The storm struck like a wild beast.
High in the mountain pass, Elira fought the wind with every step, her cloak drenched, the rain cutting like glass. Thunder cracked across the peaks, echoing through the rocks like a god's warning. But she didn't turn back. She couldn't. The rumors had led her here—rumors of children who didn't cry, of villages where no one mourned, and of a shadow that had not fully died.
The Weeping Blade glowed faintly at her side, not with fire, but with memory. Each pulse in its runes echoed like a heartbeat—Caelen's heartbeat, quiet but present.
Ahead, the wind parted—just enough for her to glimpse a silhouette. An old woman stood beneath a twisted pine, her cloak unmoved by the storm, her eyes like twin lanterns in the dark. She was waiting.
"You've come far," the woman said, her voice slicing through the gale. "Chasing what you think you can still stop."
Elira stepped forward, water streaming from her hood. "I've seen the signs. The numbness spreading again. It's not over."
"No," the woman murmured, nodding. "But it's not him. Not the hollow god. Just his echo. A seed he planted in the bones of the world."
Elira's heart clenched. "Then how do I stop it?"
The old woman looked past her, into the storm. "With what he left you. Not the blade. Not the curse. The light. The story. His kindness. That's what keeps the shadow from growing."
And then, the wind changed.
It softened—not dying, but shifting. It circled Elira like a whisper, brushing her cheek with a gentleness that felt… familiar.
She froze.
Caelen's voice. Soft. Strong. Whispered through the gale.
You're enough, Elira. You always were.
Keep them kind.
Tears welled in her eyes. Not of grief—but of clarity. He hadn't left. Not truly. He was in her—in every mercy she offered, in every hand she reached for, every tale she told beside firelight.
The storm faded.
The peaks cleared.
Below, in the hollow between the cliffs, the village waited. A place where children smiled with empty eyes. Where laughter didn't echo right. Where kindness had started to wither.
Elira set her hand on the blade, but it was her voice that would be her weapon now.
The curse hummed with purpose—not agony, but resolve. She wasn't just Caelen's keeper anymore. She was his flamebearer, and the fire had only just begun to burn.
The fight wasn't over.
But neither was he.
And neither was she.