The silence after a lullaby is never empty.
It is heavier than sound, thick with all the words that were never spoken and all the love that had nowhere left to go. Jin Valley lay frozen beneath it, the broken house breathing dust and grief, as if the earth itself were afraid to move.
Blaze stood within that silence, unmoved.
Her gaze drifted briefly to her left wrist.
The golden feather mark pulsed faintly, warm against her cold skin—alive in a way the valley was not. She lifted her arm, studying it as one might study a loyal blade.
"Come out," she said calmly. "You'll do the talking."
The mark flared.
Fire spilled from her wrist without heat or chaos, unfurling in elegant strands of gold and ember-red. The flames did not roar; they whispered, shaping themselves with careful obedience. In seconds, the fire condensed, folding inward until it formed a slender figure standing beside her.
Maze appeared.
She looked no older than sixteen—barefoot, wrapped in faintly glowing embers that clung to her like silk. Her hair shimmered like dying coals, and her eyes burned with a depth that did not belong to youth. When she straightened, fire licked briefly along her spine before settling into stillness.
She bowed her head. "Master."
Blaze did not look at her. Her eyes were fixed on the woman's spirit ahead—the mother bound in chains of grief and ritual.
"You understand why you're here," Blaze said coolly.
Maze followed her gaze, her expression shifting the moment she saw the spirit. The fire around her dimmed, reacting instinctively to sorrow older than flame.
"Yes," Maze replied softly. "She's not at rest."
Blaze's voice was quiet. Dangerous.
"Mothers rarely are."
Maze knelt.
The simple act broke something.
"I won't hurt you," Maze said quietly. "I swear it."
The spirit's eyes flicked past her.
To Blaze.
Blaze stood near the doorway, veil untouched, posture straight, hands loose at her sides. She was not fire. She was winter—still, merciless, inevitable. The air around her felt thinner, as though breathing required permission.
The spirit shuddered.
Maze noticed.
"It's alright," she said again, softer. "She won't touch you."
Blaze said nothing.
Instead, she crossed the room, dragged an ancient chair from the corner. Dust spilled from its legs. Wood groaned, threatening to collapse.
With a single sweep of her sleeve, gold poured over it.
The chair reshaped itself midair—ornate, cold, unmistakably regal.
Blaze sat.
Judgment had chosen its seat.
Maze turned back to the spirit.
"What is your name?" she asked.
The spirit blinked.
Her mouth opened, then closed.
"My… name?" The word itself seemed unfamiliar. "I—"
She hesitated.
The silence stretched, fragile and aching.
"I don't know if it matters anymore," she whispered.
Maze waited.
At last, the spirit swallowed.
"…Lia," she said.
The name fell gently, like something long unused.
Maze smiled faintly. "Lia."
Lia flinched at the sound of it spoken aloud, as if hearing it made her more real than she was ready to be.
"I didn't think anyone could hear me anymore," Lia said uncertainly. "Not like this."
"You've been heard," Maze replied.
Lia's expression tightened.
"I didn't mean to disturb anyone," she said quickly. "I try to keep it soft. Just enough for him."
"For who?" Maze asked.
Lia's face changed instantly.
The fear eased. The tension loosened. Something warm flickered through her hollow form.
"My son," she said.
The words carried devotion, exhaustion, love sharpened by loss.
"Ven."
Maze felt the name strike somewhere deep.
"He gets lost when it's dark," Lia continued, hands twisting together. "He always has. Ever since he was little. Nightmares… terrible ones."
Her gaze drifted to the doorway, as though she expected a small shadow to appear at any moment.
"So I sing," she said simply. "If he hears me, he can find his way back."
"How old is Ven?" Maze asked gently.
Lia smiled—a real smile, fragile and proud.
"He turned eight," she said. "Last year."
The smile wavered.
"I got sick not long after."
Her voice lowered, thinning.
"I didn't want him to see me like that. I tried to hide it. I still cooked. Still sang. Still smiled." Her fingers curled. "He was so good. Too good. He never complained."
She paused, then whispered, "He held my hand when I couldn't stand anymore."
The room felt unbearably still.
"I thought if I just rested a little," Lia said, eyes unfocused, "I'd wake up and everything would be fine."
She looked down at herself.
"I woke up like this instead."
Maze's flames dimmed.
"I stayed," Lia said quickly, as though afraid Maze might misunderstand. "I stayed because he needs me. Because he still wakes up afraid."
Her voice trembled.
"I sing so he can sleep."
Maze hesitated.
"Lia," she said carefully, "do you know what happens outside this house?"
Lia frowned.
"Outside?" she echoed. "I don't go outside. I can't."
"Have you seen anyone else come here?" Maze asked. "Other children?"
Confusion crossed Lia's face—real, unfeigned.
"No," she said immediately. "Why would they?"
Her expression tightened.
"This place isn't safe. I wouldn't call anyone here except Ven."
Maze's hands clenched in her lap.
"Lia," she said softly, "your song doesn't only reach your son."
The spirit stiffened.
"What do you mean?"
Maze met her eyes.
"People hear it," she said. "Children hear it. They follow it."
Lia shook her head at once.
"No," she whispered. "That's not possible. I would never—"
"They bring the children here," Maze continued, voice steady despite the ache beneath it. "They use your grief. Your love."
Lia stared at her.
Her breath hitched, though she did not need breath.
"I only sing for Ven," she said weakly. "I swear it. I don't even know anyone else's name."
Maze reached out, stopping just short of touching her.
