Chapter 13: I See Fire

The air in the Triskelion felt wrong.

The once-vibrant glow of the cavern's crystal lake had dimmed to a sickly flicker, like a heartbeat slowing in its final moments. Shadows twisted across the stone walls—long, crawling things that moved without wind. Albion stood motionless at the edge of the water, Excalibur hanging heavy in his hand, the sword's glow fading like it, too, was unsure of him.

The silence pressed down on him, thick and accusing. Only the echoes of Adelaide's voice cut through the quiet, her words from the vision clawing their way back into his thoughts.

Three years… Three years, Albion.

She'd been gone for three years.

Not days. Not weeks. Not even months.

Years.

Captured. Used. Drained.

And he had done nothing.

The truth of Avalon's time split cut through him like a blade—months on Earth passed like years here. All that time, and he hadn't even known. And now, faced with the chance to go after her, to save her, to do something—he couldn't move.

He wasn't ready.

Not to face Adelaide. Not to face Camelot. Not even to face himself.

Winston had already vanished into the winding tunnels that led out of the cavern, his footsteps fading into silence. He given Albion a single look, one filled with quiet pity… or maybe frustration. Then he'd gone, rushing toward the fire Albion couldn't bring himself to walk into.

"I'm not ready…" Albion murmured, the words tumbling from his lips like they didn't belong to him. His voice cracked at the edges, raw and small.

I'm a coward.

The thought gripped him harder than the sword ever could. And it stayed with him as the ground beneath his feet gave a subtle tremor—a low rumble that grew into a quake.

Dust shook loose from the ceiling. The lake began to ripple. The shadows pulsed unnaturally, and from deep within the tunnels, a strange light began to seep in—red, pulsing, angry.

Then came the sound.

Not a quake.

Not wind.

Fire.

The roar of it. The hunger of it.

Albion's heart slammed into his ribs. Panic bloomed like frostbite in his veins. Something was happening. Something terrible.

He turned toward the tunnel—Winston's path.

And ran.

The narrow stone corridor twisted and sloped upward, his legs burning with every step. His chest heaved, but he didn't stop. Not until he reached the jagged mouth of the Triskelion.

The air shifted before he even reached the tunnel's end.

A subtle change at first—a prickling at the nape of his neck, a metallic taste on the back of his tongue. The Triskelion's steady hum of ancient magic faltered, warped now by something far more violent, far more alive. Albion pressed forward, his feet dragging through dust and old moss, each step echoing off the crystalline walls like a drumbeat of dread.

He didn't know why he was running. He had hesitated before—frozen in place while Winston charged ahead. But now something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest, like an invisible hand gripping his ribs and squeezing harder with every heartbeat.

The tunnel narrowed, then widened again as it sloped upward. Heat began to rise through the rock, seeping into his boots and crawling up his legs. Smoke bled into the passage like fog from a dream, stinging his eyes and catching in his throat.

Albion squinted against the growing glare ahead.

And then—he stepped out.

The wind hit him like a slap. Dry, hot, and laced with the unmistakable tang of burning wood. He stumbled forward, out of the shadow of the cave and into the world above.

The sky was bleeding.

And then he saw it.

Charlevoix.

Burning.

It stood on the horizon, but it wasn't the same city he remembered. What had once been a patchwork of glowing lanterns, guild towers, and winding alleys was now a smoldering skeleton of fire and ruin. Whole districts were consumed in flame. Smoke billowed upward, thick and churning, blotting out the stars and turning the clouds crimson.

Flames curled into the sky like fingers pulling the stars from heaven. The distant watchtowers were silhouettes now, swallowed by thick smoke and flickering red. Screams echoed through the hills—real ones, not just memories. Magic flared in pulses from the city, then vanished in streaks of light, like someone trying to fight off the night itself.

Albion gripped the stone ledge outside the cavern entrance, his knuckles white.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't think.

"They're dying down there," he whispered, his voice lost to the wind.

Albion's breath caught. He took another step, but his legs failed him. He dropped to his knees, the gravel biting through his pants, his hand touching the runes to Excalibur like a lifeline.

The runes on his forearm pulsed dimly, reacting to the magic in the air, but offering no guidance.

No answers. No way forward.

It wasn't just the city burning.

It was his failure made manifest.

"They're dying…" he said aloud, but there was no one to hear him.

The runes on his forearm flared again—brighter this time, as if sensing the chaos, feeding off the magic in the air. The markings pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, but only a reminder.

This was what he was supposed to stop.

He was supposed to be in that city. With Winston. With the people who had trusted him.

Instead, he had hesitated. He had cowered in a cave.

"I should be down there," he whispered, his voice dry and cracking. "I should be helping…"

But his feet wouldn't move. His body, trembling now, rooted to the stone.

Worse than the fire, worse than the screams carried on the wind, was the feeling worming its way into his bones.

He had already failed.

Winston was somewhere in those flames.

Becca.

Thalia. Sicily. Leon.

Rahl. Leeds. Tighe.

Nicolette.

Albion squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to imagine what they might be facing. What he had left them to face alone.

A tremor ran through the ground—a distant shockwave from something enormous, magical. The sky above the city split with a flash of red light, followed by a deep, vibrating boom that echoed across the hills like the roar of some slumbering god awakened.

He felt like the boy at the window again, watching his house collapse in fire.

He wasn't frozen because he was a coward. He was frozen because it was all too much. The war. The sword. The loss. It stacked, second by second, like stones on his chest.

Maybe anyone else would have already run. Maybe that made him brave, in a way.

But it didn't feel like bravery.

Watching everything crumble while he could do nothing.

And in that moment, with the fire painting the sky, Albion Pendragon realized just how far he had to go.

Winston sprinted through the forest, his muscles burning, his lungs aching, but he pushed harder. The trees around him were engulfed in flames, the sky above painted in thick black smoke.

Every step was agony, but he didn't stop. Becca was out there. Charlevoix was burning. His people were dying.

The once lush, green forest was now a hellscape, with ash swirling in the air like snow. Flames licked at the edges of his cloak, searing his skin, but the pain was nothing compared to the terror clawing at his heart.

He leapt over fallen trees, dodged burning branches, the crack of splintering timber echoing like cannon fire in his ears. The forest was no longer green—it was red, a sea of embers and smoke. Embers spiraled from the sky—glowing like dying fireflies, but cold, indifferent.

The sound of screaming grew louder with every frantic stride.

