The warehouse behind Korvath's guild hall smelled of dust, oil, and faint smoke from the pyres outside. It was quiet here—mercifully quiet. No mourning soldiers, no clashing anvils, no arguments in the streets. Just Yoshiya, Omina, and the spoils of a dead city.
They laid everything out across a long wooden table: pouches of glittering mana shards from the cave they had passed on the road, and the darker crystal fragments taken from the heart of Giggleburg.
The difference between the two was clear.
The cave shards gleamed like soft morning dew—gentle, cool, and steady.
The Giggleburg shards pulsed. Each one flickered like a heartbeat, as if something inside still remembered screaming.
Yoshiya ran his fingers over both.
"These ones store mana…" he murmured, motioning to the cave shards. "But these—" his hand hovered above the heart-crystals, "—generate mana. They keep making more."
Omina exhaled softly. "So if someone used both together…"
"A reservoir and a source." Yoshiya nodded. "Mana that refills itself."
He could practically feel Nogare scolding him already: Power without discipline is suicide.
But the thought of it…
The possibility…
Yoshiya's crafting kit sat open beside him. He had never considered himself a blacksmith or jeweler—but crafting was crafting. Structure, focus, flow. The runic shaping was the same as potion arrays and barrier weaves.
He selected a silver base—lightweight, but strong when treated. He ground down the mana shards to powder-fine crystal and pressed them into the grooves of each ring base. That made the storage lattice.
Then came the harder part.
The Giggleburg shards didn't cut so much as they bled. Each chip left a faint residue of mana that crawled across the skin like static.
Yoshiya held one between his fingers. It throbbed, faint and steady.
"Steady," he whispered, mostly to himself.
He pressed the shard into the ring core. Light sparked—cold, bright, sudden. The mana surged up his arm like a shiver. Omina stepped forward on instinct.
"Yoshiya—"
"I'm fine." He breathed out. "It's just… a lot."
One ring finished.
Then another.
And another.
By sunset, ten rings lay on the table—each no larger than a coin, but each humming with quiet, contained power.
Yoshiya wiped his hands on a cloth, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Well," he said, exhausted but proud. "Ten."
Omina blinked. "You're really going to wear all of them?"
He gave her a tired smile. "If I don't pass out the moment they all sync."
She crossed her arms. "Then sit down first."
He obeyed.
Yoshiya slipped the first ring onto his right thumb.
His vision flared.
A rush of mana—pure, cold, overwhelming— surged into him. His heart pounded. His breath caught.
His hands shook.
But then—
He remembered the cave crystals.
He visualized the storing lattice: hold, regulate, cycle.
His breathing eased.
The trembling stopped.
"See?" he said, forcing a smile. "Just… needs practice."
Omina didn't smile back. Her hand cupped the side of his face, warm and grounding.
"You don't have to take everything alone."
Yoshiya didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The moment rested between them—quiet, steady.
A soft snuffling sound interrupted them.
The two horses they'd brought back from the road—both calm, strong creatures—were standing near the stable door, swishing their tails. Omina walked toward them, thoughtful.
"You still haven't named them," Yoshiya said.
She traced a hand along the first horse's mane. "They helped us escape Giggleburg. They deserve names with meaning…"
Her eyes softened.
"This one," she patted the left horse gently, "is Hayate. Because he runs like wind."
The horse snorted, approving.
"And this one…" She turned to the second—a darker coat, steady eyes, unshaken even by yesterday's chaos. "Nagare".
Yoshiya smiled. "Wind and Water."
Omina nodded. "Together. Just like—"
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
Outside, the bells of Korvath tolled slowly—mourning the dead, remembering the battle.
Inside the quiet warehouse, Yoshiya flexed his hands—ten rings glinting faintly.
Hayate and Nagare nuzzled Omina's shoulders.
And for a brief moment, away from kings and wars and the weight of what was coming—
They breathed.
A fragile peace.
The kind that always comes right before the world changes again.