Morning broke over the cathedral in silence.
The fire crackled low between them, its warmth warding off the lingering chill that clung to the ruined walls. Elira sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her expression still and distant—but not empty. The storm within her had quieted, replaced by something steadier.
Caelen sat opposite her, hands wrapped around a tin cup of water, eyes on the embers.
Elira spoke first.
"I heard you," she said softly. "In the darkness. When they had me."
He looked up, confused. "Heard me?"
"You were singing."
Caelen frowned. "I don't remember that."
"Not with words," she clarified, her voice like a breeze. "With your heart. Your curse… it reached me. Through the pain. It reminded me who I was."
A beat of silence passed between them.
Realization dawned in Caelen's eyes.
The spirits in the cathedral—they had cried out, and he had answered. But not only with strength. With sorrow. With compassion. With something deeper.
"I didn't just take their pain," he whispered. "I gave them peace."
Elira nodded, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips. "You're learning to wield it, Caelen. To turn suffering into strength."
The words lit something in him.
He had seen the curse as a burden, a chain around his soul. But now, a new thought bloomed—what if it was more than that? A bridge. A song. A gift.
He rose slowly, the Weeping Blade resting light in his palm. It no longer dragged. It hummed.
"Then let's use it," he said, voice clear. "To stop him."
Elira stood beside him, her fire rekindled. Her eyes were no longer hollow. They blazed.
"The enemy has a name," she said. "Eredan-Mir. The End That Feels Nothing."
The name struck like thunder.
Caelen's scar pulsed in answer. The curse surged within him—not in agony, but in readiness.
"And he's close," Elira added.
Caelen met her gaze.
"Then we'll meet him. Together."
They stepped out of the cathedral, its walls now quiet. The world's pain still pressed on every breath—but Caelen no longer staggered beneath it.
He bore it.
Not as punishment.
But as purpose.
He was Ashbound. But more than that—
He was the heart of a dying age.
And he would fight to keep it beating.