Pain.
That's the first thing I feel when consciousness drags me up from the depths. Immediate. Present. Fucking agonizing pain.
My ribs throb with each breath. My shoulder feels like someone's driving hot nails through the joint. My calf where that fucking crystal caught me pulses with a deep, grinding ache. Even my head hurts, a dull pressure behind my eyes that suggests my brain is still recovering from the strain of weaving my illusions.
I open my eyes.
Color.
The world is in full, vivid color. The ceiling above me is a warm, honeyed wood. Sunlight streams through a cracked window, painting golden rectangles across rough stone walls. A threadbare blanket covers me, its fabric a faded blue-grey that actually is blue-grey, not just grey.
The Fearmonger has receded. Without it actively enhancing me, everything i see looks duller even with added colors.
I try to sit up.
My body screams in protest. Every muscle, every bone, every joint registers its complaint. But I can move. That's the important thing. Lucian's passive healing mark has knitted my bones back together, sealed the worst of the wounds, kept me from dying in my sleep.
But it doesn't heal everything. It doesn't remove the pain. It doesn't restore me to perfect health.
It just keeps me alive and functional enough to keep fighting.
Which, right now, feels like a mixed blessing.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed which really just seems to be a simple cot and plant my feet on the floor. The cold stone sends a shiver up my spine. I'm wearing my pants but my shirt is gone, replaced by bandages wrapped around my torso. Someone cleaned the blood off me. Someone tended my wounds.
I stand.
My legs wobble but hold. My ribs protest but don't collapse. My shoulder throbs but the arm still moves.
Good enough.
I find a new shirt and cape draped over a chair as well as my leather armor. My sword leans against the wall beside it, cleaned and sheathed. Someone took care of my equipment too.
How nice of them.
I pull on the shirt then armor, wincing as the materials scrape over my bandaged shoulder. The sword goes onto my hip, familiar weight settling into place.
Then I head for the door.
The sunlight hits me like a physical force when I step outside.
It's bright. Painfully bright and I have to squint against it, raising a hand to shield my eyes as they adjust.
The rain has stopped. The sky is a clear, brilliant blue the kind of blue that makes you forget the world can be a terrible place. Birds are singing somewhere. The air smells fresh, washed clean by yesterday's storm. A perfect spring day all things considered.
But that's where the beauty ends.
Oakhaven is gone.
Not damaged. Not ruined. Gone.
I stand in what used to be a residential district and stare at the devastation with something approaching awe. Buildings that stood for who knows how many years are now piles of rubble. Entire city blocks have been reduced to foundations and scattered stones. Walls that survived the Empires originally offensive into Verion collapsed in a single night under Imara's density manipulation and Lopez's kinetic fury.
The street I'm standing on is cracked and buckled, the cobblestones heaved up at crazy angles where the ground itself failed. A massive sinkhole yawns open three houses down, swallowing what used to be an intersection. Scorch marks from Sola's wind-carried fires paint the remaining walls in black and orange.
And the bodies.
Gods, the bodies.
They've been moved mostly. Piled in the street corners under grey tarps that are already stained dark. But I can still see them. Limbs protruding from beneath the coverings. A hand here. A boot there. The unmistakable shape of a corpse.
Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.
My stomach twists.
Without the Fearmonger's cold rage insulating me, without the greyscale vision turning everything into abstract shapes and shadows, the reality of what we did hits differently.
This wasn't a battle. This was a massacre.
We came into this city my empire's city, occupied by the Federation and we killed everyone we could find. Soldiers. Elites. Anyone who got in our way. We brought down buildings without knowing or caring if civilians were sheltering inside. We turned streets into abattoirs. We made the rain run red.
For Nimorael, I remind myself. For the boiled babies and the corpse pyramids and the river of blood.
But standing here in the bright morning sunlight, staring at the ruins of what used to be a city, I feel...
What do I feel?
Guilt? No. These bastards deserved it. The Federation earned this.
Regret? Maybe. For the civilians caught in the crossfire. For the people who just wanted to survive and got crushed under falling buildings instead.
Pride? Definitely. We did this. Eleven people did this. We broke an entire Federation garrison in one night.
