They do not rest.
Chaos follows them like a second shadow.
And yet, they give thanks.
Because without the strength entrusted to them, without the gifts they carry and the unity they protect, they would never have come this far. Pure teamwork does not make the road easier. It makes survival possible.
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The hall had not returned to normal.
It had adjusted.
People moved differently now. Their fear did not hide in posture alone, it flickered and rebounded through their auras, brushing against one another as they passed. Questions lingered, unanswered and heavy.
If what happened with Sharyn had failed to strike a chord, then the evolved presence of the Flame and the Breath certainly had.
I would need to speak with Marcus about how to steady his people. How to quiet minds before fear hardened into something worse.
I crossed the space toward the Spirit Elder. He was already watching me, his posture unchanged, his attention absolute.
"I need to speak with you," I said. "About the stones."
His eyes narrowed slightly. Some matters did not require suspicion to be understood.
"Their foundation," I added.
He inclined his head once, waiting.
"But not yet," I said. The fatigue in my limbs surfaced at last, pulling at my shoulders, at my breath. "I need a moment."
He did not question it. He did not press.
Behind me, the team shifted, already moving to close ranks.
I lifted a hand.
They stopped.
"Hannah," I said instead.
Surprise flickered across her face before she nodded, quick and certain.
We descended from the upper tier without resistance, leaving behind stone raised for judgment and stepping onto the exposed paths that wound downward through the island's levels. No gates closed against us. No voices rose. Those we passed stepped aside, offering respectful nods, hushed greetings, and an unspoken acknowledgment that the order of things had shifted.
We returned them all.
Most lowered their eyes as we passed.
One did not.
I felt his attention linger long after we had moved on.
The beach opened before us in a sweep of grey-blue light and restless water. The wind carried salt and something sharper… an echo, perhaps.
We walked in silence.
Five minutes passed. Maybe more. Time loosened its hold.
I stopped.
My hand rose to my stomach without conscious thought, fingers pressing lightly against the curve beneath my palm. I closed my eyes and faced the sea.
"Speak," I said.
Hannah shifted in the shallow water. The sand whispered as it moved, grains lifting and settling again beneath the tide as the waves brushed against her ankles. The rhythm changed slightly, enough for me to feel it through the ground.
Her presence wavered. I sensed her attention dip, then stretch outward toward the open sea. A long breath left her, uneven, heavy with hesitation.
"I don't know where to start, Max."
I let my eyes open just enough to watch her from the corner of my vision. The sea reflected in her pupils, restless and unsure.
"Then tell me this," I said quietly. "Do you understand what you did wrong?"
She took a small step forward. Her body angled as if she meant to turn toward me, then stilled. The decision seemed to drain out of her shoulders.
"I think I do," she said. "I see things. I feel them coming. I should speak when it happens." Her fingers curled at her sides. "I just…"
I reached out and rested my hand on her shoulder. The contact surprised us both. Her muscles tightened beneath my palm before easing, just slightly.
"Hannah," I said, softer now. "I know where you come from. I feel the weight you carry."
She swallowed.
"When it comes to protecting others," I continued, drawing a slow breath, "silence becomes a risk. Teamwork demands presence. Humanity does not survive on quiet warnings."
She turned to face me then. Her eyes searched mine, waiting for something I had no intention of giving.
"Your place among the twenty-eight was not chosen by me," I said. "It was decided by God."
A loose strand of hair crossed her face. I brushed it aside and lifted her chin until she met my gaze.
"I lead because He set it so," I went on. "Not because I am stronger. Not because I am more powerful."
Her lips parted. My expression stopped her before a word could form.
"Do you want to know how I keep standing?" I asked.
She nodded once. Her eyes shone, bright with tears she refused to release.
"I use my weaknesses," I murmured. "I study them. I let them teach me where I need others. When lives are on the line, I hold every variable at once. It is exhausting. It is terrifying." My voice steadied. "The only reason I manage is because I trust the people beside me."
Her breath hitched.
"I need you," I said. "More than you realize."
The tears finally fell. One slid free, then another, tracing silent paths down her cheeks. I waited. The sea filled the space between us.
When she lifted her head again, something had shifted. Her back straightened. Her eyes held mine without wavering.
"I will do better," she said. "I promise. I will not fail you. I will not fail them."
The wind carried her words away, but their weight remained.
I slid my arm around Hannah's waist and drew her closer.
"The others are waiting," I said. "Someone is probably already watching from the tree line."
She stopped so abruptly I had to catch myself to keep us both steady.
Her gaze lifted to the sky.
The shift was immediate. Her pupils darkened, and tiny points of light flared within them, distant and precise, like constellations surfacing through deep water. Her fingers closed around my forearm, tight enough to bite.
She drew in a slow breath.