His people.

He could hear them.

The cries of children, the frantic wails of mothers, the desperate shouts of fathers trying to shield their families from death itself. Every voice branded itself into his bones. Every scream weighed more than the last.

He was too slow.

He had left too late.

Becca…

Her name was the only thought that could rise above the chaos. His mind clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood.

Becca, laughing in the guild hall, a tankard in one hand, a quip on her lips.

Becca, teaching the younger recruits how to gut fish and set traps, patient and firm.

Becca, tossing her braids over one shoulder, daring him to challenge her again to cards, even though she'd cleaned him out the last three times.

His lungs burned with smoke and guilt. He pushed harder, legs aching, chest heaving—but the closer he got to Charlevoix, the more unbearable the truth became.

The village was gone.

The horizon was nothing but an inferno. Smoke poured from rooftops that no longer existed. Homes had been reduced to skeletons of fire-lit timber. The streets were scorched bones. The citadel—a proud watchtower once—had collapsed into its own shadow.

He skidded to a halt on the slope overlooking the main square, his eyes scanning, desperate.

The night sky, once clear, was now a canvas of flame and smoke. The southern citadel of Charlevoix, the place he had sworn to protect, was being destroyed before his very eyes.

Winston's breath hitched in his throat, his vision blurring with a mix of rage and grief.

And then—

He saw her.

Весса.

She stood alone in the square, a radiant figure against the apocalypse. Her sword gleamed in the firelight, bathed in blood, but even from a distance. Winston could see the blood soaking her tunic. She was fighting, defending their people, her body moving with the grace and precision of a warrior. But she was hurt-badly. He could feel it, deep in his chest. Her stance was strong. Her shoulders, squared. And for one fragile, impossible moment, she looked at him and smiled.

A soft, lopsided smile. The one she always gave him when she beat him at cards, just before flicking his forehead and saying, "You never learn."

It wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

But his heart believed it. His soul seized on it.

And it broke him.

Something inside Winston shattered in that instant—a quiet splintering. The kind that doesn't bleed, but leaves you hollow forever.

Because even in that smile, he saw the end.

Even as her blade swung to parry another strike, he knew.

Even as she fought like fire, she was fading.

He opened his mouth to scream—to call her name—but no sound came out. Just breath. Just silence. Just pain.

"Becca!" Winston shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the roar of the flames.

She didn't hear him. She was locked in combat with a knight, one of the First Vanguard. His black armor reflected the fire around them, the empire's emblem glinting on his chest. The man was a brute, towering over Becca, his sword slashing through the air with deadly precision.

Winston's heart dropped as Becca staggered. She blocked the knight's strike, but barely. Her movements were slowing, her strength faltering.

"No..." Winston whispered, his voice cracking. "No..."

He broke into a sprint, every muscle in his body screaming in protest, but he didn't care. He had to get to her. He had to stop this. But the distance between them felt like miles, and no matter how fast he ran, it wasn't fast enough.

Becca parried another strike, her sword flashing in the firelight, but her grip slipped.

The knight's blade crashed down on her, and with a sickening thud, it plunged into her chest.

Winston's world shattered the moment Becca collapsed into the dirt, the knight's blade tearing through her chest. Time itself seemed to stutter, the air thick and oppressive, muffling the distant roar of flames.

"Becca!" he screamed, his voice broken and raw as he fell to his knees beside her. His hands trembled, slick with sweat and blood, as he cradled her limp form. Her tunic, once white, was now stained deep crimson, the wound in her chest gaping, spilling her life into the earth beneath them.

He touched her cheek, feeling the warmth fading from her skin. Her breaths were shallow, barely audible over the crackle of fire. "Please… don't leave me," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Not like this. Not now."

Becca's eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, her lips parting as if to speak. Winston leaned in, desperate for any sound, any final word. "I'm sorry…" she managed to whisper, her voice barely a breath. Blood bubbled from her mouth, but she forced a weak smile, the edges of her lips trembling.

Winston's chest tightened, his vision blurring with unshed tears. "No… no…" His voice trembled, barely more than a whisper as he pulled her closer.

"Please… Becca… stay with me… I can't do this without you…" But her eyes had already closed, her body growing heavier in his arms as the life slipped away.

He saw her laugh—just once.

They'd been sitting on the steps of the old watchtower, her head on his shoulder, the sky fading to twilight. She'd told him he was a terrible cook and somehow made it sound like praise.

"You burn everything," she'd teased.

"Not everything," he'd said.

"Name one thing."

"Bread."

She'd flushed, and he'd kissed her. It had felt like the start of something.

Now, it was all ashes.

Around him, the battle raged on, but it might as well have been a world away. The only sounds that mattered were his heartbeat pounding in his ears and the soft, final exhale of Becca's breath.

"No… no…" His voice rose in pitch, breaking as his hands pressed against her wound, as if he could somehow force the life back into her, hold her here by sheer will alone. But it was too late. Becca was gone. Her body lay limp, her blood pooling around them, a dark river reflecting the firelight.

Winston's breaths came in ragged gasps. He pressed his forehead to hers, his tears mingling with the dirt and blood on her skin. "I love you," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"I'll always love you…"

The destruction of Charlevoix was unlike anything the southern citadel had ever seen. The First Vanguard had descended like a storm, merciless and unrelenting. The streets were littered with bodies, civilians and soldiers alike, their blood staining the cobblestones.

The flames consumed everything-the homes, the markets, the memories. It was a nightmare brought to life.

Chancellor Leeds stood at the center of the chaos, his hands crackling with electricity as he faced the leader of the First Vanguard.

Captain Gravis, a tall figure clad in silver armor, her lance raised high, stood across from him. Her eyes were cold, her expression unreadable.

"You can't win this, Leeds," Gravis said, her voice calm, almost bored. "Your city is already ash. Your people are dead or fleeing.

You're fighting a losing battle."

Leeds' eyes burned with fury; his fists clenched as sparks of electricity arced between his fingers. "I will die before I let you take Charlevoix."

Gravis smiled, a slow, cruel smile. "Then die."

With a swift motion, Gravis lunged, her lance gleaming in the firelight as she charged at Leeds. He met her attack head-on, his fists crackling with energy as he deflected her strike, sending a bolt of lightning surging toward her. Gravis barely flinched, her armor absorbing the shock.