Horror? Yes. That too. Because I can remember every face I killed. Every throat I cut. Every person whose fear I drank like wine before ending them. The Fearmonger took those memories and burned them into my mind with perfect clarity.
I actually ended up killed forty-seven people yesterday. Personally. With my sword and my illusions and my ability to turn their fears into weapons against them.
Forty-seven lives ended because I was faster, smarter, more ruthless. Better.
How many more died because of the chaos we created? The buildings we collapsed? The fires we spread?
How many of them were soldiers of the Federation? How many were civilians who just had the bad luck to still be in Oakhaven under occupation when Helix arrived?
I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know.
A sound pulls me from my thoughts. Footsteps. Multiple sets, crunching over rubble.
I turn.
Three soldiers emerge from behind a partially collapsed wall. They're wearing green and white armor which is the Empire colors. Markless clearly and young. Maybe even my age possibly younger.
They see me and stop dead eyes travelling up my frame spotting my cape, rank and inhuman colored eyes all at once.
Then, as one, they snap to attention and salute.
Fists over hearts. Backs straight. Eyes forward.
"Sir," the lead one says. His voice cracks slightly.
I stare at them. "At ease."
They relax fractionally but don't lower their hands.
"He's the Child of Light," one of them whispers to the others. Not quietly enough. I hear it clearly with my enhanced hearing.
The title makes something cold curl in my gut.
Child of Light. The blessed warrior of Aren. The living weapon of the empire's will.
I hate that title. Hate everything it represents. The Inquisitors gave it to me after I came up from my awakening during the Rite of Manifestation with three marks. Some see me a the gods will made flesh others as a potential usurper to the Kings divine right to rule.
But these soldiers... they say it with reverence. Like I am something more than human in their eyes. like I'm their hero.
I want to tell them I'm not. That I'm just a killer with useful powers. That yesterday I butchered people like cattle and felt good about it. Would their opinion of me change?
Instead, I nod and walk past them.
Behind me, I hear excited whispers. "Did you see him?" "That's really him." "He killed three Elites solo, I heard." "Was it three? I heard it was five."
The rumors are already growing. By tomorrow, I'll have killed ten Elites. By next week, a hundred. No wonder Cain hates being identified, I remember when I found he killed 13 elites solo. After fighting three I wonder how he even managed it with just one mark. What type of demon is he really?
But I suppose that's how legends work. The truth gets buried under layers of exaggeration until the real person disappears entirely and the lie is all the remains. People live their lives bound by what they accept as correct and true. That is how they define 'reality.' But what does it mean to be 'correct' or 'true'? They are merely vague concepts... Their 'reality' may all be a mirage. Can we consider them to simply be living in their own world, shaped by their beliefs? Everyone lives within their own subjective interpretation.
I continue down what used to be a main street my mind racing with thoughts. The destruction is everywhere. Not a single building stands intact. Some are just walls with nothing behind them. Others are completely flattened, reduced to waist-high piles of stone and timber.
The people picking through the rubble look up as I pass. Civilians. Empire citizens who survived the occupation, survived the Federation's cruelty, and somehow survived us too.
Their eyes follow me.
Some look at me with awe. A woman clutches her child and whispers something I can't hear, but I catch the gesture she touches her forehead and heart. A prayer of thanks. Why is she thanking me?
Others look at me with barely concealed hatred. An old man spits at my feet as I pass and I stare at him as what I believe is his wife hastily grabs him and apologizes bowing. A teenager with a bandaged head glares at me with eyes lined with pain.
I don't blame them. Their city is gone. Their homes are rubble. Their neighbors are dead under those tarps. And I'm the one who did it. Well. Me and Helix. They expect the soldiers and Elites to save them, but we didn't our orders where to disrupt the federation and their plans here in the East drawing more attention from them here while our main army plans to strike at them in the North. The civilians at the end of the day were not our priority.
An Inquisitor emerges from a collapsed building, supporting a limping woman. He's wearing the traditional black robes. His face is weathered, late forties maybe, with the kind of lean intensity that comes from absolute certainty in one's beliefs.
