The fire no longer roared.

  Ash fell like snow. Burned rafters cracked and collapsed in the distance. The air was thick with the scent of scorched wood and blood.

  Zafran stood motionless, sword lowered, grip loose, eyes fixed on the place where Varzen had vanished. His breathing came ragged—deep and sharp, as if trying to suppress the storm still raging in his body.

  Behind him, Isolde stirred.

  He turned instantly, dropping to one knee. “Isolde—”

  “I’m fine,” she muttered.

  A lie. Her voice trembled. One hand clutched her ribs, blood soaking through torn fabric. Ice no longer formed around her wounds—she was too drained.

  “You’re not.”

  He pulled off his outer vest and pressed it gently to her side. His hands were steady despite the soot streaking his face. Isolde didn’t resist. She just watched him, too tired to mask the pain in her eyes.

  As he worked, Zafran’s gaze flicked across the wreckage, checking the others.

  Karin stood some distance away—singed, scratched, but on her feet. Exhausted, though. Her final burst had drained everything. The grass around her was burned to dust.

  Elsha limped toward a figure on the ground.

  Ysar.

  Blood pooled beneath him.

  “Go take care of your own people,” Isolde said softly.

  “You should stop trying to be the tough one for once,” Zafran murmured, securing the bandage. She looked away.

  “Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

  She gave a small nod.

  Zafran moved fast, crossing to where Elsha knelt beside Ysar. Karin had already joined them, checking his wounds.

  “He’ll live,” Elsha said as Zafran arrived. “Bleeding’s under control, but he needs real care.”

  “I’ll look for something in the houses,” Karin offered, already scanning the ruins.

  Zafran nodded toward the trees. “There’s a clearing by the river. Let’s move him.”

  The clearing was quiet, tucked beneath the drooping branches of old willows. Moonlight spilled between the leaves, silvering the grass. The soft rush of water drowned out the pain in their bones.

  Ysar lay wrapped and half-conscious, a blanket under his head. Isolde was nearby—still, silent, her breathing shallow. For once, she didn’t argue about being tended to. She had nothing left.

  Karin returned with cloth and herbs scavenged from what little remained.

  She worked in silence.

  Elsha ground herbs with the hilt of her knife, applying paste to Ysar’s wounds.

  “Don’t die on me,” Ysar rasped, eyes half-lidded.

  “Shut up,” Elsha replied, pushing him down again. “You’ll reopen everything.”

  Karin knelt beside him, rolling fresh bandages. “Hold still.”

  “Ow.”

  “Still,” she said, without looking up.

  He obeyed.

  When Ysar’s ribs were wrapped tight, she turned to Elsha. “Might be a fracture.”

  “I’m still moving everything fine.”

  “That’s a good sign,” Karin murmured.

  Zafran stepped into the edge of the firelight, sleeve torn, collar bloodied.

  Karin glanced up. “You’re next.”

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  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not,” she said, already reaching for his arm.

  They said nothing else.

  The fire crackled.

  Nobody asked what came next.

  The silence hung—part comfort, part weight.

  Then Ysar muttered from the ground, “So… who’s making breakfast?”

  “Shut. Up.” Elsha and Karin answered in unison.

  Someone laughed.

  Quiet.

  Tired.

  But real.

  Dawn bled slowly across the sky, pale and indifferent.

  The fire had died to embers. Steam curled where morning dew met scorched soil. Karin sat beside Ysar, resting at last, while Elsha pressed another layer of herbs to her side—her movements slow, but steady.

  Zafran stood at the riverbank. His coat hung open, bandages tight beneath it. The cut across his ribs burned faintly, but he didn’t feel it. Not yet.

  He turned toward Isolde—no longer sitting apart. Her back was against a mossy stone, her cloak wrapped around her knees, blood crusted at her side.

  She looked up when he stepped near.

  “Now that we can breathe again,” Zafran said quietly, “can you tell us… just—everything?”

  Isolde’s eyes shifted away from his. She stared at the river for a long beat. Then she spoke.

  “My family… was one of the founding houses of the Crimson Hand.”

  Karin’s fingers froze on the roll of bandages in her lap. Elsha stilled beside her.

  “It wasn’t a cult,” Isolde said. “Not at the start. It was a circle—nobles, planar theorists, engineers, high mages. My father helped form it. They called themselves reformists. Visionaries.”

  Zafran didn’t speak.

  “They believed the future wasn’t in separating magic from machine—but in uniting them. Carefully. Systematically. And for a while… it worked.”

  She exhaled.

  “They created planar insulators. Devices that stabilized magic near machines. That let cities run on both planar and wire. No overloads. No explosions.”

  Karin blinked. “Wait… the interference problem’s solved?”

