Larion Marendil came toward them in long strides. His cloak swayed lightly behind, untouched by the soot drifting through the air. The silver crest of the academy shone faintly at his collar. Despite the faint scorch marks on the stones, his boots were clean. He had come fast, yet looked every inch the High Preceptor—composed, grave, and certain of his purpose.

Roselys rose at once. Her hands trembled slightly as she began, "Father, I can expl—"

He lifted a hand. The motion was calm, final. Her words stopped there.

His eyes fell upon her wounds, and his pupils darkened to black. A subtle vibration rippled through the air as his hand rose toward her temple. Fingers brushed lightly against her skin, and in that touch, the gashes along her cheek sealed themselves, leaving only faint streaks of dried blood as proof they had ever been there.

Vencian, kneeling nearby, watched the faint shimmer fade from her face. The man's control unsettled him. Power like that. So that's what an Archean bond looks like when refined.

"Does he know?" Larion asked, gesturing towards Vencian.

Roselys didn't say a word, just a nod and than lowered her head. He sighed and shook his head and turned next to Vencian.

Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee. His hand touched Vencian's chest where the wounds had soaked through the fabric. Warm light spread beneath the cloth. Pain vanished, leaving behind an odd emptiness.

"Lord Vicorra," Larion said, his tone even. "I did not expect to find you here—with my daughter, of all people."

Vencian forced a shallow breath. "Neither did I. There are many things I hadn't expected lately."

The older man's brow lifted faintly. "Indeed. I remember your father. A man with stubborn pride and little patience for restraint."

"My father had his way," Vencian said. "I'm still learning mine." He paused. "Though it seems your daughter inherited your curiosity more than your caution."

Their words carried weight but no raised voices. Each sentence tested the other. A debate beneath polite speech. Larion's eyes narrowed slightly, but before he could respond, Roselys stepped between them.

"Enough," she said. "We need to focus on what happened here, not each other."

Larion looked around the scorched remains of the courtyard. The fallen stones, the still air, the faint smell of burned grass. "I have some faint guesses why you used your power," he said finally. "Though I need an explanation later."

Roselys exhaled, but gave short nod. He did not wait before continuing.

"We should look for survivors," he said.

Vencian nodded. The exhaustion in his limbs reminded him of how close the fight had been. "Agreed. There might still be people trapped."

They began moving through the wreckage. Ash clung to the edges of broken walls. The only sound was wind pressing through gaps where roofs once stood.

Vencian stopped when something caught his attention. A hand lay near a toppled cart—the one he had severed earlier. He crouched, brushing away debris. His breath slowed. The arm's fabric was half burned, but the upper section still showed faint ink lines.

He tore the sleeve wider.

A tattoo appeared beneath the grime: five dots forming a pentagram.

His chest tightened. Sagiel mentioned this. The same mark from the man who met Seris.

The man's face didn't match the description he'd heard, nor the one who arrived later. Though he was doing something to hide his real face. He could tell the difference between them. The illusions.

He could see through it now. After that meeting with the demigod, something inside him had changed.

The man called Jerenir wore deception like a veil, the edges of his face shimmering with hints of an illusion.

Vencian stared at the arm in silence.

If they're connected, then Seris's meeting wasn't simple chance. She had known—or someone around her had.

He looked up. Larion and Roselys were moving farther down the field, calling softly for any response. The burned air carried their voices but nothing else.

Whoever this man was, he knew me. Or thought he did. But I've never met him before.

He let the arm drop and rose slowly.

— — —

By the time the fire died, the sky had turned pale. Smoke still hung across the valley, caught between the hills like a fading veil. The nearest lord, Baron Dareth of Larnholt, had sent riders and soldiers when word reached his keep. They moved across the burned fields, pulling apart collapsed beams and clearing paths to the wells.

Men from the Church of True Light came later. Their white robes were already smudged with ash before they reached the center of the ruins. Larion spoke with them in low voices near the broken square. His presence was firm enough that none questioned his account of the event.

He mentioned the villagers. He mentioned the failed ritual. He said nothing about his daughter or the Lord Vicorra who stood beside her through it.

He's rewriting the report already. Vencian watched from a distance. Leaving us out of it. Whether for protection or politics, hard to tell.

Through the night, he'd check the arms of every men he'd killed. All of them had the five-dotted pentagram tattoo.

He sat on a boulder at the edge of the slope—the same spot where Neine's ghost had first appeared to him. The earth below was dulled to a lifeless black. The morning wind carried the bitter taste of ash.

