Weeks passed.
Weeks of funerals.
Most without names.
Some without bodies.
Too many without truth.
The official story that circled among the public was that there had been a massive fire in the hills—a natural disaster, perhaps a gas leak. The city authorities, paid and pressed into silence, buried the true cause beneath layers of bureaucracy and soot. The injured were listed as victims of a construction collapse. The casualties at the "abandoned" estate? Never publicly named.
But those who knew—they mourned differently.
Quietly.
Fiercely.
Together.
Ainsworth had gone to more funerals in those weeks than he'd attended in his entire life. Some were nothing more than closed caskets. Some—just names etched on paper, placed beneath tree roots or tucked into stones at the edge of forgotten plots.
There were no medals. No honors. Just rain, and the sting of loss.
The city moved on. It always did. But those who fought… they carried it.
Ainsworth exhaled slowly as he stepped into the upper floor of Monolith HQ, his gait a little heavier than usual. The wounds were healing, but his limp remained—a reminder of a blade that had come too close to his spine. The halls were quieter these days. Not empty, but subdued. Reverent. Changed.
He expected the mood inside Aldrin's office to match.
It didn't.
He paused outside the open door, surprised to hear… laughter.
Not just any laugh—Iris's laugh. Real. Unrestrained. One of those half-snorts that she always tried to hide but never could. And Aldrin's voice followed, low and dry.
Ainsworth leaned slightly to see inside.
There she was, standing at Aldrin's desk with a mug in hand, wearing her hair loose for once, one foot tapping the floor with idle rhythm. Aldrin, seated, was lifting a second cup to his lips, looking tired but… at peace.
"I swear," Iris teased, "you must bleed espresso at this point."
Aldrin gave her a lazy smirk. "I've cut back."
"You've cut back from six to five, Aldrin. That's not restraint—that's tactical surrender."
"I'm not a caffeine addict. I'm just committed."
"To what, staying awake for the rest of your life?"
"That, and making sure my office smells like fresh roast instead of blood and gunpowder."
She chuckled and handed him the coffee with a mock bow. "Your majesty. Your brew."
Ainsworth smiled faintly to himself. He could've stepped in. Could've reminded Aldrin about a pending council meeting. Could've asked Iris about logistics or trade routes or any of the dozen other things swirling in the aftermath.
But instead, he took a breath… and turned away.
Let them have this. They'd earned it.
Inside the Office
Aldrin took a sip, letting the silence stretch before setting the mug down gently.
"You know," he said, leaning back in his chair, "there was a time I used to hate coffee. Thought it was bitter. Pointless."
Iris arched a brow, sliding into the seat across from him. "What changed?"
"I did," he said simply. "Somewhere between the first sleepless night and the tenth betrayal, bitterness started tasting like clarity."
"Dramatic."
He smirked. "Says the woman who drinks her coffee black with a shot of cayenne."
"It builds character."
"It builds ulcers."
"You'd know, addict."
He looked at her with that quiet sort of amusement only she ever pulled from him. "If I'm an addict, you're my enabler."
"Gladly," she said, grinning. "Besides, it's either caffeine or therapy. And between us, I think your mug listens better than most therapists."
Aldrin laughed—not loud, but real. A rusted bell finding its chime again.
For a long moment, they just… sat. No rush. No bloodshed. Just warmth in porcelain cups and sunlight fighting its way through the tall windows.
"Iris," he said after a beat.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For staying."
She didn't look away. "Always."
The warmth of the moment was shattered by the sudden swing of the office door.
"You two better not be making espresso without me," came Marek's unmistakable voice as he stepped inside, grinning like he owned the place.
Ainsworth trailed behind him, exasperated. "I told you he was in a meeting."
Marek shot him a look. "It's coffee, not diplomacy."
Iris raised an eyebrow. "If it were, we'd all be dead."
Aldrin didn't even look up. "I swear, one day I'm putting a lock on this damn door."
Marek sauntered over, plucking the coffee mug right from Aldrin's hand and sipping it.
Then gagged. "Ugh! What is this? Did you steep gunpowder in it for old times' sake?"
"Give it back." Aldrin reached for it, but Marek held it out of reach like a schoolyard bully.
"I think my taste buds just filed a resignation letter," Marek said, shuddering dramatically.
A voice chimed in from the hallway.
"That bad?"
Isabella leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, smirking. Her tailored jacket was slightly dusted from the road, her boots muddy. "Didn't know we were bullying Aldrin today. Would've brought popcorn."
"You're always bullying me," Aldrin muttered, glaring at the stolen mug.
