The great hall of the Glacira Palace lay in ruin. Shattered marble tiles were slick with the oil-blood of the destroyed zombie-machines, mingled with the red of fallen soldiers. The stench of smoke and iron hung in the air, heavy enough to choke. Where once the clash of steel and the inhuman groans of the undead resounded, silence had finally taken root—only the ragged breathing of survivors broke it.
Theodera, pale and trembling after expending nearly all of her divine strength, was carried from the battlefield by Frostkeeper and Ravien Drakscar. Her golden aura, once blazing, now flickered faintly around her, fragile as candlelight in a storm. Frostkeeper's arms gripped her tightly, his expression sharper than ice. Every step he took into the palace corridors was heavy, as though each moment might be the last he would hold her alive.
Back in the hall, Kitbash knelt among the debris, gathering what remained of Akihiro. His claymore had been cleaved in half, his armor bent, and his body torn apart by Evela's sadistic command. With careful hands, Kitbash wrapped the scattered remains in a black cloth, binding them with a soldier's knot. His normally cold, assassin's gaze burned with something rarer—grief tempered into steel. He whispered something beneath his breath, words none could hear, before rising with the bundle.
Anastrelle Krysin, her grimoire still glowing faintly from the spells she had unleashed, moved swiftly to assist. With Lior, Kael, and a battered but unyielding Kairo, they supported Nathaniel Boston, whose face was swathed in bloodied bandages. Doctors rushed from the side halls, called urgently by soldiers, and Anastrelle shouted for them to bring healing tonics and salves.
Kairo's right arm had been torn at the joint, hastily wrapped by strips of cloth, his face white with pain but still holding stubborn pride. Nathaniel's condition was far more gruesome—his upper face shredded, his eyes gouged by the ravenous swarm before, his breathing shallow, ragged. Every motion he made was defiance itself, refusing to collapse even as his body screamed for rest. The doctors half-carried him away as he muttered through torn lips that he still wanted to fight.
Meanwhile, Junia and Tieu worked among the surviving soldiers. Junia's hands, though trembling, lifted men heavier than herself, helping drag them toward the healers. Tieu, her forehead mark faintly glowing, poured streams of lunar healing magic into the wounded, soothing burns and closing gashes. She swayed, sweat pouring from her brow, yet pressed on tirelessly.
Amidst it all, Michi stood apart. His claymore, slick with ichor, was planted into the fractured stone floor as he leaned upon it, his eyes shadowed. He replayed the battle in his mind—Theodera nearly consumed by her power, Evela's mocking laughter, Akihiro's severed head, Nathaniel's screams as his flesh was devoured. He could still hear the echo of it. Still see the madness in Evela's eyes when she invoked the Auran Covenant.
"...This is only the beginning," he muttered, voice low, carrying a weight only he could feel.
A sudden presence brushed beside him. Frostkeeper had returned, his face still pale from watching his queen's suffering. He placed a hand gently upon Michi's shoulder.
"She will be fine, Michi," Frostkeeper said, voice steady, yet not without sorrow. His other hand pressed lightly against Michi's chest. A strange warmth flared within him, pulsing like a heartbeat, unfamiliar yet powerful. Michi gasped softly.
Frostkeeper's eyes narrowed, glowing faintly with timeless light. "Do you feel that? The piece of the Door you seek—it rests now inside your heart. It will remain safe there until you gather them all. When that day comes, the pieces will emerge from you."
Michi's eyes widened. His hand went to his chest, as though to confirm the new thrum within. Frostkeeper's words sank deep, more mysterious than comforting.
"And remember," Frostkeeper added gravely, "what I told you before… about the reality."
Days passed in Glacira. The kingdom reeled from the devastation yet remained unbroken. A quiet ceremony was held beneath the earth in the assassin's sanctum. Kitbash stood at the forefront, the black cloth-wrapped remains of Akihiro laid within a stone chamber carved with symbols of honor. He lowered the bundle gently, his dagger pressed against his forehead in final salute.
Beside him, Ravien stood silent, his massive hand resting firmly on Kitbash's shoulder. His voice, deep and solemn, carried across the chamber.
"Someday," Ravien swore, "we will take our revenge."
Kitbash's eyes, sharp as blades, locked forward with a fiery determination. "Yes. Someday."
Nearby, Anastrelle, Lior, and Kael watched quietly. Kairo, with his arm bound and wrapped, bowed his head despite his weakened body. Nathaniel could not attend; he remained under the care of doctors, his condition uncertain, life hanging by a fragile thread.
Junia and Tieu whispered prayers.
Time marched on. When Michi, Lior, Kael, Junia, and Tieu were finally ready, they gathered their belongings and prepared to leave Glacira for their next destination. The palace gates opened, the air cool with the faint promise of peace. The group turned back only once.
Upon the palace balcony stood Queen Theodera, fragile yet radiant in her recovery, Frostkeeper at her side. Her voice was soft, but clear as a bell carried by the wind.
"Zayden," she said to Frostkeeper, her eyes distant, "this happened just as Father foretold…"
Frostkeeper's expression hardened. "Yes, my queen." He pulled a leather-bound book from his robes, its pages old, ink faded by time. He opened it, showing a prophecy inscribed by Theodre himself: A boy with a bizarre red forehead mark will come, collecting the parts of a forgotten thing, to confront a being named Fengxi.
Theodera's hand trembled as she touched the page. Frostkeeper's eyes lingered not on the book but on a portrait nearby—an image of Theodre standing with a man unmistakably like himself. Twilight, his past variant. The cycle of destiny bound them all.
Turning to his queen, Frostkeeper bent low and kissed her lips, gentle yet fierce, as though sealing a vow. Theodera returned it, her fingers brushing his cheek.
Beneath them, the banners of Glacira fluttered proudly. Their kingdom had endured, victorious but scarred. And in the quiet shadow of its triumph, Michi had earned his first true achievement—yet also gained heavier questions, and the weight of prophecy pressing upon his heart.