Below, the field sprawled where the village had once stood, and only some big houses structure remained—splintered, hollow, yet stubbornly upright against the ruin.

He couldn't decide what Neine truly was. The entity that called itself a god had claimed it sent her to lead him to the chalice. Yet, deep down, he didn't believe that was all. She didn't lead me for him, he thought. She wanted me to save her sister. To keep her promise when she couldn't.

For a while he stayed there, his eyes fixed on the burned plain. His thoughts circled the same question without reaching an answer.

Footsteps sounded on the gravel. Roselys came from behind and stopped beside him. She lowered herself onto the same boulder, leaving a hand's width of distance between them. Her face looked pale against the dull morning.

"They've finished searching," she said quietly. "There are no survivors."

He didn't respond. The words didn't surprise him, yet they carried a weight that pressed down on his chest.

She continued, "The old seer—Elder Barath—was found near his house. He died from the smoke, not the fire."

Vencian looked at the ruined field again. "And Harin?"

Her gaze stayed ahead. "He jumped from the cliff. They found his body at the base."

"What about the chalice?"

"No one found it yet."

Silence filled the air. The sound of distant voices from the soldiers faded as the wind shifted.

Neither spoke for some time.

Vencian finally said, "So. You're an Arkspren, eh."

Roselys's head turned slightly toward him. "Does that bother you?"

He shook his head once. "No. But I do have a question."

She waited.

"When you first offered the deal between us," he said, then stopped. His jaw worked. The words felt strange in his mouth, like borrowed speech. He tried again. "Did you use your power to influence my answer?"

He remembered what her domain was said to do—how the Archean of her line could nudge fate, sway outcomes, make choices feel natural when they were being guided.

Roselys looked at him, calm but unreadable. "Would you believe me if I said no?"

He met her eyes. A corner of his mouth lifted as he gave a short shake of his head.

She gave a faint exhale that might have been amusement or fatigue.

Before the silence could settle, Roselys asked, "Then what about our deal? Is it still standing?"

Vencian looked at her. "You mean the one you 'forced' me with?"

She met his gaze. "When we fought the man in the sash, I told you to run." Her voice dropped lower, rougher, mimicking his cadence with uncomfortable accuracy. "You said, 'Don't die. You have a deal to keep.'" The imitation held for a breath before her normal tone returned. "So, is it?"

He rolled his eyes, looking away. "Forget it."

Her mouth curved slightly, but the smile didn't settle. "Then will you help me?"

He tilted his head. "Help you with what exactly? You're an Arkspren. What could I possibly do?" His voice carried no edge, only curiosity.

Too much curiosity. Too little anger. She'd seen him corrupted and feral a few hours ago, and now he sat here discussing betrayal like reviewing ledgers.

She turned toward the field, her hands resting loosely on her knees. "You already know I'm not Larion Marendil's real daughter."

Vencian nodded. Obvious from the start. Her features, skin tone, and hair bore nothing from either the High Preceptor or his wife.

"I was an orphan," she continued. "Back then, I didn't know what I was. The Archean bond had already formed, but it stayed quiet until I was twelve. When it showed itself, it drew attention I couldn't handle. A lord saw it and wanted to claim me. I ran before his men could catch me."

Her eyes stayed on the horizon. "Larion found me later through a long chain of coincidences. He helped me. Took me in. Protected me. In return, I agreed to keep my powers hidden."

Vencian listened in silence.

She added, "Whenever I use my powers, he can feel it. He can locate me."

The meaning set in fast. So if she acts on her own, he'll know right away.

"You're saying that everything you want to do goes against his orders," Vencian said. "And the moment you use your powers, he'll come."

She nodded once. "Yes."

He looked at her again. "That's quite the bind."

"It is," she said.

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the boulder. "First you try to save my life and then you don't deny trying to influence me for your benefit." He met her eyes. "I can't tell yet which version of you matters more."

She didn't argue. "Then what would make you certain?"

"I don't know." he said.

The quiet stretched for a moment.

He glanced at her hands and saw the object she was holding. "What's that?"

She turned it over. "A tiara. I went back to the cave—where they sacrificed the girls. I wanted to study the shrine again. I found it there."

He reached out. "Can I have it?"

She hesitated briefly but passed it to him.

The metal felt dry and cold. He brushed his thumb across the frame, tracing the curve as the memories returned.

The moments after Reine's death. The few hours before he snapped and went after the man in the sash.

The moment when he saw a deity dying.

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