"They told you to keep singing," Maze said. "Didn't they?"
Lia's lips trembled.
"They said…" Her voice cracked. "They said if I stopped, he'd never sleep again. That he'd be alone in the dark."
Her knees buckled.
She collapsed forward, hands pressing against the floor.
"I didn't know," she sobbed soundlessly. "I didn't know they were hurting anyone."
Maze moved closer, flames shaking.
"You didn't do this," Maze said firmly. "They did."
Lia looked up, desperation raw and breaking.
"Then where is my son?" she cried. "If he isn't finding me… if he can't hear me—where is he?"
Silence answered.
Blaze stood.
The golden chair dissolved into ash behind her.
"That," Blaze said coldly, stepping forward, "is the only question worth asking."
Lia turned fully to her, pressing her forehead to the floor.
"Please," she begged. "Please find him. I'll stop singing. I'll disappear. I'll burn if I have to—"
Maze flinched.
Blaze's voice cut through the room like frost.
"You will do none of that."
She looked down at Lia, eyes burning faintly beneath the veil.
"You will stay," Blaze said. "You will remember. And you will be silent until I return."
Lia trembled.
"And I," Blaze continued, turning toward the valley beyond the doorway, "will bring your son back."
The house groaned.
Deep beneath Jin Valley, something ancient tightened its chains—
and for the first time since the lullaby began,
the binding knew fear.
Blaze left the ruined house without looking back.
The spirit's sobs did not follow her outside. The valley swallowed them whole, pressing silence down like a lid. Cold mist curled around broken stone as Blaze stepped into the open, her boots never touching mud, never sinking.
Maze followed a step behind.
The valley breathed wrong.
Blaze stopped.
Gold flared beneath her skin, heatless and precise.
Pathetic. All of this… because a single soul was too weak to let go.
"Come," she said simply.
Maze didn't question it.
Fire unraveled, slow and deliberate, spilling outward in controlled ribbons. It did not burn the air. It claimed it. The flames gathered, folding in on themselves until a shape emerged—wings first, vast and luminous, then body, then crown.
A phoenix stood where Maze had been.
Its wings stretched wide, scattering sparks like falling stars across Jin Valley. The ground trembled in response.
Blaze stepped into the fire without pause.
The world folded.
Sky screamed past as Maze carried her upward, wings beating through cold air. Blaze stood unmoving upon flame, veil snapping softly, eyes already glowing gold.
Trails appeared beneath her vision.
Hundreds of them.
Faint. Broken. Frantic.
Children who ran. Children who cried. Children who vanished.
Weak.
One trail did not splinter.
It bent inward.
Back toward comfort. Back toward routine. Back toward captivity so gentle it masqueraded as care.
Blaze's eyes burned brighter.
Pathetic child. You didn't even try to escape.
Maze slowed midair.
"…Master," she said quietly. "This trail—it never leaves the city."
Blaze didn't answer.
She was already descending.
They landed before a tall merchant house—stone polished, gates clean, lanterns warm. Respectable. Safe. Disgusting.
Blaze raised her hand.
The gates unlocked themselves.
Inside, servants moved quickly, eyes downcast. The house smelled of wealth and order.
Children moved slowly.
Blaze saw him immediately.
Ven knelt by the hearth, scrubbing stone already stained beyond repair. His shoulders were too narrow. His wrists too thin. An iron collar rested at his throat.
Eight years old.
Silent.
Still.
Blaze stopped walking.
Useless. You were right here the entire time.
Maze inhaled sharply behind her.
"That's him," she whispered. "They kept him close so the song wouldn't fade."
Blaze's gaze didn't shift.
Of course they did. Fear thrives on proximity.
A merchant entered, irritation sharp in his stride.
"Hurry up," he snapped at Ven. "And tonight—make sure your mother sings properly. The buyers complained."
Ven looked up.
"I don't sing," he said quietly. "Mama does."
The merchant scoffed. "Not for you."
Blaze moved.
One step.
Every flame in the house died.
Cold spread across the floor like judgment deciding to arrive early.
The merchant turned—
—and froze.
Blaze did not acknowledge him.
Her attention was on the child.
Ven stared at her, wide-eyed—not with terror, but dull familiarity.
Even fear has abandoned you. How weak.
"You hear her, don't you?" Maze said gently, stepping around Blaze, kneeling before Ven. "The lullaby."
Ven nodded.
"She sings so I won't cry," he whispered. "So I can sleep."
Blaze's fingers curled slightly.
And you obeyed. Crawled. Endured. How disappointing.
The merchant opened his mouth.
Blaze lifted her hand.
He collapsed where he stood—body hitting the floor without ceremony, without resistance, without meaning.
Maze flinched.
"She never stopped calling for him," Maze said quietly. "They twisted it. Used it."
Blaze looked down at Ven.
Weak child. Weak mother. Weak men who needed chains instead of strength.
She knelt once, frost spreading beneath her knee.
"You were not abandoned," Blaze said flatly. "You were stored."
Ven's lip trembled.
"I tried to go home," he whispered. "But the song was louder here."
Blaze straightened.
Because you listened.
The house began to unravel—not violently, not loudly. Locks snapped. Chains screamed. Sigils burned themselves out in quiet terror.
Blaze turned away.
"Your mother is waiting," she said without warmth.
She paused at the doorway, not looking back.
"No one will keep you again."
Behind them, the merchant house began to collapse inward, foundations giving way beneath sins layered too neatly.
Far away—Lia's chains rattled.
And for the first time since death—
Something fragile felt close.