25

Eighteen sets.

Four vertical lines. One diagonal through. Over and over.

Then four more, standing alone—no fifth to cross them out.

Ninety-four tallies, carved sloppily into the wall by the back corner, just above where the cot leg scraped tile. The first few sets were shallow. Almost neat. 

A little over three months. Elara had been in this cramped cell for a little over three months.

No window. No clock. Just a flickering ceiling light and a stiff, cheap cot.

The door hissed and made a quiet hydraulic sounding slide across the seldom washed tile.

Rowan stepped in as unimportant as he could. One hand buried in his coat pocket, the other cradling a chipped porcelain mug. He didn't speak right away. Just sipped whatever was inside, glanced at the scratch-marks on the wall, and gave a hard, near comedic whistle.

"Rowan." She watched him with narrow eyes. "What now?"

Rowan let the silence stretch as long as it wanted. He finally took a seat on the edge of the cot like it was a couch, one leg over the other, mug balanced on his knee.

"You're lucky, y'know," he said, half a yawn in his tone. "Most people don't survive pissing off Callum."

He tilted the cup to her in mock salute. "Says a lot about your potential. Or maybe just how little he wants to deal with this."

Still, she didn't respond. Her pulse hadn't slowed.

Rowan sighed, stretching his neck like he'd just woken up. "I'm here to deliver a message," he said, finally. "You get to look for the kid. Chances are they will strike again next month. That said, you better not fail us. Because if you do…"

He paused but it obviously wasn't for drama. He sounded so disinterested, as if the sentence itself didn't matter.

"Look, I really don't wanna deal with Osei."

That name had a way of coming in alot of conversation, not that she was included in many. But around the small jailing system tied directly to celaris, he came up a lot without context. She didn't know it—but she understood he likely had more authority than she could fathom.

Rowan stood, finished his drink, and headed back toward the door.

"Rest up," he said. "They'll be calling you soon."

The hiss of the door closing behind him was the only thing that moved faster than he did.

––––—

Kamo sat still, spine upright, legs folded beneath him. His palms rested on his knees, fingers relaxed—not pressed together, not clenched. Breath in. Held. Out.

He breathed in. Held. Out. Again.

The air in the old vault didn't move. It tasted like eucalyptus and limestone—dry, mineral, almost antiseptic. Not like the rot and mold that had settled into the mountain a long time ago and never fully dried. Even now, the place still remembered death. That didn't bother him.

He remained still.

The sound of the new recruits outside barely touched him. Voices echoed against damp stone. Metal struck metal—sloppy, uneven. They were learning. They were loud about it. Kamo wasn't listening.

Somewhere beyond the vault, crickets chirped and frogs leapt through the brush by the waterfall. Kamo sat with his eyes closed, watching in his own way.

His focus stayed inward.

Far away from conscious thought. In absence. Deeper than breath. Deeper than silence.

Sometimes, a second voice rose from within—a whisper, regretful and soft. Sometimes a subtler third, clawing up through bone and blood. His awareness stretched inward, settling on the constellation of minds within his own.

One glowed with restrained sorrow. A presence barely conscious—soft, hesitant, almost human. It didn't speak. It only lingered, like a memory that hurt to keep but refused to leave.

There was also a presence similar to the sun—hot and righteous. A sun alive with fury, not just burning but yearning to fall, to crash into the world and reduce it to ash. Once, Kamo might have followed that voice.

The third was distant and cold. A moon. Its hatred matched the sun's, but it didn't burn. It circled endlessly, indifferent but constant, its gravity was subtle.

Beneath them all was Kamo. The earth. Rooted in the center, absorbing their pull but resisting them outright.

Kamo felt the judgement of each entity. But this was nothing abnormal, he ignored them. As he did not care how he was perceived. He found himself within this void of souls often. If his understanding was correct, he had dominion over everything it housed. But he didn't clearly know how to command it.

Outside the chamber, the new recruits echoed—blades clashed, orders repeated, names shouted he didn't care to remember. Seventy-five, maybe more. Few mattered yet.

A few exceptions existed. Ren was one of them. The first man to beat Kamo in a fight—even with Nagitsu's help. 

According to the bidders and the ones who oversee the eclipse, that alone would put him on the high end of awakened rank if not low ascended rank. 

That bothered Kamo by itself. But Ren's easy smile, his eagerness to fight, the way he enjoyed it—that irritated Kamo more.

There weren't many publicly known factions left to recruit from. Not anymore. Every Foundation had fallen. All five. Three months ago, they were fortresses. Now, they were graves.

Kamo had led every attack. Dozens dead by his hands. And yet—he still hadn't summoned the boy.

Hikari.