He sees me and his eyes widen.
Then he bows. A full, deep bow that brings his forehead nearly to his knees.
"Child of Light," he says reverently. "The gods shine upon you."
The woman he's supporting looks at me with that same mixture of awe and fear I'm getting from everyone else.
I nod stiffly and keep walking.
Reinforcements are all over this city.
I assume that Caldera, or perhaps Hudson, contacted Strategic Command the moment the battle turned, and they dispatched additional help to secure the ruins Helix created. Makes sense I suppose.
More Inquisitors are scattered throughout the ruins. They're here to help the civilians, I assume. To provide medical aid and food and shelter. But also to reinforce the faith and to police the area. To remind these people that they serve the empire, that they worship the Gods and must submit to the Church Of Aren, that the Federation's occupation was a temporary aberration corrected by divine will. That chaos will never succeed.
And I'm the proof. The Child of Light. The living embodiment of the gods' favor.
Every Inquisitor I pass bows. Every single one.
I find myself thinking about the pros and cons of accepting their fanaticism.
The Inquisitors wield enormous power in the empire. Having them on my side means protection basically my own army of religious fanatics and that comes with all of the Churches resources and political leverage, the problem is that hate everything they stand for. The Inquisitors are zealots who use faith as a weapon, who justify atrocities in the name of the gods, who see people as either faithful or heretical with no middle ground. Accepting their worship means accepting their chains.
And there's the personal element. I don't believe in the gods as they do. Not really. They could exist sure. But even if that's the case and a supernatural being is why I have my powers I don't think they really give a shit about me specifically. Why should I worship or respect capricious, mean-minded, stupid gods who create a world which is so full of injustice and pain?
But rejecting the Inquisitors publicly would be... complicated. Dangerous, even. The empire's power structure is built on faith and military might. Undermining one undermines both. They both serve different functions and there is clearly political games from both side but they are still connected and fight for the same thing.
So I let them bow and I let them whisper their prayers. I Let them believe what they need to believe.
The sun beats down on my head as I navigate the ruined streets. It's warm the rain from yesterday has left everything damp but the heat is already drying it out, turning puddles into mud and mud into dust.
My stomach growls.
I'm starving. When did I eat last? I don't even remember. My body burned through an insane amount of energy yesterday I need food water and a nice long bath.
But first I need to find Helix.
I'm heading toward what I think is the center of town or what used to be the center when I realize I could just use the bond with Lucain. I reach for it, preparing to send a thought across that connection, when movement catches my eye.
Someone's approaching from the left. Moving quickly. Running, almost.
I turn, hand instinctively going to my sword, but I freeze in shock as my eyes adjust.
Cecilia.
She's jogging toward me with a smile on her face. A genuine, radiant smile that transforms her entire appearance. Her short blonde hair catches the sunlight, turning it almost white-gold. Her hazel eyes those dangerous, calculating eyes that I remember being cold and cruel sparkle with something I can't quite identify.
Joy? Relief?
I stumble back a step, my hand falling away from my sword.
This has to be an illusion. My own power, somehow, turned against me. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought. Maybe I'm still unconscious and this is a fever dream.
Because there's no way Cecilia who I last saw at the Academy and didn't even try to speak to me privately, who really does represents everything wrong with the empire's religious fanaticism is running toward me with that expression on her face.
But she is.
She closes the distance in seconds, her boots splashing through muddy puddles, and then she's there. Right in front of me. So close I can smell the familiar lavender and cinnamon.
And then she crashes into me.
Her arms wrap around me in a tight embrace, pulling me against her with enough force to make my broken ribs protest. I gasp in pain and surprise, my hands coming up automatically whether to push her away or return the embrace, I don't know.
"You're alive," she says into my chest. Her voice is muffled but I can hear the emotion in it. "Thank the gods, you're alive. Your friend Lucian said you were unconscious and you fought three Elites alone—"
She pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at me. Her hazel eyes are wet. Actually wet, like she's been crying or is about to start.
"I thought we'd lost you," she whispers.
I stare at her, completely at a loss for words. How did I ever think she looked cruel?
