The storm outside Vel'thar had quieted to drizzle by the time the tavern's roar began to fade. Upstairs, a single room flickered with firelight and the dull heartbeat of drums from below. The laughter of pirates was only a ghost now, muffled by wood and sea wind.
Aria sat at a long table with Suvarn and Deyr opposite each other. The rest of her team — Lyra, Coren, Sera, Garron, and Elira — filled the space between them, their plates empty, their curiosity sharp. The two Aetherbounds looked like opposites made flesh: Suvarn upright, calm, his fire quiet; Deyr sprawled in his chair, one leg over the armrest, a half-empty bottle of something burning in his hand.
It was Deyr who finally broke the silence, flicking a drop of liquor into the air.
"Alright, flame-boy and his merry mortals — let's get to the part where you all ask me if I know where the rest of our little family of disasters went."
Coren smirked. "That's exactly what we were wondering."
Deyr twirled a chain link around his finger lazily. "Of course you were. Everybody loves a reunion." His grin widened. "But if you're hoping I've got addresses and directions — sorry. Haven't seen the others in centuries. And between you and me, most of them I'd rather not see again."
Aria leaned forward. "You said most. Which one would you want to find?"
Deyr's laughter softened into thought. "Kaenmor Lyren," he said finally. "The wind priest. If any of us still remembers what sanity feels like, it's him. He's… normal."
Lyra raised a brow. "Normal?"
Deyr nodded seriously. "Normal. Kind. Balanced. Probably still apologizing to the air when he breathes too loud."
Coren snorted. "You realize the irony, right? Chaos here lecturing about who's normal?"
Deyr grinned almost as if he wanted to kill Coren. "You've seen me for an hour, kid. You haven't seen them."
He pointed a lazy finger toward the air. "Each one of us is a different brand of lunatic. Tragedy doesn't make heroes; it makes survivors who learned to laugh or burn."
Suvarn's voice was quiet but firm. "We weren't all mad, Deyr. Some of us were just tired."
"Same difference," Deyr shot back with a smirk. "You sleep too long in this world, the nightmares start to dream you."
No one spoke for a moment. The fire cracked. Aria watched the two men — flame and storm — circle each other in words that carried centuries behind them. It felt less like conversation and more like unfinished war.
Garron broke the silence. "Then who among you is strongest?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge. Even Lyra and Coren turned expectantly.
Deyr chuckled low. "Strongest? Oh, that's easy. Me."
The group blinked. Then Coren burst out laughing. "You're kidding."
But Deyr didn't laugh. He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief and something sharper beneath, a murderous instinct. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Aria glanced at Suvarn, expecting him to argue. But the older warrior only stared into the fire, saying nothing.
Sera frowned. "What about you, Suvarn? You burned down an entire forest of beasts without breaking a sweat. You have to be stronger than—"
Deyr cut her off, laughing openly now. "Him? Stronger? Flame here's the weakest of us."
The room froze. Even the distant tavern music seemed to drop away.
Coren blinked. "Wait—what?"
Lyra turned to Suvarn, incredulous. "You? Weakest? You literally burned monsters to ash without touching them!"
Deyr's grin widened. "Exactly. That's all he can do. Set things on fire and mope about it. Try fighting someone who doesn't burn, and see how far that gets him."
Sera scowled. "You talk big for someone whose weapon doubles as a jewelry set."
Deyr's laughter was sudden and loud. "Oh, I like you. You'll make good company when the demons eat the rest."
Suvarn finally looked up. There was no anger in his gaze, only quiet disappointment — the look of someone who'd heard this before. "Still the same," he said softly. "Always mistaking noise for power."
That silenced even Deyr for a heartbeat. His smile faltered — then returned, sharper. "And you still mistake humility for truth. Tell me, Firebrand, which one of us ended it all that night? Oh right— it wasn't you."
The air thickened. Aria could feel it — two energies pressing against each other. Heat and wind. Flame and chaos. Both ancient. Both too large for the small wooden room that held them.
Elira stepped forward quickly, her voice soft but firm. "Please. Not here. The island has enough ghosts."
Suvarn exhaled through his nose, the firelight dimming slightly as if obeying him. "You're right."
Deyr leaned back in his chair, chains clinking lazily. "Relax, healer. I'm not here to fight. Just speaking truth."
But Aria saw it — a flicker of something behind his grin. Pain. Or guilt. Maybe both.
Suvarn didn't reply. He simply stared into the flames again. For the first time, Aria noticed how old his eyes looked.
She felt her throat tighten. If Suvarn is the weakest… what kind of monsters are the rest of them?