Then she smiled.
When her focus returned to me, her voice was calm. Too calm.
"You have no idea," she said, "what you just said has already come to pass."
A crease formed between my brows.
Before I could respond, her grip tightened again and she pulled me forward, urgency replacing restraint. The Flame stirred within me, alert and restless, rising as if it had already sensed the direction of the threat.
Then I saw Alec.
He tore through the undergrowth in a blur of motion and light. Blue and red lightning wrapped around him, snapping and screaming as he slammed into a man hard enough to lift him clean off his feet. Alec's hand stayed locked on the man's face as he drove him into the ground and dragged him several meters across the forest floor.
Alec rose.
The man did not.
Lightning unfurled from Alec's grasp and spilled across the forest floor, moving in slow, deliberate spirals. It flowed like water given purpose, curling around roots and stones in widening rings before drawing back toward him, obedient and alive.
I swept my gaze through the trees.
More bodies lay scattered among the roots and brush. Some groaned. Some did not move at all. Marcus was already kneeling beside the worst of them, hands working quickly, voice steady as he barked orders.
Then Seth stepped into view.
He dragged two men behind him, one in each fist, their boots carving shallow trenches in the soil. He reached Alec and released them without ceremony. The bodies collapsed atop the still-smoking figure at Alec's feet.
The forest fell quiet for half a breath.
A shout rang out from the second tier.
I turned just in time to see three men grappling with Jamey. They had him pinned in a tight hold, muscles straining, faces twisted with effort.
I started forward.
Alec was already there.
His feet barely brushed the ground as he surged in, lightning rippling along his arms. He seized Jamey's outstretched hand and drove power outward. The grip broke instantly.
Alec pivoted.
His palm struck the man on his left square in the midsection. The impact launched him backward, voltage tearing through his body as he vanished into the trees.
Alec turned again.
His foot connected with the man on the right, driving him face-first into the ground. The sole stayed planted as lightning discharged again, sharp and deliberate. The man screamed once, then went still.
The third barely had time to react.
Jamey moved.
He grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and yanked him close.
"I am so," Jamey said, and struck him hard across the face.
"Tired of you idiots," another slap, louder this time.
"For thinking," slap.
"That you can," slap.
"Overpower us."
The man sagged. Jamey shook him once, then let him drop.
He exhaled sharply and wiped his hand on his jacket.
"You should thank God," Jamey said, voice tight, "that we are not allowed to kill. Because I would love to introduce my boss to yours and see how long he lasts."
Jamey's words lingered.
A faint smirk betrayed me, gone as quickly as it appeared.
The Flame eased, and the forest followed.
Seven attackers lay tangled together on the forest floor, limbs overlapping, bodies rising and falling with shallow breaths. The fight had burned itself out quickly, leaving only the smell of scorched earth and disturbed leaves behind.
Soldiers moved in without hesitation. They spread out, lifted the unconscious men with practiced coordination, and carried them uphill toward the palace as Marcus directed. No one spoke. Orders had already been understood.
Seth approached Hannah and me, his presence warm and familiar even before he spoke. He leaned in close, his voice low against my ear.
"Hello, my beautiful wife," he murmured. "Did you resolve the issue?"
His lips brushed my cheek in a brief kiss before he straightened. I met his gaze, the tension easing just enough to breathe.
"Of course, my dear handsome husband," I replied. "Hannah came back taller."
A faint smile touched his mouth. His attention shifted to Hannah. He reached out and rested his hand gently atop her head, steady and deliberate. His eyes held hers as he spoke.
"I see your strength, Hannah," he said softly. "You are no longer standing alone. You have a family now. One that gives back the care you offer."
Her throat moved as she swallowed. She nodded once.
We followed the soldiers up the tiered paths toward the palace. By the time we entered the great chamber, the sovereign and the elders were already seated, their expressions grave and attentive.
Seth and I stepped forward together. Alec, Jamey, Hannah, and Adrian fell into place around us, forming a quiet perimeter.
I turned to the Spirit Elder.
"They will not speak easily," I said. "The Flame touched the man with the stones, and his mind recoiled. I sensed alteration rather than resistance."
My gaze shifted to Adrian.
"I will wake him," I continued. "I want you to guide the questioning. Gently. Whatever was done to them fractured thought without fully severing it."
Adrian inclined his head, his expression unreadable.
Before he moved, I reached for Hannah and drew her closer.
"Tell me what else you saw," I said. "Beyond the fight."
She closed her eyes, her brow tightening as she searched inward. When she spoke again, her voice carried a distant edge, as if part of her remained elsewhere.
"As the clash unfolded," she said slowly, "my vision pulled away. I was taken into a dark hall. Cloaked figures sat in a circle, silent, watching."
Her eyes opened.
