The night burned itself out.
And when it did, there was nothing left of Cohen's laughter.
The festival's lights had died. The scent of roasted food, of spiced wine, of candles — all of it gone, replaced by the heavy smell of iron of blood and smoke.
The square that had once been alive with color now lay still.
The fires from the elemental users and Aîiurh's strikes flickered in the gutters, painting the stone red.
The people had fled long ago.
Guards dared not approach.
The only ones left were two bodies — broken, breathing faintly — and the echo of the battle that had ripped through the heart of the city.
Aîiurh's presence lingered like a scar.
Only his words remained — that cold promise:
"If you survive this… I'll be waiting for you at Azol."
Aîiurh's presence faded first—the pressure in the air loosening like a hand finally released from a throat. The elemental user vanished with him, fire residue cooling into blackened stone. And with them… Tyke.
Then silence swallowed everything.
Laxyie's breath came in shallow gasps.
He could feel the blood pooling under him — hot, thick, refusing to stop.
The pain from the spear wound had settled deep, thudding in rhythm with his heartbeat. Every beat was a hammer strike.
But pain meant life.
And life meant she could still be alive too.
"Lyla…"
He tried to move. His voice was no more than a scrape of air.
His fingers twitched first.
Then his arm.
Then he pulled.
The rough stone beneath him tore at his palms as he dragged himself forward inch by inch. His vision blurred. The world swayed.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
She lay only a few feet away, half-covered in shadow, her white gown stained deep red. Her arm was limp, her hair spread across the ground like a halo of green flame extinguished.Each breath looked like it might be her last.
He reached her.
Collapsed beside her.
For a heartbeat, he just stared — too afraid to touch her, afraid the moment he did, she'd fade.
Then her chest moved.
Barely, but it moved.
"Lyla—" His voice broke. He gathered her in his arms, trembling, his fingers brushing her face. Her skin was cold, slick with blood. "Lyla, hey—hey—look at me."
Her eyes fluttered open. Brown, soft, and still somehow alive.
Her lips trembled. "Lax…"
He could barely hear her.
"I… I'm glad we danced," she whispered, her breath catching in her throat. Her voice was fragile — a sound that felt like it could break at any second.
The words shattered him.
He clutched her tighter, panic clawing through his chest.
He shook his head fiercely, pressing his forehead against hers. "No, no, don't—don't talk like that. You're fine. You'll be fine."His voice broke as he spoke, desperation bleeding into every syllable.
Her lips curved faintly, the smallest smile, trembling. "Remember me…" she breathed, her words barely sound at all. "In the dance."
A single tear slid down her cheek.
"No." His voice cracked open. He shook her gently, desperately. "Stay with me! Please! You're not leaving me, you hear me?!"
Her eyes focused on his one last time.
Pain was there. Regret. And something else—something soft.
Blood streaked across her gown, cruel against the white, glowing faintly beneath the lanterns still flickering overhead.
Her hand lifted slowly — shaking — and brushed against his cheek. Her fingers left streaks of red.
"I… I'm sorry," she whispered. Her eyes, heavy with pain, searched his face like she was trying to memorize it. "Please… save Tyke."
His heart dropped.
He gritted his teeth, choking on air. "We'll find him together. Just stay—stay with me!"
But her eyes were dimming. Her voice came weaker, slower.
"I…really. would've loved…" Her words broke apart between gasps. "…to settle down… with you. And Tyke."
Her breathing hitched, shallow. "…like the farmers who saved us…"
The smile faded from her lips.
"Goodbye… Lax…"
Her hand slipped from his face.
Her fingers twitched weakly against his chest.
Her head tilted slightly.
And the light in her eyes — the warmth, the fight, the fire — vanished.
Laxyie froze.
His entire body went still.
"…No."
The word fell from his mouth like glass shattering.
"You weren't supposed to leave me," he whispered, voice raw, trembling. His arms tightened around her limp body. "You weren't supposed to leave me…"
Her hair brushed against his chin. The blood between them was already cooling.
"Please…" he said again, weaker now. "Please don't leave me."
The moonlight fell across the both of them — pale, indifferent.
The breath never came again
He stayed like that for a long time.
Long enough for the wind to change, for the sounds of the city to return faintly from far away.
When the silence became too heavy to bear, he laid her gently down.
Then his body gave out.