The two clashed with deafening force, their weapons striking like thunder. Leeds moved with the speed of lightning, his body a blur of motion, but Gravis was relentless, her strikes powerful and precise. Each clash of their weapons sent shockwaves through the burning streets, the air thick with smoke and blood.

Leeds ducked under her lance, his fist slamming into her side, sending a surge of electricity through her armor. But Gravis barely staggered. She retaliated with a powerful swing of her lance, the blade slicing through the air, grazing Leeds' side. He grunted in pain, but didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

Gravis stepped back, her eyes narrowing as she studied Leeds. "You're strong, Chancellor. But not strong enough."

With a swift motion, she drove her lance into Leeds' chest, the blade piercing through his armor, through his heart. He gasped, blood pouring from the wound as he staggered back, his vision blurring.

But even as the world around him began to fade, Leeds refused to fall. He grabbed the lance, electricity surging through his body, and with a final burst of strength, he sent a massive bolt of lightning straight into Gravis' chest.

She screamed, her body convulsing as the electricity surged through her, but she didn't let go.

Leeds collapsed to his knees, his strength gone, but he held on, his grip tight around the lance.

And then, with a final crack, the lance shattered.

Gravis stumbled back, smoke rising from her armor, but she remained standing. Leeds fell to the ground, his body broken, his vision fading to black.

For Charlevoix.

The chaos around Charlevoix, at the outskirts, was escalating quickly as the southern citadel came under full attack. Fire and destruction consumed everything in its path, leaving the once peaceful village a hellscape of collapsing homes, fleeing villagers, and the relentless onslaught of the Empire's Vanguard.

Thalia, the fire-hearted fighter of the guild's front line. Sicily, the healer whose calm could quiet a storm. Leon, the tactician who'd once saved a village with nothing but a bluff and a broken spear. Together, they had survived everything.

Until now.

Thick smoke clouded the sky, and screams of panic echoed throughout the forest. While most of the attention was on the main square, where the battle was fiercest, the three of them had found themselves in a race against time to lead as many villagers as possible to safety.

Thalia's eyes darted between the frightened families they were trying to escort. "We need to move faster. The fire's spreading too quickly," she urged, her voice tight with worry.

Sicily, always calm in the face of chaos, placed a gentle hand on a child's shoulder, guiding them toward the treeline. "Stay close to us. You'll be safe once we reach the river."

Leon, breathing heavily, glanced back at the burning village.

His heart pounded in his chest, not from the exertion, but from the horrifying reality that they couldn't save everyone. His eyes locked on a group of villagers trailing behind, struggling to keep up.

"There are too many of them…" Leon's voice cracked slightly as the forest around them began to light up in flames, the oppressive heat creeping closer.

"Thalia, we need to split up."

Thalia shook her head, refusing the thought. "We stay together—no one gets left behind."

Leon's jaw tightened as the sky darkened with ash. The fire was closing in from every side now, smoke curling around the trees like grasping fingers. The heat was unbearable—searing through cloth, biting at skin—but it was nothing compared to the anguish building in his chest.

"Thalia," he said, his voice low but firm. "We don't have time. Get them to the river. I'll hold them off."

Thalia's face twisted.

She grabbed his arm, her fingers trembling. "No. Don't you dare say that. Don't make this some noble speech, Leon. You think I haven't seen this before? You think I don't know what you're doing?"

Her eyes brimmed with tears.

Behind her, children clung to their mothers, smoke creeping into every breath they took. The villagers looked to them for leadership, but here they were—cracking.

Leon reached up and gently pried her hand from his arm, his callused thumb brushing over her knuckles like he was memorizing their shape. "Thalia," he said softly.

"This isn't noble."

He looked her dead in the eyes.

"It's necessary."

Sicily stepped forward, silent until now.

Her face was pale, her robes streaked with ash. She didn't speak, just reached into the pouch at her hip and pulled out a small token—a rune-carved coin, etched with a symbol from their earliest days as initiates in the guild. She pressed it into Leon's hand, curling his fingers tightly around it.

"So, you don't forget," she murmured. "Not the fight. Not us. The ones who still believe in you."

Leon opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught. His throat was dry, his voice no longer his own. He looked at them both, his sisters-in-arms, the only two people who had stood beside him through every hell Avalon could throw at them.

Thalia was shaking. Not from fear—she had never feared battle—but from heartbreak. "Leon," she whispered. "You don't have to be a martyr. Please. Stay with us. We can find another way—"

He touched her cheek, his hand rough and warm. "You have to lead now, Tali."

She froze, breath catching, as the nickname hit like a hammer to the heart. No one else called her that. Only him.

"You're stronger than me," Leon continued, stepping back. "You always were."

Sicily's lips trembled, but she held it in. She had to. Someone had to.

Leon's voice hardened just enough. "Get them to safety. That's your mission now."

Leon turned the coin over in his hand. It felt heavier than it should've. Like memory. Like regret.

He closed his eyes just once.

Breathed in the smoke.

And for a single heartbeat, he thought he could still hear the guildhall—laughter, clanking mugs, Thalia and Sicily's voices shouting over a bad dice throw.

Then the wind shifted.

And he ran.

Thalia took a half-step forward, like she was going to stop him.

But he was already moving.

He grabbed a fallen spear, its shaft scorched but solid, and tightened his grip around it like it was the last piece of himself he still controlled.

"Don't forget me," he said, not looking back. "Just… make it mean something."

Then, without another word, he turned and charged into the inferno.

Thalia stood frozen, her hand still outstretched toward the path he had taken. The wind tore at her hair, the smoke stung her eyes—but the tears that fell had nothing to do with the fire.

Sicily stepped beside her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"He made his choice," she said quietly. "Now we have to live with it."

Thalia stood frozen for a moment, her heart in her throat. She watched as Leon disappeared into the flames, the smoke swallowing him whole. Then, swallowing back her tears, she turned to Sicily and the remaining villagers.

"We need to move," she said, her voice breaking but resolute.

Sicily gently guided the families forward, but Thalia lingered a moment longer, her eyes fixed on the spot where Leon had disappeared. She had to believe he would make it out. He had to.

But deep down, she knew. Leon was sacrificing himself for them—for everyone.

Leon sprinted through the burning streets, dodging falling debris and crumbling buildings as the fire raged around him. His lungs burned from the smoke, and sweat poured down his face, but he pushed forward, determined to give the villagers the time they needed to escape.

