Death did not wait for anger.
It waited for honesty.
Leon learned that before sunrise.
He sat alone at the edge of the training ground, knees drawn up, forearms resting across them. The Mark of Death lay dormant along his right arm—black lines like cooled ink beneath skin. It did not pulse the way War had. It did not test him. It simply watched.
Leon exhaled slowly.
For days, he had avoided it. War had given him structure, command, a way forward. Death offered none of that—only endings. Only memory. Only the quiet certainty that everything he protected would someday fall away.
And that terrified him more than any god.
"You're circling it," Elyra said behind him. "Like prey that knows the snare is there."
Leon didn't turn. "Because Death isn't something you master by force."
"No," Elyra agreed. "You master it by acceptance."
He closed his eyes.
The moment he acknowledged the Mark—not as a weapon, not as a consequence, but as truth—it stirred.
The world sharpened.
Not violently. Not painfully. The way a room feels after a long-held breath is finally released.
Leon felt it then: the fragile persistence of life around him. The faint warmth in Elyra's presence. The slow, stubborn heartbeat of the village beyond the hill. Even the grass beneath him, already leaning toward its inevitable withering.
Death did not erase those things.
It measured them.
Leon's chest tightened.
"I've been afraid," he admitted quietly. "That if I let it in… I'd stop caring."
Elyra stepped closer. "And what do you feel now?"
Leon swallowed.
"…Gratitude."
The Mark responded.
A cool sensation spread through his arm—not numbness, but clarity. The whisper he had once feared resolved into a single, steady presence. Death did not hunger. It did not urge. It simply stood, reminding him that time was finite—and therefore meaningful.
Leon reached inward.
Not to pull power.
But to let go.
Images surfaced unbidden: the burning house, Lou's lifeless eyes, the hollow quiet after the slaughter. For the first time, Leon did not recoil from them. He did not justify them. He let them exist—acknowledged, mourned, and laid to rest.
His breathing steadied.
The Mark of Death pulsed once.
And settled.
Mana shifted within him, responding to the alignment. Where War had threaded crimson through his core, Death added something else—a deep, muted violet, cool and solemn. It did not dominate. It balanced.
Life and end.
Command and consequence.
Leon opened his eyes.
"I don't have to die to atone," he said.
Elyra smiled faintly. "No. You have to live well."
He told those close to him everything that evening.
They gathered in the common room—Rebecca, Efil, Lynnette, and Carla sitting close, as if distance itself were something to be wary of. Leon stood at first, then sat, then finally leaned forward with his elbows on his knees when the weight of the words became too much to carry upright.
"I thought keeping it to myself was protecting you," Leon said. "But it wasn't. It was punishing myself."
No one interrupted.
So he spoke.
He told them about the nights he couldn't sleep because every shadow felt like a threat. About how the Mark of Death terrified him because it reminded him how easily he'd crossed a line. About how some mornings he woke up already exhausted, convinced the only thing he was good for was standing between danger and everyone else—until there was nothing left of him.
Rebecca's hands trembled.
Carla's jaw tightened.
Lynnette cried openly.
Efil moved first.
She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Leon without asking. Rebecca followed, then Lynnette, then Carla—awkward and stiff, but present. Leon froze, then exhaled shakily and let himself lean into them.
"You don't get to disappear," Rebecca said into his shoulder. "Not quietly. Not bravely. Not alone."
Carla snorted softly. "If you try, I'll drag you back myself."
Leon laughed once—a broken sound, but real.
"I don't want to die," he admitted. "I just… didn't know how to live with what I'd done."
Efil pulled back enough to look at him. "Then we learn together."
The Mark of Death stirred.
Not in warning.
In approval.
Later that night, Leon stood beneath the stars again, status plate in hand. When he activated it, the metal responded instantly.
Status Plate – Leon Smith
Primary Mark: War (Mastered)
Secondary Mark: Death (Mastered)
Titles:
– Bearer of War's Accord
– Warden of Quietus
– Bringer of the End
Abilities Unlocked:
– Quietus Sense: Perceive imminent death, lingering regret, and severed fate.
– Mercy's End: Deliver painless, decisive finality to hostile entities beyond redemption.
– Grave Anchor: Emotional stability increases in proximity to death or loss.
– Requiem: Calm hostile mana fluctuations and suppress berserk states—ally or enemy.
Passive Effect:
– Death reinforces clarity instead of draining resolve when actions align with acceptance rather than despair.
Leon closed the plate.
For the first time, Death did not feel like a sentence.
It felt like permission—to mourn, to stop running, to stay.
Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, Skabelse paused.
Something in the weave had shifted—not violently, not rebelliously.
But steadily.
Two Marks, no longer screaming in opposition.
But listening.
And that, Skabelse realized, might be far more dangerous than rage.
Leon sat awake long after the others had drifted to sleep, the embers of the hearth reduced to a dull red glow. The house was quiet—not the brittle silence of before, but something softer. Breathing. Lived-in.
Angelica slept curled near the wall, her expression calm for once. Mina lay nearby, arms tucked close to her chest, fingers twitching faintly as if caught in some half-remembered dream. Leon watched them both, the faint rise and fall of their breaths anchoring him more than any grounding exercise ever had.