"In the center stood a dead tree. Black. Hollow. From its branches hung the stones."
A pause.
"Then I was pulled back," she added. "Back to the forest. Back to the moment."
Silence settled across the chamber.
The pieces had begun to arrange themselves.
I stepped forward and let the Flame rise.
It peeled away from me in slow, deliberate threads, the Living Scripture unraveling along my arms and spine. The glyphs shifted, flowing like molten gold before lifting free. They circled the unconscious man on the floor, coiling around his limbs and chest with careful precision.
His body jerked.
The Flame guided him upright, folding his legs beneath him until he sat in a forced stillness, back straight, hands resting palm-up on his knees. The glyphs tightened once, then pressed inward.
Light spilled through his temples.
He gasped sharply, breath tearing back into his lungs. His eyes flew open, wild and unfocused, darting across the chamber as understanding crashed into him. Panic surged through his aura, sharp and frantic, but his body remained frozen in place.
Awake.
Aware.
Trapped.
I felt the Scripture settle, listening.
Adrian stepped forward.
He crouched just enough to bring himself level with the man's gaze. His voice carried no threat. It did not need one.
"Tell me where you believe you are," Adrian said.
The man's breath stuttered. His eyes flicked toward me, then to the elders, then to the sovereign seated above. His throat worked.
"The palace," he whispered. "The upper tier."
Adrian nodded once.
"Did you come to this island by your own will?"
Silence stretched. Sweat broke across the man's brow. His jaw clenched.
"Yes," he said at last.
Adrian let the answer sit.
"What were you promised?"
The man's lips trembled. His voice lowered, as if afraid the words themselves might be overheard.
"Clemency," he said. "Protection."
"For whom?"
The man swallowed hard.
"For him."
Adrian tilted his head slightly.
"When you were given the stones," he asked, "where were they kept?"
The man's eyes squeezed shut. His breathing quickened.
"In a hall," he said. "Dark. No windows. Men stood in a circle. Cloaks. Faces hidden."
A ripple moved through the room.
Adrian did not react.
"Who else was there when you received them?"
"Too many," the man said quickly. "Too many to count."
Adrian leaned closer.
"What was done to your mind so you would obey?"
The man shuddered.
"They showed me," he said. "What would happen if I failed. What would happen to him."
His gaze snapped toward me.
"They told us he would never reach the Forum," he blurted. "They said he would break before that."
The Flame stirred.
Adrian did not raise his voice.
"What was meant to happen here today?"
The man's chest hitched. His fear spiked, sharp enough to sting.
"We were supposed to get him out," he said. "Create chaos. Pull attention. Force you to move him sooner."
His eyes filled with terror.
"We were sent to save our own."
Silence fell heavy and deliberate.
I felt the Living Scripture tighten, reacting to the truth spoken aloud.
Adrian straightened slowly.
"Who benefits if you die before answering anything else?" he asked quietly.
The man's eyes widened.
Someone in the room inhaled sharply.
The pieces slid closer together.
The man's body stiffened.
A thin line of blood slipped from his nose, dark against his skin. Another followed, then more, seeping from his ears in slow, uneven trails. He coughed once, sharp and wet, and red flecked his lips before spilling down his chin.
His eyes rolled back.
Panic rippled through the chamber.
Before anyone could move, the Living Scripture surged.
The glyphs drove deeper, threading along his spine and pressing into the base of his skull. Light flared, brighter this time, focused and deliberate. The blood stilled mid-flow. What had spilled began to draw back, pulled inward as if the body itself were being rewritten.
The crimson at his ears receded. His breathing steadied. His eyes cleared, snapping back into place just before his strength gave out entirely.
He collapsed.
Unconscious. Alive.
The Scripture loosened and returned to me, settling once more beneath my skin.
Silence followed. Heavy. Expectant.
Every gaze in the room turned toward me.
I did not speak.
Instead, I looked at Seth.
He met my eyes at once, understanding passing between us without words.
"I want my team gathered," I said at last. "There are decisions to be made."
A pause.
"Before that," I continued, "I need to speak with the Elder. About the stones."
The Spirit Elder stepped forward immediately. He gestured toward a narrow chamber set just beyond the council hall. Seth and I followed him inside, the door closing softly behind us.
The room smelled of old parchment and resin.
From within his robe, the Elder withdrew a book bound in cured hide, its surface cracked with age and marked by symbols pressed so deeply they had nearly worn through. He opened it with care, fingers lingering as though greeting something long asleep.
The page he turned to bore writing in a language older than any spoken on the island.
He read aloud.
"Heaven rejected their profanity," he said. "They were cast out and abandoned to the mortal realm."
His voice did not waver.
"Some did not rise again. Their forms fell. Flesh, sinew, and the structure that held them together sank into the earth."