The First was relentless, their armored forces moving with terrifying precision. Leon could see them advancing through the flames, cutting down anyone in their path.

As he neared the edge of the village, Leon turned to face the approaching knights. His heart pounded, fear threatening to overtake him, but he stood tall, spear in hand. He had never felt more alive.

"If you want them, you'll have to go through me," Leon growled, his voice steady despite the terror gnawing at his insides.

The knights barely hesitated. With a swift motion, they charged toward him, their swords gleaming in the firelight.

He met their attack head-on, his spear thrusting forward, catching one knight in the shoulder. He spun, using the momentum to strike another across the chest, but there were too many of them. They surrounded him, their blades flashing through the air.

Leon fought with everything he had, each strike fueled by the knowledge that his friends were getting farther away, that they were safe. That his sacrifice would mean something.

But it wasn't enough.

One of the knights' blades found its mark, cutting deep into Leon's side. He gasped, pain exploding through his body, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

Another strike, this time to his leg, and Leon staggered, his vision blurring. He dropped to one knee, his grip tightening around the spear. The knights closed in, their faces hidden behind cold, unfeeling helmets.

With a final breath, Leon looked up at the burning sky, his heart heavy but at peace. He had done his part.

The knights' blades descended, and the world went dark.

Meanwhile, Thalia's legs burned as she and Sicily guided the remaining villagers through the forest. The fire was spreading faster than she had anticipated, the heat pressing in from all sides. But they were almost there—the river was just ahead.

"Keep moving!" Sicily urged, her voice sharp but calm, doing her best to keep the families from panicking.

Thalia looked back over her shoulder, her heart breaking as the flames devoured the village behind them. Leon's face flashed in her mind, and she swallowed back the sob that threatened to escape.

The village was gone. And with it, a piece of her.

They reached the river's edge, the cool water offering a brief respite from the heat. Sicily immediately began helping the villagers across, but Thalia hesitated, her eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of Leon.

"He's not coming, Thalia," Sicily said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We have to go."

Thalia nodded, though the pain in her chest was almost unbearable. She knew Sicily was right. Leon had given his life for them. She couldn't waste it.

Together, they helped the villagers cross the river, the flames finally receding behind them as they reached the safety of the forest on the other side.

As they continued onward, Thalia couldn't shake the feeling that a part of her heart had been left behind in the ashes of Charlevoix.

Elsewhere, Winston knelt beside Becca's lifeless body, the weight of her loss crushing him. His hands shook as he gently stroked her hair, his tears falling onto her blood-soaked tunic.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"I'm so sorry..."

His chest ached, a deep, searing hollowness spreading from the center outward like a slow death. His breath came in jagged, broken gasps, the kind that tore at the throat and tasted like smoke and copper. The edges of the world blurred as if grief had smeared the lines of reality. His muscles trembled, locked in place, even as the fires roared louder around him.

Becca's head rested in his lap, tilted at an unnatural angle, her once-sharp eyes now wide and glassy. Her mouth was slightly parted as if she still had something to say. The wind lifted strands of her blood-matted hair. It should've been soft. It used to smell like honey and river herbs. Now it smelled like ash.

Winston didn't move.

He couldn't.

His entire world—everything that had ever mattered—had been reduced to this burned-out square, this patch of blood-soaked earth, this unbearable silence.

Becca was gone.

And in that stillness, something in him fractured.

It didn't crack.

It snapped.

Not like a twig, but like a foundation giving way. The part of him that held everything together—the soldier, the protector, the lover, the friend—collapsed into itself, and in its place, only something feral remained.

The growl that tore from his chest didn't sound human. It was the sound of loss made monstrous. Raw, wet, broken. His throat tore open with it, his hands shaking violently where they clenched around her cooling form. His jaw locked tight, his teeth grinding until his gums bled.

Then came the surge.

Magic answered first—not softly, not gently, but in a violent, spiraling scream.

The air around him shimmered and distorted, the color draining from the flames as if they were being swallowed into shadow. The smoke no longer rose. It coiled downward. Toward him.

The earth groaned beneath his knees. The cobblestone cracked and splintered, hairline fractures racing outward like lightning bolts, spidering through the town square. Pebbles rattled. Ash leapt from the ground and hovered in the air, suspended in place like the world had taken a sharp breath and forgot how to exhale.

Winston's skin burned.

Not with heat, but power.

Not summoned—but awakened.

Masamune didn't simply appear.

It ripped itself into existence.

From the broken shadow beneath Winston's feet, a blade emerged—slow at first, trembling, like something crawling back into the world after centuries of slumber. Then, in a burst of silver and black, it was there—thrust upward, handle-first, its metal humming, pulsing, alive. The air around it screamed as it took shape, the edges whispering of blood.

Winston's hand wrapped around the hilt without hesitation.

And the moment he touched it—

The shadows came.

Not summoned. Not even controlled.

Drawn.

They flocked to him like starved wolves to a fallen beast. Coiling, snapping, eager for purpose. His rage was a beacon, and they answered. They danced around his boots, climbed up his legs, swirled around his shoulders. They did not cling—they rejoiced. This was what they had waited for.

The man they followed now was not a leader.

He was a weapon.

Winston staggered to his feet, every muscle in his body groaning under the weight of what he'd become. Masamune pulsed in his grip—low, steady, like a second heartbeat. He didn't remember drawing breath. Didn't remember moving. The blood on his arms shimmered like oil beneath the firelight, the whites of his eyes nearly glowing from the inside.

The grief remained—but it no longer paralyzed him.

It drove him.

And as he turned his gaze toward the rest of the village, his voice came—not a roar this time, but something quieter.

"I gave you everything."

He stepped forward, dragging the shadows with him like a cloak.

"And you still took her from me."

Another step. Masamune's blade hummed louder, tasting the ash in the air.

"I won't beg."

The runes at the base of the blade ignited—silver and red.

"I won't bargain."

Winston raised his sword, his shoulders squaring. The heat warped around him, a shield of fury and despair.

"I'll bury every last one of you."

Then he ran.

He didn't roar.

He howled.

And the shadows followed.

But even as the power surged through him, something inside Winston whispered—not in rage, but in pain.

What would she think of him now?

The man forged by grief, baptized in fire?

He shook it off. There wasn't time for questions. Not now. But the shadow behind his heart remained—silent, watching.

Then he moved.

The shadows around him twisted, coiling like snakes as they fed off his rage.