Marek gestured to him with mock reverence. "How else do we keep our self-proclaimed king humble?"
"By getting jobs," Aldrin shot back.
"Touché," Marek said, raising the mug in salute before finally handing it back. "But jokes aside—good to see you laughing again. You looked like a ghost for three weeks."
Isabella walked in fully now, taking the last empty seat. "You still do," she added flatly, then gave a slow grin. "But at least now you're a functioning ghost."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Aldrin said dryly.
Ainsworth chuckled from the wall where he leaned. "He functions on caffeine and brooding. At this point, he's half folklore."
"Three-quarters," Iris chimed in helpfully. "One quarter espresso."
Aldrin groaned, setting his mug down with exaggerated slowness. "I should've died in that greenhouse."
"That's the spirit!" Marek grinned. "But then who'd we roast?"
They all laughed—easily, naturally. It didn't erase the scars or the sleepless nights, but it softened the edges.
Camaraderie, even if laced with sarcasm, felt like medicine.
"I missed this," Iris said after a moment, quieter now.
"We all did," Ainsworth agreed, eyes landing on Aldrin.
Aldrin looked around the room, at the people who'd fought with him, bled with him, stood by him even after everything.
His family.
Not by blood.
But by fire.
He smiled softly. "Alright. One round of insults per person. Then you all go back to work."
Marek leaned forward. "You sure? I've got at least four more about your beard alone."
"It's not that bad," Isabella said, inspecting him. "Just needs less… post-apocalyptic dictator and more 'tragic poetry professor.'"
"I hate all of you," Aldrin muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Iris refilled his mug without asking. "You love us."
"…That's the problem."
And for just a moment, the weight of the world didn't feel so heavy. Not in that room. Not with them.
The city was quieter now.
As the sun dipped into a molten horizon, Aldrin walked with slow steps toward the old bridge—its rusted edges and cracked stone as worn as the path that had brought him here. He came alone, as he always did for moments like these. No enforcers. No shadows.
Just the wind.
And the past.
Mara was already there.
Leaning on the rusted railing like she belonged to the bridge, or perhaps it to her—backlit by the burning sky, her silhouette framed in fire and fading light.
She didn't turn around when he approached. Didn't have to.
"Took you long enough, Aldrin," she said softly, voice like worn silk. "I was starting to think you'd lost your sense of theatrics."
He stood beside her. Not too close. Just enough.
"I wasn't sure you'd come at all," he said.
She gave him a side glance, her eyes tired but clear. "We both know how this ends. I just thought we might give it one last go. Words. Not war."
Aldrin leaned forward against the rail, the wind brushing his coat. Below, the river shimmered like liquid gold, rippling in silence.
"You lost," he said.
"We both did." She looked down, her lips curved—not in bitterness, but acceptance. "You stopped the machine. But you broke yourself to do it."
Aldrin didn't argue.
"I thought power could fix everything," he said. "That if I built a stronger empire, I could protect what I loved. That violence—if wielded right—was a means to grace."
Mara let out a breath that might've been a laugh. "That's the lie we both believed. Difference is, you lived long enough to see the truth."
She turned toward him now, fully, studying his face.
"You've changed, Aldrin. I see it in your eyes. You're not the boy I used to call—" she caught herself. A smirk pulled at her lips. "—the Bloodless Prince."
He huffed a breath through his nose. "Gods, I haven't heard that name in years."
"You hated it."
"I still do."
They shared a brief laugh. Small. Wounded. But real.
The wind picked up. Distant thunder rolled over the hills like drums long gone silent.
Mara looked toward the skyline, eyes soft. "You found grace. Or maybe it found you."
Aldrin didn't speak.
She smiled again, gently this time. "Whatever you do next, don't lose it. Grace isn't something you win. It's something you live with."
And then she turned to leave. Step by step, walking into the golden light.
But the sound that cracked through the air wasn't thunder.
It was a gunshot.
Mara's body jolted mid-step.
Her eyes went wide, and for a second—just a second—she turned toward Aldrin in disbelief. Blood bloomed like a dying flower across her chest as her knees buckled.
Aldrin's face twisted into horror.
"Mara—"
She fell backward.
The sky behind her burned bright with the last breath of the sun. And her silhouette, arms open like wings, dropped from the bridge's edge—swallowed by the golden dark.
Aldrin didn't move.
Couldn't.
He stared into the light that faded behind her, until the sky itself dimmed.
And in the silence that followed, there was no wind.
No birds.
No noise.
Just a chill.
A single flame, snuffed out mid-flicker.
And then—
the dark now comes.