The cave had fallen silent.
The screams, the fire, the butchery—gone. Only the smoldering pyres remained, their fury now reduced to soft tongues of amber, licking the bones of what once breathed. Heat lingered, but not with violence. It clung like memory—heavy, reluctant to leave.
Flesh, armor, and soul had already begun their return to ash and vapor. The chamber, once a theater of grotesque display, now stood as a chapel. Smoke spiraled upward toward the cracked ceiling like solemn incense, curling around the jagged stone like it, too, was mourning.
Crept did not move. He stood before the pyres with hands at his sides, shadow flickering across his jaw. Beside him, Bashanta kept vigil, eyes trained on nothing in particular but seeing everything. Kael stood further back, arms clasped behind his back, his usual swagger replaced by rigid discipline. Even Cerejeira, who rarely showed emotion, kept her gaze fixed on the flames, unreadable.
And then Inteja V Pharsa stepped forward.
She said no preamble, no name. Just a prayer—old as fire, older than war.
> "Let the flame carry your sorrow beyond the veil.
Let the smoke rise as your spirit's song.
May time mend your soul, and love be your guide.
From destruction, find salvation."
Her voice was low, but in the stillness of the Hingcha's lair, it filled every crevice like a hymn that had been waiting to be heard. The pyres cracked in response.
Tremeur stepped forward. In his hands: a relic orb—transparent, humming faintly with runes etched in reverence. The orb was a vessel not for power, but for memory.
As the last flames quieted, he swept the orb gently through the air. Ashes, faintly glowing, began to stir. They lifted, as if awakened by the rite, and drifted toward the orb in slow spirals. Each fragment joined the next, forming whorls of memory—embers of soldiers, of friends, of names.
And as they settled inside, light traced their identities across the glass—one by one—etching them not as casualties, but as echoes.
Tremeur whispered the seal-word. The orb sealed with a soft pulse of warmth. The dead were now flame, and flame remembered.
> "Ready," he said.
---
Outside the Lair
The cave mouth opened into the dying day.
Wind struck them immediately—cold, biting, as if the world outside had no time for grief. But they carried it with them anyway, stepping into the pale horizon like shadows reborn.
At the slope's base stood Z. Zextire—a man wrapped in crisp ANSEP black, clipboard in hand, short hair combed with military precision. His stance was exact, posture straight enough to cut stone.
He gave Inteja a single nod as she approached.
"The memorial site has been prepared. Families have been notified."
Inteja nodded once in return. Her face was a mask—one she had worn before.
Behind her, the others emerged in silence. None spoke. None needed to. Their grief was not for display—it had been carved deep into the bone.
Zextire gestured to the ship awaiting them downhill. A black shroud draped its hull. At its center, the emblem of a single white flame glowed—faint, but steady.
Inteja turned to her squad. Her voice was dry.
> "We return."
---
The Memorial Grounds
The sky had darkened by the time they arrived.
The hall had been carved into the side of an ancient slope—its stone walls worn by time but standing strong. Inside, obsidian pillars lined the path like silent sentinels. Between them, small flames flickered in stone sconces, their light casting amber shadows across the faces of those gathered.
The orb was placed upon the altar at the center of the room.
Its glow had dimmed now, but the names still pulsed softly—fading in and out of sight like echoes in deep water.
The hall did not weep. It did not scream.
It remembered.
---
In the Frozen Shadows of Ellejort
Far from the memorial, in a forgotten strip of northern Ellejort where even sound refused to linger, Cornicius Corell crouched by the flickering firelight of his crude shelter.
The steel walls hissed with the breath of the storm outside. Snow clawed at the seams. Inside, a dented pot simmered on a makeshift burner, heating the last of the rations he'd stolen from an outpost weeks ago.
He chewed without hunger, thoughts fraying at the edges.
> Weeks, he thought. Since the teleportation. Since the box.
He had no answers. No contact. No confirmation that Atiya or Zelaine had survived the shift. He was alone. Trapped in Ellejort—enemy territory—with only scavenged supplies, a pulse gun, and a damaged ANSEP-grade bracelet that blinked just often enough to remind him it was dying too.
He stared into the fire.
> I should've stopped Nongban. Earlier. Before the box. Before Shuli.
His knuckles clenched. The guilt had taken root. It fed on silence.
And then—a pulse.
The bracelet lit up.
Cornicius sat up straight, breath caught. A soft ping. Then another. It wasn't random noise—a life signature. Faint. Human. Nearby.
He leaned closer to the screen. Vitals: unstable. Location: two klicks north, along the frozen ridge.
> A survivor?
He frowned. The signature was barely holding. A few more hours, maybe less.
But going meant risk. His shelter had taken weeks to construct—hidden from drones, insulated against trace. The forest was Yai-infested. If he left now, he could be seen. Hunted. Exposed.
He weighed the options.
> If I don't go, whoever it is will die.
If I do go, and get caught—
The fire popped. He stared at the bracelet's pulsing dot.
> Would I have hesitated… if it were Zelaine? Or Atiya?
He knew the answer.
> "Shit," he muttered, grabbing his coat.
But the choice was ripped from him.
Before he could move, the eastern wall of his shelter buckled with a metallic groan. Cold air surged inward. Snow scattered. The fire died.
A roar shattered the stillness.
A massive Yai-beast lunged through the breach—fur like snow-bleached rot, claws blackened and steaming. Its eyes were void-pits, gnashing with instinctual rage. It slammed Cornicius into the floorboards before he could draw his weapon.
Pain exploded in his shoulder as claws dug in. He grunted, teeth gritted, one arm braced against the creature's snapping jaw.
> "Get—off—me!"
The beast snarled, acidic drool hissing against his armor. His free hand fumbled at his belt. The gun was just out of reach.
The jaw closed in.
Blood spilled.
With a scream of effort, Cornicius twisted his wrist, grabbed the gun—and fired point-blank into its skull.
The first shot staggered it. The second drove it back. He shoved hard, rolled to the side, and pulled the trigger a third time.
The beast dropped, twitching. Dead.
Cornicius coughed, dragging himself to his feet. His coat was torn. One arm hung limp, blood running freely beneath it.
The brawl had dragged him out of the shelter and into the clearing.
He stood in the snow, panting, hands trembling.
And then he saw something—a figure—approaching from the treeline.
One limp step. Then another.
A man.
Cornicius narrowed his eyes, gun still raised. The man looked half-dead. Skin pale. Breath ragged. He staggered through the snow like a ghost. His coat was shredded. Boots soaked in blood and frost.
But on his chest, just beneath a torn strap—
A symbol.
Faint, burned into fabric.
Cornicius stepped closer.
> Artem.
His heart jumped.
A noble house. One of Earth's old bloodlines. A survivor. Maybe even a clue. A lifeline.
The man collapsed onto one knee.
Cornicius holstered the weapon and rushed forward.
> "You're from Earth?" he asked, catching him by the shoulders. "Hold on—I've got you. You're safe now."
The man groaned faintly, but his eyes were dull. Frost had begun eating at his fingers. He was close to giving in.
Cornicius hoisted him over his shoulder, straining against his injured arm, and began the slow walk back toward the battered remnants of his shelter.
He had no idea who the man truly was.
Not yet.
But he'd soon learn the name:
Basen Artem.
The traitor of Artem Family
---
G