  “It was solved,” Isolde said. “Since before I turned ten.”

  Her voice dropped.

  “But that wasn’t enough. Someone pushed further. They began experimenting with planar density—how much magic could be pulled from a living source. They believed the soul was just a higher form of planar cohesion.”

  Elsha’s shoulders tensed. Zafran frowned.

  Isolde looked toward Karin. “You’ve heard the theory right—soul and planar. Are they separate?”

  Karin nodded slowly. “They’re… debated.”

  “They’re not,” Isolde said, voice quiet. “They’re the same.”

  Silence fell.

  “They built a device—an extractor. Small at first. They tested it on animals. Then criminals. Then volunteers. And they pour it into an empty vessels, machine.”

  Karin’s lips parted, breath shallow. “And then?”

  Isolde’s voice was almost a whisper.

  “It was alive.”

  But her gaze didn’t lift.

  “Just… not the same person. It was an empty echo that followed orders without hesitation.”

  “Hollow,” Elsha murmured. “Like something wearing a soul it doesn’t belong to.”

  Isolde nodded.

  “Monstrous,” Karin muttered.

  “Worse,” Isolde said. “It was efficient.”

  She paused.

  “My father tried to shut the project down. They called him a traitor. One night… the order came.”

  She didn’t elaborate.

  Zafran didn’t press her.

  After a long moment, her voice steadied again.

  “Then came the uprising. They used that knowledge to stage a revolution. The old king fell. A young prince was placed on the throne—someone they could control. The world called it reform.”

  She looked at them, calm now.

  “My family’s name was buried. And the Crimson Hand grew.”

  Isolde’s words faded. Silence followed—long and brittle.

  Then she stood. Slow, unsteady, but her spine held straight.

  “Jadinthar’s not far,” she said. “West path. If you leave now, you’ll reach it by nightfall.”

  Elsha looked toward Ysar, his shallow breaths saying more than any words.

  She nodded. “That’s where we’ll go.”

  Zafran’s gaze didn’t leave Isolde.

  “And you?”

  She turned her eyes north. Toward the trees.

  “I’m heading to Cloudspeak.”

  “Why?”

  A pause.

  “A man,” she said. “One of my father’s last confidants. He knew the real structure of the Crimson Hand—who they serve, what they’re building. He disappeared from Fyonar months ago. Then… resurfaced. Sent a letter. Said he made it to Cloudspeak.”

  Zafran’s jaw tensed.

  “Princess Seren sent me to find an informant like that. He vanished. When I got to his house, there were Crimson Hand assassins waiting.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Could be the same man.”

  Isolde said nothing.

  But she didn’t look away.

  Zafran turned to the others.

  “You should go to Jadinthar.”

  Karin’s voice cracked through the air.

  “Wait—what? Us?”

  Zafran nodded. “It’s the best choice. Ysar—”

  “I know what Ysar needs,” she snapped. Too loud. Too fast.

  The silence rippled. Everyone froze.

  She stepped forward, fists clenched, eyes bright.

  “But what about you? You’re bleeding. Barely walking. And now you’re just—what—following her like none of that mattered?”

  Zafran stayed still. Calm.

  Too calm.

  Karin’s voice cracked again. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided.”

  “I didn’t want to drag you into—”

  “Too late!” she shouted. Her breath caught. “Too late for that.”

  Elsha shifted. But Karin wasn’t finished.

  “I don’t even know what I’m mad at,” she hissed. “Maybe it’s the way you look at her when Ysar and Elsha are barely breath. Maybe it’s the way you keep throwing yourself into flames like it’s the only way you know how to feel anything.”

  Her fists trembled.

  “And now I’m the one who’s weak? I held it together. I saved your damn life. And you just—” she bit the word off. “Walk away.”

  Zafran didn’t speak.

  Didn’t flinch.

  Elsha moved between them. “Karin—”

  “Fine!” Karin said, quick, loud and turned away in a swift rage. “Do what you always do.”

  She grabbed her pack with shaking hands, and stormed over to Ysar.

  Elsha linger, then looked back at Zafran.

  “She’s not wrong.”

  “I know.”

  A beat passed. Then a smile, faint and tired, touched Elsha’s lips.

  “Promise you won’t die.”

  “You know I won’t,” he said softly. “Just… take care of them. You’re the only one I trust with that.”

  Elsha held his gaze, then nodded. No more words.

  She moved to Karin, helped Ysar up.

  Ysar didn’t speak. Just watched Zafran for a long, silent moment.

  Then sighed—and turned away.

  Zafran stood at the river’s edge, alone again.

  Then turned, and followed Isolde—

  who had already begun walking.

  Not looking back.

  No one did.