The pain, the blood loss, the grief — it all hit him at once, dragging him down. The world dimmed. The sky collapsed inward.
And everything went black.
He woke screaming.
His body jolted violently, breath tearing into his lungs as if he had been drowning. Pain flared instantly—white-hot and merciless—dragging him fully into consciousness. Sweat soaked his clothes. His heart hammered uncontrollably.
Lyla's face burned behind his eyes.
The fire.
The spear.
Tyke falling.
Aîiurh's voice.
He gasped, choking on air that felt too thin to breathe.
It happened again.
And again.
For two days, sleep came only in fragments—short, cruel moments filled with nightmares. Every time he closed his eyes, the square returned. Lanterns. Blood. Her voice fading. Tyke's still body.
Each time, he woke with tears already falling.
On the third morning, his eyes opened and stayed open.
His chest felt like it had been crushed, every breath cutting through the pain.
He turned his head.
A wooden ceiling. Rough bedding beneath him. The smell of herbs.
Someone noticed his movement.
"He's awake," a voice whispered.
He blinked hard, vision swimming into focus. There were faces around him — two, maybe three. Cohen citizens. Older. Bandages wrapped around his chest and arm.
He tried to speak, but the words caught.
"Lyla…"
The faces exchanged quiet looks.
"She's…" one of them began softly, "…outside the city. The plains."
Laxyie's pulse froze.
He didn't say anything else. He didn't ask how long it had been.
He already knew.
He pushed the covers aside. His body screamed in protest. His legs nearly gave out as soon as they touched the floor, but he forced himself upright.
"Sir, you shouldn't—"
He didn't listen.
Each step was a battle. The bandages stained red again before he reached the door. But he kept walking.
The air outside was cold, clean. The streets of Cohen were quiet again, almost normal — as if the night of fire and death had never happened.
People stared as he passed, whispering, but no one stopped him.
He walked through the gates, out into the fields.
And there she was.
A small mound of earth beneath the open sky.
Fresh, still dark with moisture. No marker, no flowers — just the wind brushing across the grass.
His breath caught.
He knelt before it, slowly, painfully.
His hands touched the dirt.
Cold. Still damp.
He didn't cry at first.
He just sat there, staring, as if his mind couldn't accept that all that strength, all that fire, could be gone — buried beneath a few inches of soil.
"She would've liked this," he murmured finally. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. "Quiet. Open. No crowds."
The wind stirred the grass. The city stood distant behind him, the blue roofs of Cohen blurred against the horizon.
He bowed his head.
His hands trembled where they rested on the earth.
"I wasn't strong enough," he whispered. "Not for her. Not for Tyke. Not for anyone."
The words fell flat, absorbed by the ground.
Memories came in flashes — the dance, the laughter, the moment her lips touched his cheek, her voice when she told him to rest, to eat.
Then the fire.
The smell of her burning dress.
He couldn't breathe.
Tears came without warning. He pressed his forehead against the mound, shoulders shaking.
"Why did you have to protect me?" he said quietly, voice hollow. "Why couldn't it have been me instead?"
The wind didn't answer.
After a long while, he leaned back, staring at the open sky.
Clouds drifted lazily past the moon. Stars burned faintly above — sharp, cold, distant.
He wiped his face with a shaking hand.
Somewhere inside him, beneath the grief, beneath the exhaustion, something hard began to form.
Not hatred. Not yet.
But a purpose that felt like iron.
Aîiurh's voice still echoed in his head.
"The sin of the father shall be paid by the son."
"If you survive this, I'll be waiting for you at Azol."
Azol.
The name burned itself into his mind like a brand.
He looked back toward the city — toward the horizon where Aîiurh had disappeared.
He knew what he had to do.
But before that…
He turned to the grave once more, his voice low, steady despite the tremor in it.
"I'll come back," he said. "When I find him. When I take Tyke back."
He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly, letting the silence of the plains fill his lungs.
Then he stood.
The wind pushed gently at his back as if urging him on.
His body hurt with every step, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He didn't look back again.
Behind him, the grave of Lyla Kaelthrin lay under the pale morning sky.
The first rays of sun reached it just as he disappeared over the ridge.
The gold threads on her buried gown caught the light one last time before fading into stillness.
Beneath the open sky, beneath the quiet plains, Lyla rested.
And Laxyie finally understood what had been taken from him.