit stand on Fifth and Meridian. Who'd given him free apples when he was a kid. Whose daughter had married last spring.
The Pity had worn her face when it came at him. Had screamed with her voice.
"Stop staring." Torrin stood, dusting off his hands. "It doesn't help."
"She was—"
"Possessed. Already dead the moment that thing crawled into her skull." Torrin's tone was flat, merciless. "You gave her mercy. That's all you could do."
Ilias tore his gaze away, his jaw tight. The staff pulsed against his palm—warm, almost comforting. Like Orun-Fela was trying to remind him he wasn't alone.
It didn't help much.
They'd been fighting for hours. Ever since the Entity's creatures had erupted across the city, consuming everything in their path. The temporary alliance between the gangs, the Church, and the defected Families was holding, but barely. Everyone was stretched thin, trying to protect civilians while fighting an enemy that turned their own people into weapons.
Ilias had promised those people he'd save them. That he'd find a way to stop this without more death.
He was learning how hollow promises could be.
"Come on," Torrin said, already moving. "We need to regroup. Find Kojo and the others."
Ilias followed, stepping carefully around the bodies. His boots crunched on broken glass. Fire burned in the distance—three buildings, maybe four. The smoke was thick enough to taste.
"How many?" he asked quietly.
"How many what?"
"How many people have you had to kill? People who didn't deserve it."
Torrin didn't slow. "Stopped counting after the first hundred. It's easier that way."
"That's not—"
"You wanted to know what war costs." Torrin's voice cut through the air like a blade. "This is it. Not glory. Not victory. Just bodies and choices you'll hate yourself for making." He paused at a corner, head tilted. "You think Orun-Fela's proud of you right now? You think he's sitting up there cheering because you're learning hard lessons?"
"I don't—"
"He's not. He's grieving. Because he knows what you're becoming." Torrin turned his scarred face toward Ilias. "He knows what power does to people. What necessity does. You're harder than you were yesterday. You'll be harder tomorrow. And the day after that, you'll barely recognize yourself."
Ilias's grip tightened on his staff. "So what am I supposed to do? Just stop caring?"
"No." Torrin's expression softened, just slightly. "You remember. Every face. Every name. You carry that weight, because the moment you stop feeling it is the moment you become the thing you're fighting."
They moved through two more streets in silence. Ilias saw more bodies—gang members, Church soldiers, civilians. A Pity had torn through a bakery; the walls were painted red. He forced himself to look. To remember.
*This is the cost,* he thought. *This is what I couldn't stop.*
"Movement," Torrin said suddenly. "Three blocks north. Heavy resonance signatures—multiple people."
"Enemies?"
"Can't tell. Too much interference." Torrin started jogging. "Stay sharp."
They ran through the ruined streets, past overturned carts and shattered storefronts. Ilias kept his senses wide, feeling for the threads of resonance that marked friend from foe. The city was screaming—a discordant mess of frequencies layered over each other until it was hard to tell what was real and what was echo.
Then he felt it. A pulse of warmth and iron. Familiar.
"Kojo," he breathed.
They rounded a corner into a wide plaza—and stopped.
Kojo stood in the center, his gauntlets fused to his arms, black and gold metal gleaming under the smoke-dimmed sun. Rhea was beside him, twin blades in hand, blood streaking her face. Behind them, Mira knelt over a wounded civilian, her hands glowing soft green as she worked. Reverb—Kai—stood guard, his sonic gun raised, his bare face tense.
And around them, scattered across the plaza, were the remains of at least thirty Pities.
Kojo's head turned. His eyes met Ilias's—and for just a moment, there was relief.
"Ilias."
"Kojo." Ilias crossed the distance quickly, Torrin following. "You're okay."
"Define okay." Kojo's voice was rough, exhausted. The golden light in his gauntlets had dimmed to a low flicker. "We've been fighting non-stop. Lost track of how many we've put down."
