The river's triumphant song felt like a mockery. It rushed on, cleansed and vibrant, while on its bank, a group of humans stood in shattered silence. Finn was gone. Not dead in a way they could understand, but dissolved, his essence returned to the element he had loved and protected. There was no body to bury, no pyre to light. Only the aching, empty space where his weary presence had been.
Elara was the first to move. She walked to the water's edge and knelt, her head bowed. It was not a gesture of prayer, but of respect. Of farewell. One by one, the other survivors followed, even a cowed and silent Hemmet. They dipped their hands in the cold, clear water, acknowledging the price that had been paid for it.
Kaelen could not join them. He stood apart, his fists clenched, the image of Finn's peaceful smile burning behind his eyes. The Water-Whisperer's final act had been one of sublime, selfless power. It had been the ultimate expression of the Warden's philosophy: to be the anvil, to endure the blow for the sake of what was being forged. In this case, Finn had been both the anvil and the hammer, striking a final, cleansing note that cost him everything.
And it left Kaelen feeling more powerless than ever.
He had raised walls of stone. He had shaped the riverbed. But when the true crisis came, his power had been useless. He could not cleanse. He could only break and build. Finn's sacrifice had saved them, but it had also highlighted the brutal limitation of Kaelen's own craft. He was a mason, not a healer. Not really.
"He knew," a soft voice said beside him. Elara had approached, her face still glistening with river water or tears, he couldn't tell. "He knew from the beginning that it would end this way. That's why he was so tired."
"I should have been able to do more," Kaelen whispered, the words raw. "I just… stood there."
"You built the stage," she corrected him gently. "You gave him the foundation to make his stand. It was a collaboration, Kaelen. Not a failure." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "His sacrifice gives us a chance. But it also makes this place a target. The Blight does not take kindly to being denied. They will send something worse."
Her words were a cold splash of reality. Grief was a luxury they couldn't afford. Finn's final gift was time, not safety.
They spent the rest of the day in a grim, practical daze. They filled every waterskin and container they had. They foraged in the now-healthy forest, gathering nuts, berries, and edible roots, their bounty feeling like a last gift from Finn. The mood was somber, the victory pyrrhic.
As dusk began to settle, Kaelen walked the length of their defensive gauntlet. The stone teeth, the settling pools, the channel maze—his work remained. But without Finn's living will to guide the water, it was just a sculpture. The river was already beginning to forget the temporary channels, its song slowly reverting to its old, natural melody.
He stopped at the spot where Finn had dissolved. The air still hummed with a residual energy, a poignant echo of the immense power that had been spent there. Kaelen knelt and placed his hand on a smooth, water-worn stone.
He expected to feel only the stone's own patient song. But instead, he felt a whisper. A final, fading message left in the Weave, like a note tucked into the crack of a wall.
It was not a voice, but an impression. An image, clearer than any he had received from the stone before. It was Finn's memory. He saw a vast, serene lake nestled between towering mountains, its water so clear it reflected the sky like a perfect mirror. At the lake's center was an island, and on that island stood a woman with hair like flowing silver, her hands weaving light upon the water's surface. The Lady of the Lake. The last true master of Finn's order.
The impression carried a single, urgent emotion: Find her.
Then, it was gone. The stone was just a stone again.
Kaelen stood, his heart pounding. It was a direction. A purpose beyond mere survival. Finn, with his last conscious thought, had not just saved them; he had given them a destination.
He returned to the camp, where the survivors were huddled around a small, cheerless fire. Their faces were turned to him, expectant, lost. He saw the same question in all their eyes: What now?
"We can't stay here," Kaelen began, his voice stronger than he felt. "Elara is right. This place is marked."
"So we run again?" Roric asked, his voice thick with frustration and pain. "To where? Until when?"
"Not just run," Kaelen said, looking at each of them. "We follow a map. Finn's map." He didn't explain how he'd received it. They wouldn't understand. "There's a place. A sanctuary, I think. To the north, deep in the mountains. A lake. There's someone there who can help us."
"Another Weaver?" Hemmet asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of hope and suspicion.
"A different kind," Kaelen said, thinking of the silver-haired woman weaving light. "A healer." The word felt foreign on his tongue, a skill so far beyond his own.
The debate was short. The alternative was wandering until the Blight or starvation found them. The hope of a sanctuary, however faint, was a flame they had to follow.
As they prepared to break camp at first light, Kaelen looked back at the rushing river one last time. Finn's sacrifice had been a lesson in the ultimate cost of their power. But his final gift had been a spark of hope. They were no longer just fleeing. They were journeying.
He turned his back on the Clearwater River, its song now a bittersweet melody of memory and loss in his mind. The path forward was clear. They would find the Lady of the Lake. And Kaelen would learn if a mason's hands, skilled only in stone, could ever learn the art of true healing.