The knight who had killed Becca still stood in the square, watching Winston with cold indifference. He raised his sword, ready to strike again.

But Winston didn't give him the chance.

With a roar that shook the very ground beneath him, Winston lunged forward, his sword slashing through the air with terrifying speed. The knight barely had time to react before Masamune cut through his armor, slicing him in half. Blood sprayed across the dirt, and the knight crumpled to the ground in two pieces.

Winston didn't stop.

The flames roared louder behind him, but Winston didn't stop. Not even when his vision blurred from smoke and blood.

Then—movement.

Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of motion—a girl, no older than ten, stumbled through the alleyway behind him. Her dress was torn and smeared with soot, her face streaked with ash and sheer terror. She looked lost. Alone. A ghost of what was left.

A knight broke from the smoke, sword raised, charging toward her.

Winston moved on instinct.

He surged forward, his body no longer aching, no longer mortal. His left arm snapped out, shielding the girl, while Masamune, gripped in his right, swung in a brutal, precise arc. The blade tore through armor like paper, splitting the knight down the middle. Blood sprayed into the firelit air, but Winston didn't flinch.

The girl screamed—but it wasn't fear that echoed in her voice. It was life. She was alive.

He turned to tell her to run—but she was already gone, swallowed by the smoke. Just a fleeting presence. A moment that vanished like so many others tonight.

But her face stayed with him.

Not just her wide, terrified eyes.

Not just the dirt smudging her cheeks.

But the way she clutched something to her chest—a small stuffed animal, half-burned, its ear dangling by a thread. She hadn't let go.

Winston's breath caught. His teeth clenched.

Becca would've saved that girl.

That girl might've been theirs, in another life.

He roared into the smoke, rage and grief colliding in his throat. The bloodlust returned—but now, it was different.

He wasn't just killing for revenge.

He was fighting to protect what was left.

To make sure the fire didn't consume everything.

To make sure the children had someone standing between them and the monsters.

And with that, he charged forward.

He tore through the village like a force of nature, his sword cutting down every knight, every soldier that crossed his path. The shadows followed him, swirling around him like a storm, feeding off his fury, his pain. He was unstoppable, a whirlwind of death and destruction.

But even as he cut down his enemies, even as their blood stained the ground, it wasn't enough. The pain, the rage, the grief, it was all-consuming. It drowned him, suffocated him, until there was nothing left but darkness.

Vicar Sebastian stood at the entrance of the grand church, the air thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood. The town of Charlevoix was being torn apart. The flames rose higher, consuming homes, shops, and lives with merciless speed. The townsfolk who had not already fled clung desperately to the church, its towering spire a symbol of refuge amidst the chaos. But Sebastian knew better—sanctuary was fleeting. The enemy was not just coming for the people; they were coming for him, for what he represented.

He took a breath, gazing out over the square, his weathered face illuminated by the roaring firelight. Clad in the humble but dignified robes of his order, a silver dragon emblem hanging from his neck, Sebastian was a beacon of calm in the midst of destruction. The faith he followed was not that of the Empire, not the one enforced by the Queen. His teachings, his ways, were old, different—dangerous, in the eyes of the Crown.

"Vicar!" a voice called from the haze.

He turned, eyes softening at the sight of Maria and her small daughter, Sophie, running toward him. The child clutched a worn stuffed rabbit to her chest, her face smeared with dirt and tears. Behind them, a few more villagers—families, children, the old—gathered, their faces pale with fear.

"Inside!" Sebastian urged, stepping forward and guiding them past the heavy oak doors. His voice remained gentle, but his eyes were sharp. Time was running out.

"Will we be safe here?" Maria asked breathlessly, clutching her daughter close. Her eyes searched his face, begging for reassurance he could not fully give.

He laid a hand on her shoulder, smiling despite the dread weighing down his heart. "We are together, and that is what matters now. Pendragon watches over us."

His words settled the crowd for the moment, but Sebastian could hear the tremor of unease in the air. He cast a glance outside. The enemy was nearing—he could feel their presence, like a shadow growing darker on the horizon.

The Queen's justice came not as a procession, but a purge.

And at the head of it rode Bishop Fai Chau—warrior monk of the First Vanguard, the blade of the Empire's doctrine, and the whispered death of towns that dared defiance.

To the world, she was known as the Hand of the Crown. To the faithful, she was something far worse.

Sebastian knew her by more than reputation. Her presence radiated a precision too exact to be anger, a cruelty too measured to be personal. She was methodical. Efficient. The kind of weapon the Empire forged in silence—then loosed with a prayer and a silence, knowing the blood would speak for them.

But Sebastian also knew what the people did not.

She was not born of the Queen.

She was born of the Cathedral.

The Pope's will moved through her, unseen but omnipresent, like rot hiding beneath silk. The Cathedral of Magic had sent her before the Queen ever knew she'd be needed. Fai didn't follow the Crown. She shepherd it—guided it like a blade at the throat of the world.

A distant horn blared across the night, sharp as judgment. The echo rolled through the valley, and the villagers stiffened like birds before a storm.

Sebastian's jaw set.

"They're here," Brother Mattias said, voice low and brittle. He stepped to Sebastian's side, his hands trembling as he gripped the folds of his robe. "Fai Chau leads them. She's given no quarter—not in Dunmere, not in the Hollow, not in Saint Ilias. They kill everyone."

Sebastian nodded once, slow and sure. "Then the pattern ends here."

He turned to Mattias, placing a weathered hand on the young brother's shoulder. "Take the people to the catacombs. Now. The Divine laid the passage before us long ago—they will find it when they need it most."

"But the catacombs were sealed decades ago—during the Purge—"

"They were sealed by men," Sebastian said quietly, "not by God."

Mattias hesitated, but then bowed and turned, rushing back to the sanctuary where the villagers gathered like kindling, frightened and fragile. He would lead them below. Through old stone and forgotten prayers.

Sebastian remained.

Waiting.

The air changed before she arrived. The flames leaned forward like dogs before a master. The earth, still trembling from the assault, seemed to still—just for a moment—as if to breathe her name in secret.

And then she was there.

Fai Chau.

Her cloak billowed like smoke made flesh, trimmed with the gold of the Empire, but worn like it meant nothing. Her qiang rested in one hand, the tip dragging across the cobblestones, leaving a faint glowing trail behind it—magic. The square bent around her, ash curling in her wake like leaves caught in a silent tide.