The Death Mark pulsed gently along his arm.
Not demanding.
Observant.
Leon's thoughts drifted—not toward the problem of other Marks, not toward gods or futures he could not yet reach—but inward, toward what he now had.
Mastery did not mean excess.
It meant application.
He rose quietly and stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against his skin. Sitting on the worn step, Leon closed his eyes and let his mana circulate freely for the first time since the alignment had settled.
Crimson marched in steady lines.
Violet flowed beneath it.
And then—something shifted.
Leon's breath caught as the world seemed to hesitate.
For the briefest instant, he knew.
A lantern in the village guttered—and before it did, Leon saw the flame falter.
A distant footstep echoed—and before it sounded, Leon sensed the weight of it.
The moments overlapped, thin as stacked glass.
Leon's eyes snapped open.
"…That wasn't memory," he whispered.
The Death Mark responded, faint but unmistakable.
Leon focused again, carefully this time. He did not push. He did not pull. He allowed the violet current to drift forward—not through space, but through sequence.
Understanding bloomed, slow and unsettling.
Death did not only mark endings.
It marked when endings occurred.
The flow between now and not-now.
The space where inevitability took shape.
"A margin," Leon murmured. "Just a margin… but it's there."
He could not see far. Heartbeats, at most. Flickers. Impressions. Possibility brushing against certainty.
But it was enough.
Enough to step aside.
Enough to choose differently.
Enough to prevent a death that had not yet decided to happen.
Leon exhaled slowly, a quiet laugh escaping him—half awe, half unease.
"So that's it," he said softly. "Death isn't just the end.
"It's the approach."
The Mark pulsed once in agreement.
Not a command.
A confirmation.
Leon leaned back against the wall, eyes lifting to the stars. The future no longer felt like a wall rushing toward him.
It felt like a narrow path.
And for the first time, he could see where to place his feet.
Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, Skabelse's fingers stilled against the weave.
A deviation.
Not power.
Timing.
Skabelse frowned.
Because altering the flow of time was dangerous.
But altering the flow of death—even slightly—was something the gods had never intended to share.
Skabelse straightened—then slowly went still.
For the first time in an age, his short, slicked-back silver hair fell out of perfect order, several pale strands slipping loose to hang in front of his face. Not in rage.
In quiet displeasure.
The weave did not resist him.
But it no longer flowed exactly as intended.
"…Interesting," Skabelse murmured.
He did not look away from the mortal world when he spoke again.
"Valkyrie," he said—not loudly, but with the weight of creation behind the word.
The space behind him folded inward.
Light condensed there, coalescing into form—metal, muscle, and oath given shape. Wings of white and ash unfurled silently, feathers edged like blades. A woman stepped forward from the radiance, tall and unyielding, clad in silvered armor etched with runes older than kingdoms. A crested helm rested beneath her arm, pale hair braided tight down her back, eyes cold as northern seas.
A Norse Valkyrie—judge, executioner, and herald of divine will.
"Do not strike the bearer," Skabelse commanded, his obscured gaze never lifting. "Break the foundations that keep him whole. Let loss do what force cannot."
The Valkyrie dropped to one knee, spear striking the firmament in salute.
"As you will, Creator," she answered.
Skabelse raised one hand.
A spear of pale radiance formed—not cast outward, but backward, dissolving into the Valkyrie's wings as command and passage intertwined.
In the next instant, she was gone.
Sent—not to battle.
But to begin one.
The next morning passed quietly.
Too quietly.
Leon returned to the training ground alone, the air cool and heavy with dew. Fallen leaves carpeted the earth—brown, curled, brittle beneath his boots. Broken branches lay scattered where storms had snapped them loose days before. The world here was already full of endings.
He knelt and picked up a leaf.
It crumbled slightly between his fingers.
"Let's start honest," Leon murmured.
He let the Mark of Death stir.
Not as command. Not as force.
As understanding.
The violet thread of mana surfaced, calm and deliberate. Leon focused not on restoring the leaf—but on its moment. The instant it had crossed from living green to inevitable decay. He did not imagine reversing time.
He imagined choice.
The space between breaths.
Between green and brown.
Between still alive and already gone.
The Mark responded.
Not with resistance—but with clarity.
Leon felt it then: the thin current beneath the world, the quiet slope that all things followed once they tipped past a certain point. Death was not a cliff.
It was a gradient.
Leon eased violet mana into the leaf—not pushing backward, not dragging it forward, but pressing gently against inevitability.
The leaf shuddered.
Its edges stiffened.
Color did not return.
Life did not bloom.
But the decay—slowed.
The crumble halted mid-fall, fragments hanging together where they should have broken apart. The leaf did not live again.
But it did not finish dying.
Leon inhaled sharply.
"…I didn't revive you," he whispered. "I paused you."
The Mark pulsed—once, approving.
Leon tried again.
A snapped branch next—dry, gray, long dead. He focused, repeating the sensation, guiding mana along the same margin. The wood creaked softly as fractures tightened, fibers knitting just enough to hold.
