The march began beneath a sky that looked carved from ash.
Eli walked near the front line, boots crunching over the blackened earth. The air was thick—too still to be wind, too heavy to breathe freely. Even the horses moved with hesitation, their hooves sinking into soil that seemed to remember something it shouldn't.
No tremors came from below now. Whatever Kael had felt the day before had gone quiet, leaving only the scar of its passing. The land stretched out for miles, colourless and dead, a flattened wound cutting through the valley.
Eli glanced sideways. Nhilly was ahead of them all, his stride calm, his back straight, his presence bright against the bleak horizon. The soldiers followed him like moths chasing a candle.
He smiled often these days—too often. Each grin looked painted on, precise, practiced. The hero they needed. The lie they worshiped.
Celeste rode beside Eli, silent, her hands folded around the reins as she whispered faint prayers that barely reached her lips. Her blond hair shimmered faintly under the pale light. She looked angelic in the midst of ruin.
Kael scouted ahead, always a step beyond reach, his cloak rippling against the dull wind. The man had barely spoken since they broke camp that morning.
Eli watched him go and muttered, "Doesn't feel right, does it?"
Celeste didn't look at him. "Nothing has since Seris."
Her words hung between them like smoke.
Eli exhaled, letting the breath leave as fog. "She'd have told us to stop pitying ourselves."
"She'd have told us to fight smarter," Celeste said softly. "Not harder."
He nodded, unsure what to say after that. He'd thought time would dull the ache of her death. Instead, it had settled in his chest like stone, heavy and immovable.
Nhilly's voice cut through the silence. "Keep formation!"
The soldiers obeyed instantly. His tone was cheerful, commanding without being harsh. It reminded Eli of a theatre captain, directing actors' mid-performance.
Eli stared at the man's back. He's enjoying this, he thought. Or pretending he is.
Sometimes he wondered which was worse.
By noon, the path narrowed into what had once been farmland. The earth dipped in strange, concentric depressions, spiralling outward like ripples frozen in place.
The soldiers whispered among themselves as they passed.
"What did this?"
"Looks like something dug straight through."
"Gods, it's like the ground's been turned inside out."
Celeste closed her eyes briefly, murmuring another prayer. "It feels like the world forgot how to live here."
Nhilly glanced over his shoulder, smiling faintly. "If hell had geography, this would be it."
Eli saw the tremor in his jaw when he said it—the first crack in the mask all morning.
Kael rode back from his scouting run, mud spattering his boots. "No Wyre banners ahead," he said quietly. "But something's close. I can feel it."
Nhilly only nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then we'll greet it properly."
That night, the campfires flickered weakly, more shadow than flame. The soldiers moved slower, their faces drawn tight with nerves.
Eli sat with Kael by one of the smaller fires, rolling a whetstone across the edge of his sword. Sparks leapt with each pass.
Kael spoke first. "You trust him?"
Eli didn't look up. "Nhilly?"
Kael nodded.
Eli hesitated. "I used to."
Kael's gaze remained fixed on the fire. "And now?"
"Now," Eli said after a moment, "I think I follow him because I don't know what else to do."
Kael's lips pressed thin. "That's what scares me."
Across the camp, Celeste knelt beside an injured scout, tending to his bandaged leg. Her hands glowed faintly as she worked, the warmth of her healing radiance mixing with the smell of herbs.
She smiled at the man, gentle and sincere. "You'll walk again soon."
He nodded weakly. "Thank you, Lady Hero."
Eli watched her for a while before saying quietly, "She still believes in saving everyone."
Kael didn't answer.
Eli's voice lowered further. "I used to think that was strength."
Dawn came pale and formless, leaking through the fog like a dying candle.
They marched east again, toward Wyre's territory. The fog thinned briefly as they crested a low ridge—and there, sprawled across the plain below, were banners.
Wyre soldiers.
Dozens. No—hundreds.
They weren't in formation, not really. They looked ragged, exhausted, their Armor rusted and patchwork. But their eyes were alive with something sharper than rage.
"Positions!" Kael barked.
Eli drew his blade, fire flickering along its edge as he breathed deeply. Heat rose in his chest, the familiar burn of his Star—controlled now, disciplined. He stepped forward as the front lines met.
The impact was chaos.
Steel clashed with screams. Mud exploded underfoot. Eli's fire burned hot through the fog, turning men into silhouettes of ash and light. Each breath of flame was shorter than the last, but sharper, precise. He moved through them like a storm given shape, cutting, striking, burning—but not feeling.
He heard Celeste shout something behind him, but it was lost in the roar.
Kael fought near the flank, blade flashing silver through the blood haze, every movement clean and deliberate.
Nhilly moved at the centre. His sword flowed like water—no wasted effort, no hesitation. Soldiers fell around him, each cut clean, beautiful, merciless.
It was over faster than any battle should be.
Bodies fell. Silence pressed in.
Then Celeste screamed.
Eli turned.
She was kneeling beside a Wyre soldier—a boy, barely older than sixteen. His stomach was bleeding out, but he'd grabbed her wrist as she tried to heal him.
"Please," she whispered. "Don't move, you're hurt—"
The boy's face twisted, tears streaking down his cheeks. "You're not heroes," he rasped. "You're monsters."
Before Eli could move, the boy lunged, driving a dagger toward her throat.
Celeste didn't flinch.
She didn't even raise her hand.
She just looked at him—with pity.
The blade never reached her.
There was a sharp sound, like air being cut clean in half.
Then the boy's head fell away from his shoulders.
Nhilly stood behind him, sword gleaming, his expression unreadable. Blood slid from the edge of Draco's Shroud, catching the dull light.
He smiled. Not warmly. Not cruelly. Just perfectly.
"Ta-da," he said softly.
The sound of it turned Eli's stomach.
For a moment, no one moved. Even the surviving Wyre soldiers froze, horror washing over them.
Celeste's eyes filled with tears. "He was just—he didn't—"
Nhilly wiped the blade clean, his voice calm. "He attacked you."
"That doesn't make it right!" she cried.
Nhilly tilted his head, his tone almost kind. "In this story, there's no right. Only the ending they want."
Eli stared at him, heat crawling under his skin. "Who's they?"
Nhilly smiled again, wider this time. "The audience."
When it was done, the soldiers began clearing the field. Kael issued orders mechanically. Celeste knelt beside the fallen boy, whispering something no one could hear.
Eli watched Nhilly walk away, sword sheathed, humming the same quiet hymn.
For the first time since Seris died, Eli felt afraid—not of the gods, not of Wyre, but of the man walking ahead of him.
He looked down at the blood pooling around his boots. In the reflection, Nhilly's grin still lingered.
Eli whispered to himself, "He's not acting anymore, no way no ones that good"