The tension melted slowly as footsteps echoed down the hall and a knock at the door broke the silence. A servant entered, balancing a tray laden with steaming dishes — spiced fish, roasted breadfruit, glowing blue wine in crystal cups. The smell of salt and char filled the air, easing the stiffness of the moment.
Deyr seized a plate before anyone could blink, tearing a piece of fish apart with his fingers. "Now this," he said with his mouth full, "is why I live here. Chaos may starve the soul, but the food's divine."
Coren laughed, the heaviness cracking like thin ice. "Guess the Vein of Chaos has priorities."
"Always," Deyr said cheerfully, waving a fork like a sword. "If the world's ending, might as well eat first."
Suvarn barely smiled, sipping from his cup. "Some things never change."
Lyra leaned back in her chair. "For a legendary being, you eat like a pirate."
"Correction," Deyr replied, pouring himself another drink. "I am a pirate. Just a more charming one."
The room relaxed after that. The conversation turned lighter; even Sera began to laugh when Deyr told a wild story about gambling away a ship to a blind oracle who turned out to be a god in disguise. The chaos in his voice was contagious — he made danger sound like a festival, tragedy like a joke.
And yet, beneath the laughter, Aria noticed something about him. His eyes never truly smiled. Every time the others laughed, he looked away for half a second, as though hearing something distant only he could remember.
When the meal finally ended, Deyr pushed his chair back and clapped his hands. "Alright, little heroes. Eat, drink, sleep, and pray your stomachs forgive you. The adults have to talk about the end of the world now."
Sera rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
"Thank you," he said with a bow.
Elira gave Aria a quiet nod before leaving with the others, her expression unreadable. Soon, the door closed behind them. Only the two Aetherbounds and Aria remained for a moment, until Suvarn gently motioned for her to go rest as well.
She hesitated. "Will you be okay?"
Suvarn smiled faintly. "Chaos and flame always argue before they burn together. Go."
She left reluctantly, closing the door behind her. The muffled sound of the tavern below returned — distant laughter, faint music, the heartbeat of Vel'thar.
For a while, neither Suvarn nor Deyr spoke. The fire between them crackled softly, shadows crawling across the walls like restless memories. Deyr poured himself another drink, then slid the bottle across the table. "Still don't drink?"
"No."
"Pity." He took a sip. "Would've been easier to forget the war if you'd learned how."
"I didn't want to forget," Suvarn said quietly. "Forgetting is how it starts again."
Deyr laughed once, sharp and bitter. "Still preaching after all this time. Tell me, Firebrand — you really believe this girl can do what we couldn't?"
Suvarn's gaze didn't waver. "She has something we lost."
"Hope?" Deyr mocked. "Naïveté?"
"Purpose."
Deyr leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "Big word. Doesn't mean much when the world's on fire."
"It means everything then," Suvarn said.
Silence settled again, thicker now. Deyr's grin softened; his voice lost its edge. "You want to know why I agreed so easily, don't you?"
Suvarn didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Deyr set his cup down. "It's not because I trust her. It's not because I think she can bring the others back — hell, I'd bet my own blades she won't."
"Then why?"
Deyr's eyes unfocused, staring into the fire. "Because when she walked into that tavern, I felt something. A pull. Like the world exhaled for the first time in centuries. Like the air itself remembered a song I'd forgotten."
Suvarn said nothing.
"I can't explain it," Deyr continued, his tone lower now. "But it resonated. Like the sound you get when two blades ring in perfect tune. It made me want to believe again — and I hate that."
He chuckled without humor. "She's so damn weak, though. I could break her with a flick of my chain. Every step she takes looks like it costs her everything. And still…" He trailed off, staring into the flames. "Still she keeps walking."
Suvarn's reply came softly. "That's strength."
Deyr snorted. "That's stupidity."
"Sometimes they're the same thing."
For a long time, there was only the sound of fire. Then Deyr sighed, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table. "You think she'll survive it? Finding the rest of us?"
Suvarn's gaze stayed on the flames. "I think survival's not the point. The question is whether she can make us remember who we were."
Deyr smiled faintly. "Good luck with that. Some of us buried those names for a reason."
"I know," Suvarn said. "But you came when she called. That's enough for now."
The wind rattled the shutters once, carrying laughter from below. Deyr lifted his cup and raised it slightly toward Suvarn. "To fools who still hope."
Suvarn lifted his untouched drink in answer. "And to chaos that still cares."
They clinked the glasses softly. The flame between them flickered higher, casting both men's shadows across the wall — one steady, one shifting, both the same size.
Below them, the tavern sang on.
Outside, the sea whispered against the cliffs, carrying the faint echo of laughter.
And somewhere far beyond the waves, a soft wind stirred — as if, for the first time in an age, Kaenmor Lyren had opened his eyes.