Rhea wiped blood from her cheek. "More keep coming. It's like they're drawn to large groups." Her amber eyes swept over Ilias, assessing. "You look like hell."
"Feel like it too." Ilias glanced at Mira. "How many wounded?"
"Too many." Mira didn't look up from her patient—a young man, maybe twenty, with a gash across his ribs. Her hands moved with practiced precision, threading life resonance into the wound. "I'm running on fumes here. Can't keep this up much longer."
Kai stepped closer to her, his expression tight. "You need to rest."
"People need to not die." Mira's tone was sharp, but there was exhaustion underneath it. "Rest comes later."
"Mira—"
"I'm fine, Kai."
Ilias watched the exchange, something tightening in his chest. Kai had taken off his helmet days ago—shown his face, his scars, his vulnerability. And Mira had let him in. They weren't saying it out loud, not yet, but it was there in the way he positioned himself between her and danger. The way she softened when she said his name.
At least something good came out of this nightmare.
Torrin moved past them, his hand on the ground again. "We can't stay here. This position's too exposed."
"Agreed." Kojo flexed his fused gauntlets, and Ilias saw him wince. The metal had bonded with his flesh—permanent now, after Ogun's manifestation. The cost of becoming the Hands of War. "We need to find Seraph. Coordinate."
"Seraph's not coming," Ilias said quietly.
Everyone looked at him.
"What do you mean?" Rhea's eyes narrowed.
Ilias swallowed. "She's... she went after the Valencrest family. Alone."
Silence.
"Fuck," Kai muttered.
Mira's hands stilled. "When?"
"After Isolde died. She told me—" Ilias's voice caught. "She told me she loved me. Then she said she might not come back."
Kojo's expression darkened. "And you let her go?"
"I didn't *let* her do anything. She made her choice." Ilias met his brother's eyes. "Just like you made yours when you thought Rhea was dead."
Kojo flinched. Rhea put a hand on his arm.
"She's grieving," Mira said softly. "People do... extreme things when they're grieving."
"She's going to kill them all," Ilias said. "The entire family. She's not stopping until they're gone."
"Good," Torrin said flatly. "The Valencrests gave Isolde to the Church. They deserve what's coming."
"Maybe." Ilias's grip tightened on his staff. "But Seraph doesn't deserve to lose herself in the process."
"That's not your choice to make," Rhea said, not unkindly. "She's a grown woman. A soldier. She knows what she's doing."
"Does she?" Ilias looked around at them. "Do any of us?"
No one answered.
Mira finished with her patient, helping him to his feet. The young man mumbled thanks and stumbled away, heading for one of the shelters. She watched him go, then straightened, exhaustion clear in every line of her body.
Kai was beside her immediately. "You need to stop. Just for a few minutes."
"I know." She leaned against him, just for a moment. Let him support her weight. "Just... give me a second."
Kai's arms came around her, careful, protective. Ilias saw something pass between them—unspoken but understood. A promise that they'd both survive this. That there'd be a later to talk about what they were becoming to each other.
"Where's Silas?" Ilias asked suddenly.
Torrin's head snapped toward him. "What?"
"Silas. Maestro Quiet." Ilias's voice was cold, steady. Something had shifted in him—a clarity cutting through the chaos. "He started this. Him and the Entity. This whole nightmare began because Silas was broken and the Entity used him."
"You can't know where he is," Kojo said.
"Yes, I can." Ilias closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses. Past the Pities, past the fighting, down into the dark places beneath the city. And there—a void in the resonance. A silence so deep it screamed. "He's in the old cathedral. The one Vaen destroyed. He's waiting."
"Waiting for what?" Rhea asked.
"For me." Ilias opened his eyes. "The Entity wants me. My power. My body. It's been orchestrating everything to get to me. Silas is bait."
"Then we don't go," Mira said firmly. "We regroup. Make a plan. We're not walking into a trap."
