The Historical Preservation Society had provided them quarters in the visitors' wing—two rooms with clean beds, washing facilities, and guards posted outside their doors. Not quite prisoners, but not quite free either.
Marron stood at the window of her room, looking out over Lumeria's rooftops. Somewhere below, in the deepest vault, Edmund was sealing away the Perfection Slicer. Triple seals. Four locks. Buried until memory faded.
She wondered if the Slicer was awake enough to feel that burial. To understand what it meant.
You're never going to be reunited, she thought toward it. Never going to work with the Blade again. Never going to teach your efficient, hollow lessons to another wielder. Is that justice? Punishment? Or just—necessary?
No answer came. The Slicer was too distant, too dormant. Or maybe it had no answers anymore. Just doubt, questions it couldn't resolve alone.
A knock at the door. Marron turned as Aldric entered, carrying a tray with food and tea.