Her dark eyes locked onto Sebastian, and her mouth curled—not quite a sneer, not quite a smile. The kind of expression you wore when you saw a man you respected enough to kill properly.

"I thought you would've fled," she said, voice calm and cutting, like water over broken glass. "You're older than I remember."

Sebastian stepped down the last few stairs, staff in hand. "And you're colder than you used to be."

Her smile tightened.

"You still believe in the gods, Vicar?"

Sebastian tilted his head, eyes patient. "I don't believe in them. I believe with them."

She laughed—a short, bitter sound. "Faith like yours is dangerous. It convinces people they're already forgiven."

He looked toward the burning church behind him. "And fear like yours convinces people they've already been damned."

Something flickered in her eyes.

"You speak of faith like it's armor," she said, her voice suddenly sharper. "But you never had to watch your own people choose convenience over truth. You never watched them burn your temples. Trade your gods for power."

Sebastian studied her—carefully, gently. "I've watched many things, child. I've watched fathers carry their sons into war. I've watched mothers bury their faith in stone. But faith itself? That's never betrayed me."

Chau didn't respond right away. She only looked at him—really looked at him—and for a breath, something broke beneath her gaze. Not anger. Not contempt.

Envy.

Then, just as quickly, the moment passed.

She twirled the qiang once, the blade spinning in a tight, precise circle before she slammed the butt into the earth. Sparks jumped from the point of impact.

"I was told to bring you back," she said, her voice returning to ice. "Alive, if possible. But the Pope gave me discretion."

"Then use it," Sebastian said softly. "Spare the innocent. Let them go. You can burn me and say you followed orders."

Her grip on the qiang tightened.

Sebastian stepped closer, unflinching. The firelight painted deep lines in his face, each one carved by loss and time and defiant grace.

He met her gaze.

"You don't need to."

Fai Chau's jaw twitched. "Don't mistake my hesitation for mercy."

"I don't," Sebastian said, voice calm as still water. "I mistake it for grief."

That struck her harder than a spell. She looked away, for just a breath, as if trying to hide something beneath her armor, beneath her orders. Her grip on the qiang faltered—not visibly, not enough to notice unless you'd once known her prayers.

"I don't want to burn you," she whispered, too quiet for anyone but him to hear.

"But I will."

"I'm here to announce the decree of Her Majesty the Queen!" Bishop Chau's voice boomed, cutting through the stillness. "This town is to be razed, its inhabitants punished for the crime of heresy and treason against the Empire."

Her words echoed in the empty streets, the weight of death hanging heavily over each syllable. But it was not just the Queen's decree she carried with her—it was the silent wrath of the Cathedral, of the Pope's hidden hand, seeking to erase the faiths that did not bow to their power.

"Please," Sebastian called out, stepping forward. "There are children, innocents in this town. I beg you, show mercy."

Chau's lips curled into a cold, pitiless smile. "Mercy is reserved for the faithful, Vicar. You, and your kind, have rejected the light of Nimue. There will be no mercy."

With a swift motion, she slammed her qiang into the ground, and the earth trembled in response.

Cracks splintered through the cobblestone streets, ripping buildings from their foundations. Screams erupted as the very ground beneath the townspeople turned against them. Fires surged higher, consuming what remained.

"Faith never made me strong," she muttered. "It made me naïve."

"No," Sebastian said. "It made you wounded. And when you bled, the Empire handed you a blade."

Her breath hitched. Rage, shame, memory—it all collided in her chest.

"You think this is about you?" she snapped. "About our past?"

He raised his staff, not in threat, but as a symbol of presence. "I think this is about a girl who once knelt beside me and wept because the gods hadn't spoken to her yet."

The flames behind her cracked. The air thickened.

"You dare bring that up?" she hissed.

"You wept in that sanctuary," he said, quieter now. "When you were still Fai, not the Crown's hand. You cried because you feared the gods had forgotten you."

She flinched—just barely.

"And you promised me," Sebastian continued, "that if they ever did speak… you'd listen."

She looked away. "That girl died."

"Only if you let her."

"I never stopped praying for you, Fai." The Vicar lamented.

Her eyes shone—but not with tears. With fury. "Then your gods are deaf."

A beat passed. Then she lunged.

Her qiang swept in a wide arc, singing through the air with lethal grace. Sebastian barely raised his staff in time, the old wood sparking with wards as steel met faith. The shock of the clash sent a pulse through the ground, kicking up ash in a halo around them.

Sebastian staggered back but remained standing. "You still fight beautifully," he admitted, catching his breath.

Fai advanced, relentless. "I don't fight for beauty anymore."

Her next strike came faster, more violent—twisting jabs, spins, and ruthless sweeps designed not just to kill but to punish. She wasn't fighting a man. She was fighting a memory, and every blow screamed, why didn't you save me?

Sebastian blocked each strike with increasing strain. The runes etched into his staff glowed brighter, casting wards around him like shields of scripture. His body shook beneath the force of her strikes. He was older. Slower. But still grounded.

Still standing.

"You fight like someone trying to silence her own heart," he said, voice steady even as sweat poured from his brow.

"I silenced it a long time ago," she growled.

"No. You buried it," he whispered. "And now it claws at you from beneath the ash."

In the chaos, Sebastian's eyes caught sight of a small figure—Sophie, the little girl with the stuffed rabbit. She stood frozen in the street, her mother's desperate cries lost amidst the destruction.

"Run, Sophie!" her mother screamed, her voice raw.

But the child did not move, her wide, innocent eyes locked on the horror unfolding before her.

Sophie turned slowly toward Fai—eyes wide, tear-streaked, clutching her rabbit so tightly her knuckles went white.

"Please…" she mouthed.

Her free hand lifted—toward the church. Toward safety.

Fai's eyes flickered. For just a second.

Then came the frost.

Before Sebastian could reach her, Fai struck. A wave of icy magic rippled from her qiang, spreading across the square like a plague. Sophie gasped as the frost crawled up her legs, freezing her where she stood, her small body encased in a crystal-like shell. Her mother, frantic, tried to reach her, but Fai's weapon pierced through her back in a flash of silver.

Sebastian cried out, rushing forward. But it was too late. The mother fell beside her daughter, her last breath a soft, fragile smile as her hand touched the frozen surface of Sophie's cheek.

Rage and sorrow collided within Sebastian, but he forced himself to focus. There were still lives to save. He turned back to the church, just as the doors burst open and the remaining townspeople began fleeing toward the catacombs.