"We're not." Ilias looked at each of them. "I am."
"What?" Kojo's voice was sharp. "No. Absolutely not."
"Yes." Ilias felt the certainty settle into his bones. "This is my fight. It always has been. The Entity wants me. Let it come for me. But I'm not dragging all of you into it."
"That's not how this works," Kai said. "We're a team. We fight together."
"And how many of you will die if we do that?" Ilias gestured to the bodies around them. "How many more people do I have to watch get torn apart? I'm done losing people. I'm done watching you all sacrifice yourselves for me."
"Ilias—" Mira started.
"No." His voice was harder than he'd ever heard it. "I've been running from this since the beginning. Letting other people fight my battles. Hiding behind all of you while you bled and died. Not anymore."
"You're not ready," Torrin said quietly.
"I know." Ilias met the blind man's gaze. "But I'm going anyway. You taught me that, remember? The only honest answer is admitting you're not ready."
Torrin's expression was unreadable.
"This is insane," Rhea said. "You'll die."
"Maybe." Ilias looked at Kojo. "But maybe I won't. Maybe Orun-Fela will unlock more of my power. Maybe I'll be strong enough. Either way, it ends with me. Not with all of you."
Kojo stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, his expression shifted. Pride mixed with pain. "When did you grow up?"
"About twelve dead bodies ago."
Kojo's jaw tightened. "I don't like this."
"I know."
"If you die, I'm going to be pissed."
"I'll try not to." Ilias stepped forward, pulling his brother into a brief, hard embrace. "Keep everyone safe. Get the civilians to shelter. Protect them. That's what matters."
"*You* matter," Kojo said roughly.
"So do they." Ilias pulled back. "Promise me. You'll focus on saving people, not avenging me."
Kojo looked like he wanted to argue. Rhea put a hand on his arm, and he exhaled slowly. "Fine. But you better come back."
"I will." Ilias hoped he wasn't lying.
Mira approached next, her healer's eyes scanning him. "You're sure about this?"
"No. But I'm doing it anyway."
She smiled sadly. "That's very you." She hesitated, then hugged him. "Be careful. Please."
"I will."
Kai nodded at him, respect in his eyes. "Give them hell."
"Planning on it."
Torrin said nothing, but his hand came to rest on Ilias's shoulder. A gesture of approval. Of understanding. "Remember what I told you. Every face. Every name. Don't let the power make you forget."
"I won't."
Rhea stepped forward last. "You're braver than you think. Stronger too. Don't forget that when things get dark."
"Thank you." Ilias looked around at all of them one more time. His family—chosen, earned, fought for. "Take care of each other. And if... if Seraph comes back, tell her—" His voice broke. "Tell her I kept my promise. That I tried to save everyone."
"Tell her yourself," Kojo said firmly.
Ilias nodded, not trusting his voice. Then he turned and started walking.
Away from them. Away from safety. Toward the ruined cathedral where Silas waited in the dark.
Toward whatever came next.
Behind him, he heard Kojo's voice, already organizing. "Alright. We split up. Rhea, you take the eastern shelters. Mira, Kai—western district. Torrin, you're with me. We evacuate everyone we can find and hold position until this is over."
"And if the Pities come?" Rhea asked.
"We kill them. Protect the civilians. That's the mission now."
Ilias kept walking, letting their voices fade. The staff hummed in his grip, warm and alive. Orun-Fela's presence was stronger now—closer to the surface. Like the god was preparing for what came next.
The city burned around him. Smoke filled the sky. Screams echoed from distant streets.
And Ilias walked through it all, alone, carrying the weight of every face he'd failed to save.
Mrs. Karenna. The young man with the gash. The baker whose shop was painted red. All of them.
He'd remember. Every single one.
And when he faced Silas—when he faced the Entity—he'd make them pay for every life they'd stolen.
The cathedral loomed ahead, broken and dark. Ilias didn't slow.
He was done running.
It was time to end this.