King and Ignis emerged from the cave in silence, the vines closing behind them like living curtains that no longer wanted spectators. The forest air was fresh, heavy with pine and moisture, but the weight they carried was no longer that of a hunt. It was the weight of something that ended without explosion, without blood, without a dramatic conclusion—only with a dry crack and a gem that was now just a cold stone on King's belt.
They walked along the trail of roots that opened on their own, the light filtering through the giant treetops painting green and gold patches on the ground. Neither of them spoke for a long time. They didn't need to. They had spent months together on the High Tide, in the chaotic stops at Sosia and Lamatize, on nights when feline shadows crawled in the hold and King descended with his axe while Ignis spat controlled fire so as not to set the entire ship ablaze. They had seen enough to know that words didn't always explain what remained in their hearts.
It was Ignis who broke the silence first, stopping near a small waterfall that cascaded slowly between the trees, as if time itself were lazy there.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked, her voice low, looking at the invisible bracelet they had never touched. "When the rune broke. It wasn't an attack. It was a goodbye."
King stopped beside her. The axe hung loosely in his hand, the blade reflecting the dancing water. He touched the gem with his thumb—nothing. No echo, no heat, no pain.
"I felt it. He cut the last thread. Not out of hatred. Out of weariness, perhaps. Or because he wanted us to stop looking."
Ignis crossed her arms, scales gleaming in the filtered light. A puff of smoke escaped her nostrils, more habit than threat.
"We saw him in Ratavabaros. We heard the rumors of the child who emerged from below, we saw Grom's forge smoking again." We felt the gem change when the ship was still near the coast. And now… nothing. He locked himself inside with her. With himself. They became one and decided the rest of the world didn't need to know.
King looked at the horizon, where the sea met the forest at some distant point that Viceiria would never let them reach again.
— He could have come. He could have destroyed the source, us, everything. But he chose not to. He chose to stay quiet. He chose… to live. Or what was left of living for someone like him.
Ignis took a step closer, the warmth of her body contrasting with the cold air. She touched his arm—not forcefully, just enough to remind him that they were there, the two of them.
— And us? — she asked. — What do we do now that the fallen one has stopped falling?
King took a deep breath. His broad chest rose and fell slowly.
— We move on. Back to the High Tide, if Captain Jake is still waiting. Or take another path. There's a world beyond Viceiria and Ratavabaros. There are mountains, deserts, cities that have never heard of fallen angels or queens of hell with different names. There are fights that need axes and fire. There are nights that need silence.
He looked at her, his gray eyes meeting hers—those eyes that always saw more than the rest.
"And there's us. Two who survived the worst that hell threw on the table. If it decided to stop fighting itself… maybe we can stop fighting ghosts that are already gone."
Ignis smiled—a small, crooked, but genuine smile.
"Then let's get out of here before the elves decide we've dirtied the sacred ground too much."
King swung his axe once, just to feel the familiar balance, and began to walk again. Ignis followed beside him, their shoulders brushing lightly.
They didn't look back.
The forest let them go.
Far away, in Ratavabaros, the bracelet pulsed softly, muffling any echo that might try to reach them.
They didn't know—and didn't need to know—that King and Ignis had decided to leave the past quietly where it was. The world kept turning. They kept walking. Together.
King and Ignis emerged from the elven trail at dawn, when the mist still clung to the roots and the sun barely pierced the treetops. The sentinels of Viceiria watched them from afar—tall silhouettes, low bows, but attentive eyes. No goodbye, no farewell gesture. Just the silence of those who had already decided that the visitors had fulfilled their quota of mischief and could now leave.
The border was marked by a row of ancient trees whose trunks were intertwined with living vines that formed a natural arch. As they passed underneath, the vines moved slowly, as if breathing a sigh of relief. On the other side, the air changed: less pine, more salt and dry dust. Aloscalia began there—lands of high plains, constant winds, and cities that seemed to grow straight from the red rock.
King adjusted the axe on his back, the leather of the sheath creaking. The gem on his belt was inert, a dead weight he hadn't yet decided whether to throw away or keep as a memento.
"Quegoes is three weeks away if we follow the main road," he said, looking at the horizon where the plain rose in gentle waves until it disappeared into the mist. "Less if we cut through the smugglers' trails."
Ignis gave a half-smile, scales glistening in the rising sun.
"Smugglers like people like us. Too big to hide, too hot to ignore." But they have good horses and they know where the elven taxes stop being applied.
They began to descend the slope. The ground was dry, stony, with tufts of tough grass that creaked under their boots. In the distance, they saw the first signs of Aloscalian civilization: dark stone watchtowers, red and black flags fluttering, a road of wide flagstones that snaked like a scar across the landscape.
King stopped for a moment, looking back. Viceiria already seemed like a distant dream—too green, too quiet, full of secrets that were no longer theirs.
"Do you think he knows we're gone?" Ignis asked, without looking at him.
"If you know, don't worry. He cut the wire. We cut the rest. There's no more echo to follow."
She nodded, kicking a loose stone that rolled down the slope.
"So, Quegoes. The capital is big enough for us to disappear for a while. Markets, arenas, taverns that don't ask names. Maybe even a forge that needs strong arms and a constant fire."
King snorted, a short laugh.
"Or a fight that needs an axe and flames. It's been a while since I broke anything just because I felt like it."
They continued walking. The sun rose, burning away the mist. The main road appeared ahead—wide, marked by carts and camel tracks. A lone merchant passed with a cart full of spices, greeting with a cautious wave. King responded with a grunt. Ignis just smiled, teeth showing.
Three weeks to Quegoes.
Three weeks of dust, wind, nights under stars that seemed different from those of Ratavabaros and Viceiria. Three weeks for the weight of the gem to become just another scar on his gray skin. Three weeks for Ignis to learn not to look at the horizon expecting feline shadows.
They didn't talk much about what would come next.
They didn't need to.
The journey was enough for now.
And Quegoes—with its red sandstone towers, its noisy markets, its arenas where blood was worth gold and bets were worth more than honor—awaited them.
King took the first step on the road.
Ignis walked beside him, shoulder brushing against his.
The wind of Aloscalia blew strongly, carrying the scent of pepper, leather, and freedom.
They moved forward.