The road leading back to the Scion Order's base was cold and quiet under the late winter sky. Pale light filtered through heavy clouds, casting the world in a somber grey.
Arasha rode alone, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow. Her face bore no expression, but her eyes carried the weight of each name carved into her heart.
As she approached the gates, the guards on duty straightened instinctively.
One gave a short, wordless nod before opening the gates. News of her return must have passed quickly—by the time her boots touched the stone courtyard, the base had already begun to fall into a hush.
The clatter of hooves, the ringing of hammers, the calls of squires and medics—one by one they faded into silence.
Arasha walked forward, every staff member, knight, and squire along her path paused what they were doing.
Wordlessly, they turned to her and gave a deep, solemn bow.
No one spoke.
There were no cheers of welcome or murmurs of relief—only the heavy quiet of shared mourning and reverence.
Even the injured knights who could move propped themselves up where they lay, saluting their commander with bloodied hands and tearful gazes.
It was Sir Garran who finally broke the stillness, stepping out from the command post, his armor still scuffed from the battle. He met her with a grave look, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. His voice was steady, but low with emotion.
"You didn't have to do it alone," he said. "The Order has protocols for this. We could have handled the notifications. You—"
Arasha met his gaze. Her expression didn't shift, but her voice, quiet and even, struck with a finality that silenced further argument.
"It was my command, Garran. My leadership. They followed my orders. It cost them their lives."
Her fingers formed a fist. "The least I could do was look their families in the eyes."
Garran sighed, the sound heavy with resignation and understanding. His own eyes were rimmed with red. "I understand. But know that they knew the full consequence of following you, and yet, they never hesitated to do so ."
He tried to smile. "All of us in the Scion Order will follow you Commander, even if it means we meet our end."
She gave no response.
"You need rest," he added, stepping beside her. "There's more coming—we all know it. You'll need your strength."
"I'm fine."
"You're not," came a sharper voice behind them.
Leta. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, her tone offering no quarter. "You're not fine, Commander. I can see it in your face. You haven't slept in days, and if you think you'll help anyone by dropping dead from exhaustion, you're wrong."
"Leta—"
"Either you go to your chambers willingly, or I'll drug your tea. Your choice."
A pause.
Garran raised an eyebrow, silently backing Leta's ultimatum.
Around them, some of the knights gave small, knowing glances, though no one dared smile.
The tension in Arasha's shoulders didn't ease, but she gave a faint nod.
A reluctant truce.
"I'll rest," she murmured, finally. "After I check on the wounded."
It was another two hours before she reached her chambers.
The room was quiet, the hearth lit with a low fire.
Her armor clinked as she set it aside with mechanical precision.
When she finally sat on the edge of her bed, Arasha stared into the flames, still seeing the eyes of Reyna and the other grieving families in the dancing light.
Her fingers drifted to the pendant she wore beneath her tunic—a simple piece of carved bone, gifted by a grateful villager long ago.
She thought of the names she would write that night. Of the rites she would have to perform. Of the promise she made—to never forget.
Only then did she allow herself to lie down, still clothed, her sword at her side, and for the first time in many days, close her eyes.
Even sleep, when it came, was no true respite. Only a fragile, haunted silence.
****
In the still hush of night, wrapped in the quiet breath of the flickering hearth, Arasha's weary mind drifted into a dream that began with warmth.
Sunlight dappled through the vibrant branches of tall flower trees that arched like canopies over a familiar garden. The gentle breeze carried the fragrance of spring blossoms—lavender, wild daffodils, and marigold—and the soft rustle of petals fluttering to the ground.
A child's laughter rang like silver bells through the air.
Young Arasha, no older than six, ran barefoot through the field of swaying flowers, her tiny hands gripping one end of a thick rope.
On the other end was her father, tall and sturdy, laughing heartily as he pretended to struggle in their game of tug.
His golden-brown eyes twinkled with mock defeat.
"Is that all you've got, little flame?" he teased, grinning.
"I'm stronger than you!" little Arasha giggled, tugging with all her might, her curly hair bouncing with each motion.
