The air still smelled of rain and blood.
Three days had passed since the battle, yet the scent clung to everything—the soil, the tents, even the wind. It soaked into the leather of saddles and the dull steel of weapons, refusing to leave, refusing to let anyone forget. When sunlight broke through the clouds, it only made the world gleam redder, polishing the ruin as though even the light wished to honour it.
The army moved slowly across the open valley. The road bent through low hills where puddles glimmered like shards of broken glass. Hooves struck mud in rhythm with the crunch of boots, a constant pulse beneath the groan of wagons and the hiss of damp canvas. Somewhere, a soldier laughed too loudly, and the sound vanished into the heavy quiet before anyone could answer.
Eli rode near the front, his expression drawn tight. Beside him, Celeste kept her gaze ahead, the faint glow of her hair dulled by the ash-coloured sky. Neither spoke for a while. The silence between them wasn't empty—it was full of things they didn't know how to say.
Finally, Eli exhaled. "There's no way Seris died to these guys," he muttered, low but sharp enough to cut the quiet. "Those soldiers—half-starved, swinging rust for blades. She wouldn't have even broken a sweat."
Celeste didn't look at him. "Maybe she didn't fight."
"You think Seris would allow herself to be killed?" His tone was too rough to be curiosity.
She didn't answer, and the question hung between them like fog until another voice broke through it.
Nhilly's horse came up alongside theirs, his posture loose, his tone disarmingly light. "You're assuming she had the chance to fight," he said. "Sometimes the gods write an ending before the actor knows the scene's begun."
Eli frowned at him. "You talk like her death isn't real."
Nhilly didn't answer—just smiled, small but perfect.
Kael rode a few lengths ahead, silent. His back was straight, his cloak dark against the pale morning, his focus fixed on the twisting path ahead. To the soldiers he looked like command incarnate—disciplined, unyielding—but the others knew better.
By dusk, they stopped to make camp. The wind had grown stronger, carrying mist across the valley floor, and the soldiers moved with exhausted precision—pitching tents, stacking crates, striking flint until sparks caught. The smell of oil, wet earth, and smoke mingled into something almost comforting. In the stillness between hammer blows, a man's whisper could be heard from across the camp.
Nhilly dismounted last. He patted his horse's neck, humming a hymn, then moved through the soldiers with that same flawless ease—smiling, nodding, saying just enough to make them believe he was one of them. The hero they could follow.
Celeste lingered at the edge of camp, boots sinking into the wet ground. Not far from her, a small mound of earth stood alone, marked by a broken sword thrust into the soil. Rain had darkened the hilt; the blade leaned slightly, like it was bowing to the world. She knelt beside it and let her fingers brush the mud.
The air was cool, the mist gentle against her cheeks. Her lips moved soundlessly. Whatever words she found were between her and the silence.
When she finally looked up, she saw Nhilly across the camp, sitting among soldiers around a fire. He was laughing—brightly, easily. His gestures were loose, his eyes full of life. The sound carried faintly on the wind, warm and human.
Too human.
It was a perfect imitation of joy, and that was what frightened her.
She turned away and wiped the rain from her face, though it wasn't rain that made it wet.
Kael found her near the supply wagons later that night. The lantern light painted everything in a dull, copper glow.
"We move at dawn," he said, voice low, the tone of a man too used to giving orders. "The terrain narrows past the river. I'll need your barrier ready in case of attack."
Celeste nodded, still staring at nothing. "Do you ever wonder if this is still worth it?"
Kael's reply came without hesitation. "It has to be."
"That's not an answer."
He looked at her properly then, his eyes dark and tired. "Maybe there aren't answers anymore. Just orders."
She almost smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "That's the problem."
The next morning's briefing was routine and lifeless—the kind of meeting where the smell of ink and sweat mattered more than words. Maps covered the table. Kael leaned over them, tracing routes with a calloused finger, while Nhilly stood beside him, idly running a thumb along the edge of a paperweight shaped like a lion.
