The sun had just crested the jagged horizon when they set out.
Mist still clung low to the earth, stirring in strands around their boots as Lucien and Seradine walked in silence through the thinning woods. The smell of char and cold metal lingered on their cloaks. Behind them, the smoldering wreckage of the ambush site was already being swallowed by morning light.
Seradine kept glancing over at him.
She hadn't said much after the fight. Just a quiet thank-you, then hours of stunned silence. Now, her eyes tracked him with something else—relief, disbelief, and something like awe.
Finally, she exhaled. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."
Lucien kept walking. "Neither did I."
She smiled faintly. "But you did. You found me. How?"
He looked ahead. "Your fire was old. But not cold. I traced it through half a dozen wards and two false leads. Clarity told me where to look."
Seradine stiffened at the name. "You trusted her?"
"I didn't say that."
A pause.
"She's the reason I went underground," Seradine admitted, brushing hair from her face. "The night everything fell, I was supposed to meet with your captains in Darneth Hollow. She showed up instead. Told me to run. Said the Tower was coming for all of us."
Lucien's eyes flicked to her. "And you believed her?"
"I didn't know what else to do. And… she helped me vanish. Fed me lies about your death. That your armies scattered. That the fireguard were being hunted one by one."
He didn't answer.
She glanced at him again. "I wanted to believe you lived. But hope… isn't the same as proof."
"I understand," Lucien said quietly. "You did what you had to."
They walked on. The path ahead curved through a rocky hill, scattered with faded runes. Seradine moved ahead of him, and for a moment her voice came softer, almost wistful.
"I still remember the day you made me fireguard," she said. "I thought I'd burn from pride alone."
Lucien let a faint smile crack the edge of his face. "You almost did."
She laughed—a real, clear laugh that made the woods feel warmer.
"I never forgot the way you fought," she said. "Or the way you looked at the Tower—like it was just a wall waiting to be brought down."
He said nothing.
"But seeing you now…" Her voice trailed, then came back stronger. "It means something. You're not a ghost. You're walking, breathing proof. The fireguard have something to return to."
Lucien slowed, gaze sharpening. "You said Clarity helped you vanish. Did she help the others too?"
Seradine nodded. "Some. Not all. She scattered us across old hiding posts. Wardstones. Caverns no one but you ever knew how to open. She told us to wait. That one day you'd return, and we'd know when."
He stopped. "Why would she do that?"
Seradine turned, uncertain. "I don't know. She said she owed you. Nothing more."
Lucien's jaw clenched. "She betrayed me, Seradine. Burned half my city in the name of 'peace.' And now she's hiding my people like relics in the dark? That's not restitution. That's control."
Seradine frowned. "Then why come to me? Why give you the key to finding me now?"
He looked away.
That was the question, wasn't it?
They reached the crest of a hill—and there, tucked beneath the rock face, was the mouth of a cave half-covered in moss and broken spell sigils. Seradine knelt and traced a symbol in the dirt, whispering a name only fireguard would know.
The stone shimmered. Then opened.
Inside, a low warmth drifted out—along with voices. Campfire crackle. The shuffle of boots. The unmistakable rhythm of old warriors keeping watch.
She turned to Lucien, eyes shining.
"They're still here," she said. "Some of them stayed. Waiting for something they didn't even believe was real anymore."
Lucien stepped into the dark. And the fireguard—those few who remained—rose from the shadows like echoes from a life he thought buried.
Some stared. Some whispered.
But one by one, they fell to their knees.
Seradine stood beside him, voice quiet but certain.
"They followed you once. They will again. And this time… we'll finish it."
Lucien's eyes swept across them, and for the first time in years, something steady began to flicker beneath his ribs.
Not vengeance.
Not grief.
A reason.