He knew the name now. Takairo had said it days ago, arguing with another recruit—Kaen—claiming Kaen was too weak, that he had failed him. Kamo didn't disagree. Most of these new recruits were too weak. That wasn't what confused him.

Takairo was right. But he, too, was too weak. He wouldn't have been able to help Hikari either.

It was inevitable. Every Kynenn would end up in one of two places: the afterlife, or here. And if Ketsuen ever gave them reason to believe there was a third option—that would mean Kamo had failed. And Kamo was not a failure.

A shadow shifted behind him. Nagitsu's voice cut through the silence, dry as always.

"You planning to sit here brooding for the rest of your life? You were the one who said we needed more recruits. Yet you don't speak to any of them."

Kamo didn't open his eyes. "Yes. We need them. That doesn't make any of them a peer of mine."

Nagitsu shook his head, the movement edged with disappointment. "Why do you act like that? When did the whole world become your enemy?"

Kamo ignored him.

Nagitsu didn't let it go. "But lately… you've been even quieter than usual. Since that last raid."

"There's nothing to say," Kamo replied.

Nagitsu's brows rose, skeptical. "Were you ever able to summon him?"

Kamo opened his eyes at last. "No."

"Figure out why?"

"Because I can't."

Nagitsu sounded genuinely surprised. "Can't? What do you mean?"

"He's not responding. Feels like something's in the way."

Nagitsu pressed further, voice lower. "I'm sure you know your own intentions—so give me grace for this—but how do we know you really claimed him? How do we know you didn't just kill him like the rest?"

Kamo offered no reply.

Nagitsu's tone sharpened, less accusation than genuine doubt. "Because if this 'bond' is real—if he's part of you now—how much would someone have to hate you to ignore a command written into their instinct?"

Kamo's answer was quiet. "He does hate me. I'm what he fights not to become. In his mind—I'm a monster."

Nagitsu shook his head. "You don't know him."

Kamo shrugged. "So? He could've killed me. He didn't. He burned the whole room—cut off every shadow I had. Stood over me, only to hesitate. If anything, he pitied me."

He wasn't really talking to Nagitsu anymore—just working through the memory aloud.

"You should've seen his face. He was debating it—one life for many. But by standing over me, he gave me the shadow I needed. I reached through it—through him. And when my hand went through his chest… He looked at me like I betrayed him."

Nagitsu's voice was softer, almost reflective. "So he gave you mercy, and you turned it into a weapon."

Kamo didn't hesitate. "That's what mercy is. I won't let someone's feelings interrupt my mission."

Nagitsu pressed. "Then maybe he's right. Don't lie to yourself—You are a monster."

Kamo was quiet. Then, a short, humorless smirk. "Did you come here for a reason?"

Nagitsu's answer was clipped. "Fūre's asking for us. Both of us."

Kamo stood. Walked past him without another word. Didn't look back.

Nagitsu watched him leave. He didn't follow right away. The silence felt heavy, Nagitsu missed the person Kamo had been years ago, his personality development gave Nagitsu a sense of disappointment.

The war room glowed with the cold flicker of news feeds off the 3 maps hung against the wall.

Fūre stood in front of the screen, cycling through images: crowded ballrooms, lavish decor, bright faces grinning at staged spectacle. He barely glanced over as Kamo and Nagitsu entered.

Nagitsu was the first to break the silence, wary but blunt. "What exactly are we looking at?"

Fūre's eyes stayed on the screen. "The Eclipse Fundraiser is scheduled next month. Publicly, it's a lavish ceremony—spectacle, entertainment, the finalizing of bids on the upcoming Eclipse. A celebration, basically."

Nagitsu's expression tightened, openly skeptical. "With what kynenn, exactly? Every Foundation they had is rubble."

Fūre nodded slowly, conceding the point. "The Foundations are gone, yes. But Celaris doesn't lack candidates. They'll use prisoners, volunteers hungry for fame, violent criminals chasing freedom or redemption. It's not ideal for them—but there's still plenty to feed the machine."

Nagitsu frowned. "So, what's the real issue here? Why bring this up?"

Fūre finally turned slightly, his voice measured but firm. "I'm split between choices. Personally, I believe hitting this event could force Celaris to delay the Eclipse—by a few years, maybe all four. But it's obviously bait. We've hurt their pride badly, Nagitsu. Now they have to prove they still hold control. Frankly, they're counting on us showing up. Banking on it."

Nagitsu's jaw set, defensive as ever. "Then walking in would be suicidal. We've already done enough. Foundations destroyed, their system bleeding out. Why step into their trap now?"

Fūre met his gaze, clear and unwavering. "Because, despite the maniacs who volunteer for the Eclipse willingly, our goal was always to stop those who were forced in—by any means necessary. We've minimized it, yes. But we haven't ended it. And that's why I'm still deciding."