"So," Kael said, eyes on the black lines of rivers and roads, "we clear the next town, hold position, and wait for reinforcements. That's the plan."
Nhilly hummed, non-committal. "Efficient."
"You disagree?" Kael asked.
"Not at all." Nhilly's voice was soft, almost thoughtful. "Efficiency is beautiful. Maybe we should kill everyone in Wyre while we're at it. Fewer logistical headaches."
Kael stared at him. "You're serious."
"Half," Nhilly said, smiling faintly. "But half a joke is half the truth."
Kael didn't rise to it. He simply returned to the map, tracing lines that all led toward blood.
Outside, the camp buzzed with muted energy—men repairing armour, cooking rations, laughing just enough to sound alive. Celeste sat apart from them, hands clasped, watching the horizon fade to gold. Kael found her again when the noise quieted.
"You should sleep," he said.
She looked up at him, her face drawn and pale. "Do you ever think about them? The Wyre soldiers?"
Kael folded his arms, uneasy. "We can't afford to."
"They were human," she whispered. "When they died… they looked terrified."
He said nothing.
"I can't stop seeing it," she continued. "We don't even know what this war is for. Who started it? Who's right?" Her voice cracked slightly. "They told us we were saving Lydia, that Wyre was evil, that the Constellations blessed this—but were they ever good?" She laughed softly, bitterly. "Seris thought they were."
Kael's tone softened. "You're not wrong."
"I don't want to be right," she said. "I just want to go home. Back to Earth. I don't know if I can keep pretending this is salvation."
He hesitated, then placed a hand on her shoulder—awkward but sincere. "Then stop pretending for them. Believe in us instead."
She nodded weakly. "And if you're gone too?"
Kael had no answer.
The briefing the next afternoon was heavier than any before.
The tent filled quickly—officers, knights, The king's distant voice echoing through his envoy. Kael stood straight-backed at the table; Nhilly leaned against a post, one gloved finger tapping rhythmically against the wood. The smell of wet canvas and sweat hung thick.
"The east is secure," announced one of the knights. "The second legion marches now—ten thousand strong. They'll join you within the week."
A murmur spread through the gathered men. From the back, a pair of soldiers snickered.
"I hear Wyre has beautiful women," one whispered.
The other laughed. "Then we'd better enjoy them before the gods take us."
The sound of a fist striking flesh snapped the room silent.
Eli stood over the fallen man, knuckles bleeding, breath sharp. The soldier on the floor groaned, teeth scattering across the mud.
Nhilly's voice entered smoothly, cutting through the tension. "Now, now," he said with pleasant calm. "Let's not confuse courage with depravity." He stepped forward, smiling. "You are not to touch the women of Wyre. Your gods despise disorder. Displease them, and you curse us all."
The men bowed their heads quickly, muttering apologies. Nhilly's tone never shifted; it stayed warm, almost amused.
Eli wiped his hand, jaw tight. "Next one to joke like that," he growled, "I'll burn alive."
Nhilly laid a hand on his shoulder. "They're animals," he murmured. "You can't blame beasts for their nature."
Eli didn't reply until later, when the anger had burned out. "Thanks," he muttered. "For stopping it from getting worse."
Nhilly smiled thinly. "I didn't do it for them."
The meeting dragged on, a tide of logistics and meaningless reverence. Celeste sat quietly at first, but the tension finally cracked her composure.
"There must be another way," she said suddenly. "To end this without killing everyone."
The tent went still. Every eye turned toward her, and yet none of them seemed alive.
"What are we even fighting for?" she pressed. "What started this? Does anyone here even know?"
Then, impossibly, everything froze.
The flames of the torches stretched sideways like ribbons caught mid-gust. The air itself went solid. Every soldier, every knight jerked at once, their heads tilting in perfect unison before stilling. No breath. No sound. Only that oppressive stillness.