"I thought we'd lost you," she whispers again, and there's something raw in her voice that makes it hard to breathe. She cuts herself off, takes a shaky breath. "You idiot."
This is Cecilia. Beautiful, dangerous, complicated Cecilia who I've spent months trying not to think about because thinking about her makes everything harder. Who believes in a version of me I'm not sure exists
"Cecilia," I manage to say. "How and why are you here?"
"You're an idiot," she says again, and now there's definitely anger mixing with the relief. Her hands tighten on my shoulders.
"Thats the first thing you say to me?" "After leaving Lont without a word, going to the capital then the academy. Ignoring me when I worked so hard to get sent to the Academy to try and speak to you!' Then you come here and take on 3 Awakened alone!!"
She stops, seems to catch herself. Takes another breath. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter but no less intense. "I missed you!'
Around us, I'm dimly aware that we've drawn attention. Soldiers and civilians and Inquisitors are all watching this scene play out. The Child of Light being embraced by an Inquisitor. It probably looks significant. Symbolic.
Without my fearmonger mark being actively channeled to its full potential my emotions are not as dimmed as they typically are. So for this meeting between us I can remember how I felt about her, and how my heart races when i look into her eyes and for this moment I don't care about the audience around me.
"I'm fine," I say, even though it's a lie. Even though every part of me hurts and I can barely stand.
"Don't lie to me!' Cecilia snaps, and there's that fire I remember. That intensity that drew me to her in the first place "I saw your injuries when I got here. And by the way I volunteered for this as I was told you were going to be here."
I wonder who could have given her that information. Helix was hastily put together and was sent out on mission the same I got to Verion.
She controunes "You can't take risks like that, you're to..."
She stops abruptly, like she's said too much.
"Too what?" I ask quietly.
Her hazel eyes search mine. "Too important," she says finally. "To the empire, to."
The unspoken word hangs between us.
To me.
My heart is pounding now, and it has nothing to do with my injuries. This is the conversation we didn't have before I left Lont for Lusa. When she slipped out of my room and I was summoned finally to meet with the King.
But how can I be with someone who represents everything I reject? How can she be with someone who rejects everything she believes in?
And yet.
And yet here she is, holding onto me like I'm something precious. Looking at me like I matter beyond my usefulness as a weapon. She followed me across Empire. Why? We don't even know each other that well!
"Cecilia," I start, but I don't know how to finish. Don't know what I'm trying to say.
"We'll talk," she says quietly, her hands still on my shoulders. "Later. When you're not about to collapse from exhaustion and hunger." A small smile tugs at her lips. "You are hungry, aren't you?
Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the emotional whiplash of this conversation of her being in front of me again, of talking to her I feel myself smile back. "Guilty as charged"
"Of course you are." She steps back, but only far enough to take my hand. Her fingers lace through mine, warm and solid and real. "Come on. Command sent supplies with the relief force. There's a field kitchen set up near what's left of the central square."
She starts pulling me forward, and I let her. Because I'm too tired to resist. Because her hand in mine feels right in a way I can't rationalize
We walk through the ruins in silence. She doesn't let go of my hand. I don't pull away.
The destruction around us is harrowing. Every collapsed building is a reminder of what we did. What I did. The lives I took, directly and indirectly. The fear I weaponized. The illusions I wove to make people kill each other.
But standing here in the bright morning sunlight, holding hands with the one person who still believes I can be something more than a killer, I wonder if justice is supposed to feel this heavy.
Cecilia glances at me as we walk. "You look like hell," she says softly.
"Feel like it too."
We round a corner and the central square comes into view.
Or what's left of it.
The grand plaza that once served as Oakhaven's heart is now a crater. Literally. Something—probably the combined effects of Imara's density manipulation and Lopez's kinetic shockwaves—has collapsed the ground itself, creating a bowl-shaped depression maybe thirty feet deep.
The devastation is even worse than I thought. Buildings that ringed the square are completely gone. Just foundations and scattered rubble.
Around the edges of the crater, temporary structures have been erected. Medical tents. Supply stations. A large pavilion that must be the field kitchen.
