They found him in the ruins of the theater, body broken but breathing.
Corin and Neve carried him out as the sky above Eastbridge shifted—no longer bleeding, no longer cracked. Just cloudy.
Just real.
The Veil's remnants had scattered. The Hollow Choir was silent. The Seed no longer pulsed. And Malgros?
Gone.
Lucas lay in a hospital bed, recovering slowly. Sometimes he dreamt of fire, but it no longer consumed him. Sometimes he heard voices, but they no longer screamed.
Corin stayed by his side.
Neve disappeared one morning, leaving behind a final drawing: Lucas standing beneath a tree grown from his own shadow, and beside him, a woman made of light and memory.
Elara.
One night, as rain drummed against the windows, Corin leaned close.
"You saved the city."
Lucas shook his head. "No. I gave it a chance to remember itself."
Outside, the streetlights flickered.
Somewhere deep beneath the earth, beneath ash and silence, something pulsed once.
But it didn't wake.
Not yet.