Not restored.
Stabilized.
Leon sat back on his heels, heart pounding—not with excitement, but with dawning comprehension.
Death was not reversal.
It was arbitration.
The authority to decide when something was allowed to end.
Slowly, Leon stood.
He spread his senses outward.
Leaves. Roots. Insects beneath soil. Fungi threading through rot. He could feel countless endings in progress—some natural, some violent, some waiting only for neglect.
And he could touch them.
Not all.
Not freely.
But precisely.
Leon raised his hand and let the Mark breathe.
Violet deepened—darkened—threads of silver tracing through it like veins of moonlight. His mana no longer flowed as pure force.
It measured.
Leon laughed softly, the sound edged with disbelief.
"This is why the gods fear it," he murmured. "Not because it kills… but because it decides."
He clenched his fist, severing the flow.
The leaf finally crumbled.
The branch sagged and broke.
The world resumed.
Leon stood there in the quiet training ground, breath steady, arms trembling—not from strain, but from restraint.
He had not brought anything back.
He had not defied death.
He had spoken to it.
And it had listened.
The first scream cut through the air like a blade.
Leon froze.
Another followed—closer. Higher. Panic.
His senses flared outward on instinct, the Death Mark surging before he could restrain it. Threads snapped into focus—dozens of them—endings unfolding too fast, too violently, too wrong.
"No…" Leon whispered.
The village.
He ran.
The world blurred as he pushed himself past restraint, feet barely touching the ground. Smoke rose above the rooftops, dark and twisting. By the time Leon reached the village square, the sounds were unmistakable—steel tearing through flesh, screams choking into silence, the thunderous impact of something far heavier than mortal weapons.
She stood at the center of it all.
The Valkyrie.
Winged helm gleaming, pale armor etched with runes that drank in light. Her spear moved with divine inevitability, every thrust precise, every withdrawal ending a life. Villagers fell around her like wheat before a scythe, their threads severed mid-scream.
Leon felt his stomach drop.
"STOP!" he roared.
She did not even look at him.
Her spear pierced through a man's chest and withdrew without resistance. He collapsed, eyes empty before his body hit the ground.
Then Leon saw them.
Angelica stood near the shattered remains of a cart, blood soaking through her clothes. She was braced in front of Mina, one arm outstretched, magic flickering weakly as she tried to form a barrier.
"Stay behind me!" Angelica shouted, her voice hoarse.
Mina clung to her back, sobbing, her mark glowing erratically as fear tore through her control.
The Valkyrie turned.
Her gaze locked onto them.
"No—!" Leon screamed, power flooding his limbs as he lunged forward.
Too slow.
The spear flew.
Angelica didn't hesitate.
She twisted, forcing herself fully between Mina and the strike.
The spear did not stop.
It punched through Angelica's body in a violent burst of blood and light, divine energy tearing through her chest—and continued, its tip ripping into Mina behind her. Mina screamed as the force threw them both backward, Angelica's body collapsing over her protectively even as life fled her eyes.
"ANGELICA!" Leon's scream tore through the square.
He reached for Death—hard—too hard.
The Mark screamed back.
Time slowed.
Not enough.
Leon saw Angelica's thread shredded beyond recovery, severed so completely there was nothing left to grasp. He pushed anyway, desperate, forcing mana against inevitability—
—and hit an unyielding wall.
The gradient became a cliff.
Angelica's eyes found his.
There was pain.
There was fear.
And beneath it—peace.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Protect… her…"
Her thread vanished.
The world lurched forward.
Angelica fell.
Dead.
Mina cried out beneath her, blood staining her clothes where the spear had grazed too deep.
Leon's scream shattered what remained of his restraint.
The Death Mark detonated along his arms, violet and silver ripping outward as the ground cracked beneath his knees. He hit the dirt beside Mina, hands shaking as he pressed himself over her.
"NO—NO—NO—" he choked. "Not her. Not again."
He did not reach for control.
He reached for everything.
Grief. Rage. Love. Guilt. Promise.
Leon poured his entire being into the Death Mark—not to reclaim what was lost—but to refuse the next loss.
Violet mana surged, silver burning like fractured starlight as time warped violently around Mina's thread. The bleeding slowed. The unraveling stopped.
Not healed.
Not restored.
Held in defiance.
Mina gasped, clinging to consciousness as Leon collapsed over her, blood streaming from his nose, his vision tearing at the edges.
The Valkyrie stepped back.
Her gaze remained empty, void of all emotion, like a puppet enacting its master's will.
She spoke with the same hollow tone she had carried through the carnage, calm and detached, almost mechanical.
She lifted her spear, wings folding inward, every movement precise but soulless.
"This was the will of my creator. Nothing more."
Then she vanished—air splitting where she had stood, leaving only silence, blood, and ruin behind.
Leon knelt there, shaking, Angelica's body cold beside him, Mina alive only because he had burned himself hollow to keep her so.
High above, unseen by mortal eyes, Skabelse slicked back his short silver hair, strands popping forward as he tried to show control over the situation. Yet even so, certainty still wavered in his grasp.