Then, as if nothing had happened, the world resumed.
"—and our engineers will secure the bridge," the knight continued, not missing a beat.
No one else seemed to notice. Their faces blank, their movements precise.
Celeste's heart hammered. "Did you—?"
Nhilly's hand brushed hers under the table, barely visible. "Don't press it," he whispered.
She swallowed hard and nodded, forcing herself to stay still as the meeting rolled on, the room full of ghosts pretending to be men.
That night, Eli sat by a dying fire, a half-empty bottle at his feet. The camp around him was quiet, soldiers asleep or pretending to be. He stared at the flame until it blurred, thinking of Seris, of her laughter, of how easily everyone had turned her into legend.
Nearby, a pair of young soldiers whispered.
"They say she shone like the sun."
"No," said the other, awed. "Brighter."
Eli's jaw clenched. "She was human," he muttered.
They didn't hear him.
He said it louder. "She was human!"
The words echoed too loud, too raw. The soldiers froze. One started to apologise, but Eli just waved him off. "Forget it," he said. "Just… forget it."
When they left, he stared at his sword. The metal caught the light of the fire, dull and trembling. He drew in a breath and let the flame crawl up the blade—but it sputtered, then died. Smoke curled from his fingers.
He tried again. Nothing. Not exhaustion. Fear.
The fire scared him now.
He let the sword fall and stared at the night sky. The stars above didn't twinkle. They hadn't for months. "Guess even they're tired," he said softly.
Later, Celeste found Kael and Nhilly near the main fire. She carried a pot of stew and a loaf of stale bread, her hair tied back loosely. Kael sat buried in reports; Nhilly toyed with a coin, flicking it across his knuckles like a bored magician.
"Dinner," she said, setting it down. "What's left of it."
Kael looked up. "You're late."
"Maybe I wanted quiet," she replied, sitting anyway.
Nhilly's smile was immediate. "Ah, the family meal. I'll try not to argue with Father tonight."
Eli appeared from the shadows with a stool, muttering something about real food and real worlds, and they ate. The stew was thin but warm, the bread rough but solid. Conversation started in hesitant sparks—Celeste teasing Kael about his constant frown, Nhilly calling it his "soldier face." Eli grumbled about missing coffee. The laughter that followed was brief but real.
For a few minutes, they were simply people.
When the fire burned low, they fell quiet. Celeste leaned back, eyes half-closed. Eli poked at the embers. Kael stretched his hands toward the heat, his movements slow, deliberate. Nhilly watched them all, smiling softly, the mask slipping into something dangerously close to genuine.
When they finally dispersed, he lingered behind. The firelight flickered across his face; the warmth felt foreign. He stood there for a long time, breathing the smoke, watching the sky that never changed.
And then—he saw movement. A few soldiers nearby looked up at him, waiting for something. Their eyes were full of faith.
The smile came back instantly.
Perfect. Effortless. False.
By dawn, the rain had stopped, leaving the valley silver and still. The sky hung low, streaked with gold and ash.
The order came quietly: march.
Tents came down. Fires died. The army gathered.
Kael led at the front, his voice steady as he gave commands. Celeste rode near the centre, eyes downcast but determined. Eli trailed behind, his gaze heavy, his fire dim.
Nhilly walked beside his horse, hand on the reins, coat brushing the mud. When the sun broke through the clouds, its light touched his hair like a spotlight, and the soldiers straightened unconsciously at the sight.
Ahead lay the road to the Wyre town—a line of grey rooftops barely visible against the horizon. The soldiers sang no songs, but their steps kept rhythm, as if guided by an unseen conductor.
The heroes rode together for a time, silent but close enough to hear one another breathe.
Kael's voice cut through the hush. "Next town by Dawn."
Nhilly's grin returned, bright as ever. "Then let's not keep the gods waiting."
He turned his eyes toward the horizon—the stage awaiting them, the next act already written.