The air around them shimmered—Sebastian's protective wards, cast to buy them time.

"Leave them!" Fai barked, her eyes locking onto him. "Your fight is with me."

Sebastian turned to face her, his grip tightening on his staff. "If it spares them, then I will stand alone."

Fai's smile widened. "How noble. How foolish."

With a flick of her wrist, she sent another blast of ice and force barreling toward him. Sebastian raised his staff, summoning a barrier of light. The two forces collided, sending a shockwave through the square. His body trembled under the strain, every inch of him burning with exertion.

"You cannot stop what's coming," Chau sneered. "Your faith is dying. Your people are dying."

Sebastian gritted his teeth, stepping backward toward the church doors. "Faith is not something you can kill with fire and frost."

"Then let's see how long yours lasts." She lunged forward, her qiang flashing in the firelight.

Sebastian raised his staff again, but his strength was waning. Every step, every spell, drained him. He needed to lead them away, to draw her from the church. With a breath, he visualized the far end of the square—an old merchant's stand he had known well. In a blink, he stepped through space, reappearing in a shimmer of light.

"Magic?" Fai mused, turning to face him. "You think tricks will save them?"

"It's not tricks," Sebastian said quietly. "It's faith."

She charged at him, her weapon gleaming, but once again he stepped, this time appearing at the threshold of the church. He could hear the townspeople descending into the catacombs, their hurried steps echoing faintly through the hidden passageways.

That did it.

She screamed—raw and ragged—and struck with all her weight, slamming her weapon down. Sebastian's staff shattered under the force, splintering into glowing shards of old magic.

He hit the ground hard, gasping as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Pain bloomed in his ribs, sharp and immediate. He rolled to his side, coughing.

Fai stood over him, breath ragged, face twisted in rage and something more dangerous—grief unspoken.

She slowed, her smile fading. "You've lost your fight, Vicar. This town is ashes. And you will be too."

Sebastian met her gaze, his breath ragged. "Perhaps. But they will live."

"This is how it ends?" she rasped. "The faithful crushed beneath the boots of reality?"

Sebastian looked up at her, bruised but not broken. "Faith doesn't promise ease, child. Only purpose."

She raised her qiang again—but it trembled.

"You still believe in redemption?" she whispered.

He nodded, slowly. "Even now. Even for you."

Fai froze.

Behind them, the screams from the village softened—replaced by the sound of stone grinding shut. The last of the villagers had vanished into the catacombs. Safe. For now.

Sebastian smiled through blood-stained lips. "Thank you… for waiting long enough."

Realization dawned in her eyes.

"You manipulated me," she said, stepping back. "You used me—my pain—"

"I trusted you to be who you were," Sebastian replied, rising to one knee. "Not who they turned you into."

Her breathing faltered. Her hands shook. Then—

The church behind them exploded in a wave of light and fire, sealing the passage forever. The blast knocked them both off their feet, sending smoke and debris spiraling into the burning sky.

Fai Chau's eyes blazed with fury. "You dare—"

When the flames died down, there was no sign of Sebastian.

Only his staff, cracked and glowing faintly, embedded in the stone.

Fai rose slowly, her body aching, her robes torn.

She looked down at the staff for a long time.

And then she turned.

She didn't order her men to search the ruins.

She didn't speak again.

She just walked away—alone—her shadow stretching long behind her, cut through the smoke by the light of a faith she claimed not to believe in.

The wind shifted.

Albion paused at the mouth of the cavern, Excalibur still faintly pulsing at his side. His body was still aching from the earlier trials—the sparring, the teleportation, the flood of prophecy—but something else had taken hold of him now.

A stillness.

Then, a faint gust of wind rolled through the valley. Not cold. Not warm. Just… hollow.

He looked up.

The stars were gone.

The sky, once crisp and black with pinpricks of light, had turned a flat, washed-out grey. Like something had pressed its palm over the heavens and smeared them into a void.

And then—

Ash.

At first, he thought it was snow. But it didn't melt on contact. It didn't flurry. It floated.

Silent. Slow. Like the world was grieving.

He reached out and caught one of the flakes on his palm. It disintegrated, leaving behind the smell of scorched cedar, oil, and blood. Familiar. Wrong.

He looked at the flake in his palm, then up at the greyed-out sky.

And for one stupid second, he saw it.

A flower, growing from the ash. A weed, really—ugly, stubborn, alive.

He blinked. It was gone.

But that moment stayed.

His chest ached.

The runes on his forearm flared, just once—sharply, suddenly—and then dimmed again to their usual quiet glow. But Albion flinched. It wasn't pain exactly. It was like being struck in the soul.

Like someone had just been torn away from him.

He didn't know how.

He didn't know who.

But someone had died.

Not far from here.

Not just anyone.

Someone who mattered.

He stumbled back half a step, hand gripping a jagged rock to steady himself. His breath came short and quick. His heart pounded—not from exertion, but from that same feeling he'd had when his father died. That unspoken, impossible knowing. As if the world itself had shifted, and his body had registered the loss before his brain could give it a name.

"No," he whispered.

His voice barely made a sound.

The world didn't answer. It just kept drifting, ash falling like a prayer that had never been heard.

He turned to the direction of the forest—of Charlevoix. He couldn't see the flames. But he could feel them.

The faintest thrum of fire still lingered in the wind. A battle had taken place. Something catastrophic.

He pressed a hand to his chest, over the runes, over the silence.

And for a moment—just a flicker—he thought he heard someone say his name.

A whisper. A woman's voice.

"Albion…"

But when he looked around, there was no one there.

Just silence.

Just ash.

Just the beginning of guilt.

For a moment, the world went silent.

Earlier.

Smoke billowed from the remains of the church; the once proud structure reduced to rubble.

Flames danced in the wind, devouring what little was left.

Sebastian had vanished, his body consumed by the flames, or so it seemed.

The air was thick with ash and silence.

The survivors huddled deep in the catacombs, their hearts heavy with grief and fear. The ground above them trembled, the explosions reverberating through the stone walls.

Mattias closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek. "Divine, watch over him," he whispered.

As he turned to lead the villagers deeper into the catacombs, Mattias hesitated at the threshold. The screams above echoed like knives down the tunnel walls. For a second—just a breath—he looked back toward the stairwell.

"I should go back," he whispered.

