Morning came painted in gold.
The sun rose over the treeline like an indifferent god, spilling light through the mist that clung to the valley. The camp had already stirred; soldiers moved in orderly rhythm, their motions too precise to belong to men who'd spent the night surrounded by death. The air reeked of oil and blood, and yet they smiled — mechanical, dutiful smiles that looked rehearsed.
Celeste stood near the edge of the clearing, fastening the straps of her armour. Her hands still trembled slightly from the battle. Every time she blinked, she saw it again — the arcs of black steel, the blood blooming like ribbons, the strange beauty of it all.
She hated that part most of all — that it had been beautiful.
"Morning, sunshine."
She turned. Nhilly stood there, leaning casually against a tree, his coat spotless, his sword hanging at his hip. He was smiling — not his usual faint smirk but a full, radiant smile, wide enough to make the soldiers nearby lower their eyes as if it were blinding.
"Sleep well?" he asked, his tone airy, bright, unrecognisable.
Celeste blinked. "You… you're in a good mood."
He shrugged. "Why shouldn't I be? Their gods gave us another dawn. I'd say that's something to celebrate."
Kael approached from behind, expression as unreadable as ever. "You celebrate differently than most."
Nhilly laughed softly, stepping past him. "Differently is good. We're supposed to be the extraordinary ones, remember?"
Celeste frowned as she watched him. There was something uncanny in his cheer — something brittle beneath the brightness. The soldiers adored it; every time Nhilly spoke, they smiled wider, stood straighter. He was the perfect hero now.
Kael caught her eye and gave a minute shake of his head, as if to say: Let him play his part.
By mid-day, the council tent was alive with movement.
Maps sprawled across the table, lit by thin shafts of sunlight filtering through the canvas. The captains of Lydia — men with iron eyes and hollow hearts — crowded around, whispering of routes, of rations, of revenge.
Nhilly entered late, as usual, but no one scolded him. Instead, they bowed.
He smiled, spreading his arms. "Gentlemen. Have we decided how we'll make history today?"
The king's advisor, a stern man named Ardon, gestured toward the table. "We march east. Wyre's forces have retreated beyond the river, regrouping near the ruins of their old capital. We press now, we end the war before the month ends."
Kael leaned forward, voice steady. "Our supply lines are stretched thin. If we push that far, we'll have no fallback."
Ardon sneered. "Caution from the gods' chosen? You shame your title."
Eli's jaw tightened. Celeste shifted uneasily. Nhilly, however, only smiled wider.
"Forgive him," Nhilly said smoothly. "Kael speaks from reason, not fear. But perhaps reason has no place here. Not anymore."
Ardon nodded approvingly. "Then you agree, Great Hero Nihilus?"
Nhilly bowed slightly. "Completely. The people of Lydia crave victory. And what better victory than to cleanse Wyre's capital? To paint its streets red for Lady Seris, our fallen light."
The words rolled off his tongue like honey laced with poison.
Celeste's stomach twisted. Kael's hand curled into a fist. Eli looked away, his face pale.
Nhilly turned toward the soldiers gathered outside the tent. "You hear me, don't you?" he shouted, his voice clear and melodic. "We will march — not for glory, not for gold, but for her! For Seris, who gave everything for this world!"
The soldiers erupted into cheers, the sound deafening, rising like a wave of fanatic devotion.
Celeste couldn't breathe.
Nhilly stood among them, smiling that perfect, broken smile. The mask was flawless, the posture immaculate, but his eyes — if you looked close enough — were empty.
That evening, as the camp settled into uneasy quiet, Kael called a private meeting.
Only the four of them — Kael, Celeste, Eli, and the absence of Nhilly, which filled the tent like smoke.
Eli was the first to speak. "He's losing it."
Celeste shook her head quickly. "He's… adapting. He's just doing what he has to."
Kael's gaze was sharp. "Adaptation doesn't sound that much like joy."
Eli frowned. "You still think he's pretending?"
Kael nodded once. "I think he's killing himself with the act."
The firelight caught Celeste's face; it softened something in her expression. "You're wrong," she said gently. "He's holding us together. Without him, this army would fall apart. He's… trying."
"Trying to be what?" Kael asked.
Celeste hesitated, her voice trembling slightly. "A hero."
That word hung in the air — hero — hollow, heavy, meaningless.
For a while, no one spoke. The fire popped quietly, and distant laughter drifted from the soldiers' campfires beyond the trees.
Kael broke the silence. "What would you do," he asked, "if this ended tomorrow? If we cleared the scenario?"
Eli leaned back, staring into the flames. "Find somewhere that doesn't remember me."
Celeste smiled sadly. "You'd get bored in a week."
He chuckled weakly. "Probably."
Kael turned to her. "And you?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "I used to think I'd go home. See my family again. But after this…" Her voice trailed off. "I think I'd just like to feel something real again."
Kael nodded slowly, then looked toward the tent flap, where shadows danced like ghosts. "Then I hope we live long enough to remember what real feels like."
Nhilly stood outside, unseen. He'd heard every word.
He smiled faintly, whispering under his breath. "You're too kind, Celeste. Too human for this stage."
He turned away, walking back through the camp toward his quarters. The soldiers nodded as he passed, some saluting, others whispering prayers. He returned each gesture with perfect warmth; the flawless hero painted in light.
When he reached his tent, he closed the flap behind him and exhaled. The smile vanished.
He stripped off his coat, loosened his collar, and sat on the floor beside the candlelight. Draco's Shroud lay across his knees, silent, watchful.
"Did I do it right?" he murmured. "Was that convincing enough?"
The sword said nothing, but its dark surface shimmered faintly, reflecting the candle flame like a trembling eye.
He chuckled softly. "Of course. I can always do better."
The words came weaker now, his throat tightening mid-sentence. The grin faltered, twisting into a grimace.
He swallowed hard. A cold sweat ran down his neck.
The nausea came suddenly — rising from nowhere, violent, undeniable. He tried to steady his breath, but his chest seized. He pressed a hand to his stomach and laughed — once, brittle, disbelieving.
"This is what it takes, huh?" he whispered hoarsely. "Even my body knows it's a lie."
He stumbled toward the basin, gripping the edge as bile rose in his throat. He barely made it before he doubled over, retching hard. His body convulsed, muscles straining as the sickness ripped through him again and again until his arms trembled from the effort.
When it passed, he collapsed to his knees, coughing weakly.
The candlelight wavered on the surface of the spilled water, and his reflection broke apart into pieces — fragments of someone he didn't recognise.
Nhilly wiped his mouth, still shaking. His voice came low, ragged. "I'm just acting, right? Just another scene."
The sword lay silent beside him.
He stared at it for a long moment, then smiled weakly — a broken, human smile.
He stayed there for a while, breathing slowly, trying to remember what it felt like to be Nhilly.
Outside, the bells began to toll again, marking another day closer to war.
Nhilly looked toward the sound and whispered, almost gently —
"Time to perform."