Not far off, under the shade of a blossoming willow, her mother sat on a soft, floral picnic mat, her hands gently layering slices of smoked meat and cheese between thick, fluffy bread.
She smiled at their antics, eyes filled with gentle joy.
"Oh dear," her mother laughed, brushing back a lock of her dark hair. "I fear the kingdom is lost if our knight can't win a tug-of-war."
A small, fluffy puppy yipped and ran in circles around Arasha's feet, its tail wagging furiously as it leapt onto the rope, helping its young mistress in the battle.
The laughter grew louder, fuller, almost echoing with happiness that seemed to soak every petal and leaf in the garden.
But the sun dimmed.
Without warning, the breeze changed. The warmth turned cold. The sky above bled from soft blue to iron grey.
The laughter was gone.
The flowers shriveled. The puppy barked sharply—once, then again—before fading like smoke.
Arasha's small form now stood frozen, her surroundings shifting violently.
A roar shook the sky, and then—chaos.
Flames licked at the edges of the once-beautiful garden, now twisted into a battlefield.
Screams echoed from shattered windows.
Smoke curled through the air.
Monstrous shadows loomed, their forms grotesque and otherworldly, seeping from the cracks of a fractured estate.
A younger Garran, face grim and streaked with ash, carried her in his arms—Arasha, wide-eyed and sobbing, reached desperately over his shoulder.
"MAMA! PAPA!" she screamed. "LET ME GO! I want to stay—I can fight—I can help!"
"No," Garran's voice was hard, trembling. "They ordered me to protect you. Your duty is to live."
Ahead, through the smoke, Arasha saw them.
Her mother stood on the mansion steps, surrounded by wounded knights, hands glowing as she healed them, her own blood staining the hem of her dress. She turned, eyes locking with Arasha's one last time—and smiled.
"My beloved little flame, by lovely baby star," she whispered, pressing two fingers to her lips, then lifting them toward her daughter in a parting kiss.
Behind her, Arasha's father fought like a man possessed, his sword cleaving through twisted beasts, roaring at the top of his lungs, "Take her, Garran! Take care of her! Live, Little Flame! Take care of yourself!"
"No! Don't leave me! Please—!" Arasha reached out, her tiny fingers stretching as though she could bridge the growing distance.
But Garran didn't stop. The monsters swarmed, the gates collapsed, and her parents vanished behind a wall of darkness and fire.
"Don't go…!" her voice broke into a sob, her body trembling.
And then—
She woke with a gasp.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her room cloaked in dim light and the dying warmth of the hearth. The blankets were tangled, her skin damp with cold sweat. Her throat ached from the phantom of a cry caught in her sleep.
For a long moment, Arasha sat there—silent.
Then, slowly, she brought a trembling hand to her lips, brushing two fingers against them… and then pressing them to the air.
A kiss, too late. A goodbye never forgotten.
She whispered into the quiet: "I'm still trying… but it's so hard…You told me to live, but Papa, it's tiring..."
****
The pale grey of early morning filtered gently through the frost-rimmed windows of Arasha's chamber, yet she remained sitting up in her bed, her heart still weighed by the remnants of the dream—no, the memory—that clawed its way into her slumber.
Her breath misted faintly in the chill air, but her gaze had not moved from where it lingered.
By her bedside, resting against the stone wall, stood a sword.
Her father's sword.
She reached for it without thinking.
Her fingers ran along the familiar hilt, its ridges and imperfections known to her like the lines of her own palm.
And then, as if the steel stirred something deeper, the memory came.
It was not a dream.
It was real.
****
Arasha was only nine when they came for her.
The great hall of Duke Lionel's estate—her sanctuary since the fall of her parents—was in chaos.
Heavy boots slammed against polished marble.
The royal knights had arrived unannounced, the purple-and-gold banners of the crown hanging like judgment from their spears.
Duke Lionel, her father's old friend and a man with more steel in his gaze than any noble in the court, stood protectively before her, his expression tight with fury.
"You are not taking her," he growled. "She is a child. And she is under my care. You have no right to take her from me, her legal guardian!"