The candlelight trembled.
"Over ages uncounted, soil hardened around them. Earth pressed inward. What had once been living form was taken apart and reformed."
He lifted his gaze briefly, then returned to the text.
"Stone absorbed what remained. Memory. Power. Grief."
The word settled heavily.
Beneath my feet, I suddenly felt the island differently.
"These fragments became conduits," he went on. "They carried the echo of Heaven's mourning. The stones were born from that sorrow."
The book closed with a quiet finality.
Seth exhaled slowly.
I felt the Living Scripture stir, uneasy, as if it recognized the truth long before it was spoken.
Whatever the stones were, they did not belong to this world.
And they remembered where they came from.
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The garden sat recessed from the main halls, wrapped in stone and ivy, shielded from the noise of the palace. Lantern light filtered through leaves overhead, casting soft patterns across the table laid out with food.
Alec stopped short when he saw it.
"Oh, thank God," he muttered, already reaching for a plate. "If I had to sit through another council discussion without coffee, I was going to start a war of my own."
Jamey snorted as Alec poured himself a cup and inhaled deeply. "Careful. You start vibrating and they will think it is another divine event."
Alec grinned and reached for the cold meats, stacking slices of cured venison and smoked beef beside dark bread and soft cheese. "After today, I deserve this."
The small moment loosened the room. Just a fraction.
Marcus remained standing near the edge of the garden, posture relaxed but alert. Adrian settled into stillness, hands folded, attention turned inward. Hannah sat quietly, fingers interlaced in her lap, gaze lowered.
Seth and I joined them at the table.
Conversation faded as the group settled. No one spoke about the man. No one needed to. The silence held because it carried weight rather than avoidance.
I let my gaze move across the table. Faces I trusted. Power I relied on. Responsibility that never truly left.
"Hannah," I said at last. "I need you to tap into your gift."
Her fingers tightened together. She looked at me, drew in a breath that did not quite reach her chest, then let her gaze drift past me, past the table, toward nothing at all. The change was subtle, but unmistakable. Her focus emptied, leaving her expression still and distant.
The garden quieted.
Then she spoke.
"There is pressure ahead," she said. "Movement. It feels closer."
"Three days' ride," she said. "Northwest feels less volatile. Every route carries danger, but that one bends instead of breaking."
Understanding settled in me immediately.
"That is enough," I said.
I rose and stepped away from the table, moving far enough that voices would not carry. The night air cooled my skin as I lifted my phone. The call connected quickly.
I spoke quietly, choosing my words with care. Enough was said. Nothing unnecessary. When the call ended, I returned to the garden and took my seat again.
No one asked where I had gone.
"We leave tomorrow," I said. "Preparation comes first, so we wake early."
No objections followed. No reassurances were offered.
Above us, the leaves stirred gently in the night air.
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The door closed softly behind us.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The room held the kind of silence that only existed between people who had survived too much together. I moved to the window and rested my hands against the cool pane, steadying myself. The weight of the day finally settled as I lifted my gaze to the star-filled sky, quietly wishing I could borrow its calm.
Seth crossed the room without a word and stopped close enough that I felt his warmth before he touched me.
"Did you feel it?" I asked softly.
"Yes," he said at once.
I turned toward him. "When the Elder spoke. When the book was opened. The Flame stirred before I understood why."
His hands found mine, fingers threading through with practiced ease. "The Breath responded too," he said. "It tightened. It carried something heavy."
I nodded, my throat tightening.
"We can only imagine what God felt," I said. "If that grief lingered long enough to shape stone, then what we felt was only a fragment. A reminder."
Seth lifted my hand and pressed it against his chest, over his heart. His breath slowed beneath my palm.
"It explains why the power aches," he said. "Why it remembers."
I stepped closer, resting my forehead against his chest. The closeness steadied me in a way nothing else could.
"If the stones were born from grief," I whispered, "then our power carries meaning beyond command. Beyond judgment."
His one hand came to my waist, anchoring me. "Only God knows what lies ahead," he said. "And perhaps that is why our powers were never meant to stand alone."
The truth of it settled between us.
"I think I understand now," I said softly. "Why the Flame and the Breath were bound together. Why neither of us carries this alone."
His thumb brushed gently along my cheek, slow and reverent. "Whatever comes," he murmured, "we face it together."
I closed my eyes, letting the words sink deep. Letting the promise root itself where doubt could not easily reach.
For a moment, the world narrowed to us. To shared breath. To quiet certainty.
When we finally pulled apart, exhaustion followed, gentle and earned.
Tomorrow would demand strength again.
Tonight, we remained whole.
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Every calm in this world is earned.
Every choice carries weight.
And even preparation has a cost.
What comes next was never meant to be gentle.