A child clung to his robe, trembling. An old woman coughed behind him. He swallowed hard. Then he bent down, lifted a young boy whose legs had given out, and hoisted him over his shoulder.

"Forgive me, Vicar," he said through clenched teeth. "But I will keep them safe."

Far above, the Queen's banners flew high, but the Pope's influence lingered like a shadow—silent, hidden, and ever-present. And Vicar Sebastian, the man who had fought with nothing but faith, had disappeared, leaving only the memory of his sacrifice in the ashes of Charlevoix.

The battle raged on around him, but Winston didn't care. He didn't see the flames, didn't hear the screams. All he could see was Becca's face, her lifeless eyes staring up at him, her blood staining his hands.

He didn't notice the battalion approaching him until it was too late.

A chain wrapped around his arms, pulling him to the ground. He struggled, but the soldiers were relentless, their armor glinting in the firelight as they forced him to his knees.

The smoke burned Winston's lungs, but he didn't care.

Not yet.

Not while the fire still raged behind him.

Not while the ashes of Becca's blood still clung to his hands.

They were coming. He could hear them—marching in perfect rhythm, a wall of steel and discipline closing in through the chaos.

The Empire didn't send soldiers to clean up a battlefield.

They sent executioners.

Winston's breathing hitched, his mind a storm of adrenaline and grief. The world around him blurred, the burning streets twisting underfoot as the temperature surged. The shadows moved like ghosts between the ruins of Charlevoix, and for one stupid second, he almost thought he saw her again—Becca, standing in the fire, her sword in hand.

Then came the sound of armored boots slamming through the mud.

And the illusion shattered.

"Come and get me," Winston growled.

He spun, snatched the nearest torch from the ruined blacksmith's post, and hurled it.

The flame collided with an oil barrel, and the street exploded.

The shockwave knocked the two soldiers back, their bodies crashing into a crumbling wall with a thunderous crack. Fire danced through the air, illuminating Winston's silhouette as he moved through the inferno like a god made of fury and blood.

But more came.

Ten. Fifteen. Thirty.

Steel glinted as they emerged from the smoke—blades drawn, shields raised, expressions unreadable behind their helms.

But one of them—a young knight near the front—hesitated.

His grip faltered as Winston stepped through the fire, his face caked in soot, his eyes wild and bloodlit.

He wasn't a man anymore.

He was a legend with blood on his teeth.

"Nimue preserve us," the knight muttered.

And then Winston roared and charged.

Another soldier got a knee to the gut and a shattered nose for his trouble. The next, Winston headbutted so hard that his helmet bent inward with a sickening crunch. The last slashed low—caught Winston in the thigh.

Pain flared white-hot. But he didn't slow.

He grabbed the soldier by the collar and slammed him into the ground, stomping his ribs until he stopped moving.

He saw her again—Becca, in the old guild hall, standing in front of a map, her braid looped around her finger.

"You always think violence is the answer," she'd said, smiling sideways.

"And you always think smiling will fix everything," he'd answered.

But right now, he needed both.

Blood coated Winston's arms, but none of it mattered. Not when the rage was burning harder than the pain.

One of the soldiers froze—blade half-raised, eyes wide behind his visor. He watched Winston tear through his comrades like a wolf in a slaughterhouse.

"Admiral Ryland…" he whispered.

Another soldier shoved him forward.

"Move!"

But the hesitation lingered. And in that flicker, the myth grew teeth.

He fought like a wild animal.

No style. No grace.

Just pure, unrelenting will.

A sword swung at his back. He twisted and caught it barehanded, the steel biting deep into his palm. He yanked it from the stunned soldier's grip and drove it straight into another's neck.

Another came from behind. Winston wheeled around and tackled him through a burning doorway.

They crashed into a family's dining room—half-collapsed, half-consumed by fire.

The soldier hit the wall. Didn't get up.

Winston turned—limping now—and hurled a broken chair at the next. It splintered on impact, but it bought him a second.

Only a second.

A net hit him from the left.

He sliced it with his stolen sword, but two more soldiers rammed into him from behind, slamming him to the ground. Another kicked him in the ribs. Then again. He spat blood onto the floor, rolled over, and grabbed the soldier's leg.

Wrenched.

He heard the pop of a dislocated knee, followed by a scream.

Another sword came down toward his back.

Winston caught it.

Held it with both hands.

And rose to his feet.

Roaring.

His body trembled. His legs shook. But still, he stood.

Bleeding. Burned. Barely alive.

But he stood.

Until they swarmed him.

One tackled his waist. Another slammed the hilt of a sword against his temple. A third soldier wrapped chains around his arms, binding them behind his back with cruel precision.

Winston let out a final growl, trying to shake them off.

But his knees buckled.

The last thing he saw was a line of soldiers parting—like the sea making way for death.

She stepped through them—Captain Gravis, tall and terrible, her silver armor untouched by the carnage.

She didn't speak.

She didn't have to.

Winston knew exactly what her eyes said.

They hadn't come to capture him.

They came to break the legend.

And this time… they did.

Gravis stood before him, her lance still smoking from her battle with Leeds. Her expression was cold, emotionless, as she looked down at Winston with disdain.

"You've caused enough trouble," she said, her voice calm. "It's time to face the consequences."

Gravis motioned to one of her soldiers, and they tightened the chains around Winston's arms, forcing him to his feet.

"You'll be taken to the Queen," Gravis said, her voice steady. "And the Pope. They'll decide your fate."

She looked back at the scorched square—the bodies, the wreckage, the burned remnants of a fight no one would believe.

"This is no victory," she murmured, almost to herself. "Just cleanup."

Then she turned away, silver cape fluttering like a curtain closing on a ruined stage.

Winston struggled against the chains, but his strength was gone. The dark energy that had fueled his rage was fading, leaving him weak, broken.

Winston's heart sank. He had failed. He had lost everything. Becca was dead, Charlevoix was in ruins, and now he was a prisoner of the very empire he had fought so hard to resist. As they led him away, the flames of Charlevoix burning behind him, Winston cast one final look at Becca's body, lying forgotten in the dirt.

From the edge of a crumbled wall, a single villager watched—half-hidden by rubble, face smudged with ash.

A child, maybe ten.

She didn't cry. She didn't scream.

She just whispered the name like a secret prayer.

"Winston…"

A soldier turned at the sound, but she was already gone—disappearing into the smoke, like the last breath of a story not yet finished.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the fire. "I'm so sorry..."

And then he was gone.