Markless soldiers and Inquisitors move between the structures with purpose. The relief force is substantial seems the Empire does care about the Oakhaven despite the orders we received.
More people stop to stare as we approach. More whispers of "Child of Light." More hasty salutes. Cecilia's hand tightens on mine.
"They all know," she says quietly. "About the three Elites." Colonel Caldera gave a report to strategic command and somehow it spread to everyone in the relief force as well, i'm sure the story's spreading fast elsewhere as well."
"Great," I mutter. "Just what I need."
"You're a symbol now," Cecilia says "Whether you like it or not. The Child of Light who brought divine retribution to the Federation occupiers. People need that. They need to believe we can win. But you don't have to be just a symbol you can be a real force for change!'
"I'm not a symbol," I say flatly. "I'm just—"
"I know what you are, Ayato." She squeezes my hand. "Better than most. But what you are to yourself and what you are to them..." She gestures at the watching soldiers and civilians. "Those are different things."
I want to argue. Want to tell her she's wrong, that I can't be their hero and still be myself.
We're almost to the field kitchen when I feel it.
The bond. Lucian's presence in our bond. I allow the connection.
Ayato? His mental voice is exhausted but profoundly relieved. You're awake. Thank the gods. Stay there. I'm coming.
I'm fine, I send back. How bad is it?
You don't want to know but you're going to ask anyway. We won but at great cost, we decimated the entirety of Oakhaven and it's satellite towns, we killed all the enemies awakened, congrats on the 1v3 by the way. Most of the federations markless have also all being killed although we are sure some were able to retreat and run during the chaos. Also you tore blood vessels in your brain. You had three broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, severe lacerations to your shoulder and calf and torso, and enough internal bleeding that you should be dead. My passive healing through the bond was active on you for a good 12 hours.
"Well fuck me sideways No wonder I'm so hungry."
"That tends to happen my good man, anyways there was an Inquisitor asking for you, I think it was that Cecilia chick the one from the memories I saw when we became bonded."
"I'm aware she's standing right next to me"
"Oh" he chuckles "An inquisitor eh? Nice"
"Fuck off"
"Sure, sure, anyways get something to eat then report to Caldera, we have new orders but it's best you hear it from him."
"Very well"
I end the connection and see Cecilia looking at me smiling.
"What?" I ask
"I'm just happy to be able to talk to you again." She smiles.
The smell of cooking food hits me as we approach the pavilion, and my stomach growls loud enough that Cecilia grins.
"Come on," she says, pulling me toward the serving line. "Before you collapse."
We join the queue behind a group of soldiers who immediately notice us and step aside saluting, gesturing for us to go ahead. I nod my thanks and pass them by.
The cook behind the serving station a weathered woman with the build of someone who's spent decades in army kitchens takes one look at me and starts piling food onto a tray without asking what I want.
Bread. Cheese. Some kind of stew that smells amazing. Dried fruit. More bread. A piece of what might be chicken.
"Heard you did good work yesterday, sir," she says gruffly as she hands me the overloaded tray. "Gave those Federation bastards what they deserved."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because what do I say to that? Thank you for approving of the massacre?
Cecilia gets her own tray with significantly less food and leads me to a quiet corner of the pavilion where we can sit without being surrounded by gawking soldiers.
I dig in immediately, too hungry to care about manners or appearances. The stew is good—really good, actually. Warm and rich and exactly what my body needs.
Cecilia watches me eat with that small smile playing at her lips.
"What?" I ask around a mouthful of bread.
"Nothing. Just..." She shakes her head. "I'm glad you're alive. Even if you are an idiot."
"So you've mentioned."
"I'll probably mention it again. Multiple times."
I swallow my food and look at her properly. Really look at her. The sunlight streaming through the pavilion's open sides catches her hair, makes her hazel eyes bright. There's a smudge of dirt on her cheek and her Inquisitor robes are dusty from working in the ruins, but she's still one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen. And she's not even an Awakened.
"Cecilia," I say quietly
She reaches across the table and takes my hand again "Later Ayato"
I nod and continue eating allowing her to hold my left hand and run her fingers over mine.