One of the royal knights, a grizzled captain with no warmth in his eyes, held out a sealed scroll. "By royal decree, she is to be brought to the capital immediately. She is to be trained and raised in the capital as she carries the Dawnbringer's blood."
"Forced like a lamb to the slaughter, you mean," Lionel snapped. "You vultures come sniffing only now because she survived monster reckoning one after the other."
The knight's tone sharpened. "This is not a negotiation, Duke. The crown knows of your son's recent… illness. It would be a shame if something worsened it."
The threat hung thick in the air. Lionel's fists clenched at his sides, fury trembling in his shoulders.
That was when Arasha stepped forward.
Still so small, her obsidian-black hair tied back in a simple ribbon, her amber eyes too wise for her age.
She reached up and gently touched the Duke's hand.
"Thank you… for taking care of me, Uncle," she whispered. "Please don't get hurt… because of me."
Lionel turned to protest, but she hugged him fiercely before he could speak, her voice soft and steady despite the ache rising in her throat.
"I'll go."
The knights seized her gently, but firmly, and she was led away, never looking back as Lionel fell to his knees.
The capital was not kind.
They whispered first—behind closed doors, behind fluttering fans.
"Witchspawn."
"Look at her hair—unnatural."
"She's not even one of us. That's the blood of that eastern harlot—"
"Amber eyes. Like fire. An omen."
Children would not play with her.
Servants gave her extra space.
Tutors watched her as though she might erupt in flames.
She was locked away in quiet towers or barren courtyards.
Fed in silence.
Trained in silence. Even the priests regarded her with thinly veiled unease.
And then—at ten—it happened.
During one of the royal rites meant to bless the heirs of the realm, she stood among the royal princes, adorned in ceremonial silks. The court waited. The priests invoked the divine.
The princes stood, expectant. But the light never came to them.
It came to her.
A soft, pure glow—not golden like the royal flame, but silver-white, like moonlight forged into brilliance—crowned her.
The wind stirred.
The sacred runes ignited on the floor beneath her.
Her body lifted from the ground as the divine sigil, the Blessing of Luxfire, bloomed behind her like an angel's wings.
The gasps were not of joy.
They were in horror.
She collapsed moments later, feverish and shaking, but the damage was done.
She, the daughter of Duke Arrius the warrior prince, a foreigner through her mother's blood, an orphan... had received the divine blessing over any of the princes.
And from that moment, they did not merely whisper.
They scorned. They feared. They plotted.
She was no longer just a witchspawn.
She was a threat.
****
Arasha blinked, breath catching in her throat as the sword in her hand grounded her again in the present.
She was older now. Stronger. But the weight of it—the memories, the hatred, the burden of survival—still followed like a second shadow.
There was a knock at the door. Leta, perhaps. Or Garran.
But Arasha didn't move to answer.
She only stared at the sword a moment longer and whispered beneath her breath,
"I won't run again. No matter how twisted the path becomes."
The knock came again—quiet, hesitant.
Arasha didn't stir from where she sat at the edge of her bed, still holding her father's sword across her lap.
The chill in the air had deepened, her thoughts adrift between past and present, tangled in the grief of lives lost and memories that refused to fade.
Then the door opened.
Softly. Carefully.
She looked up sharply, her warrior's instincts stirring—but they faded the moment she saw who it was.
"Kane…" she breathed, a rare edge of surprise in her voice.
He stood in the doorway, cloaked in travel dust, hair tousled by wind and haste.
The blue shimmer of the teleportation talisman still faintly clung to his shoulders like stardust.
His chest rose and fell quickly—either from running or from something far heavier.
Without a word, Kane crossed the threshold and reached her.
And then he hugged her.
Tightly.
It was not the awkward, unsure embrace of the boy he once was, nor was it the stiff courtesy of a subordinate.
It was full of reassurance and strength. A raw, grounding need to anchor her—and himself.
For a moment, Arasha froze.
He was warm.
Solid.
His arms wrapped around her with purpose, not hesitation. His scent was laced with travel and distant woods, yet familiar, and she could feel the rapid beat of his heart pressed against her own armor.
He was taller than her now, she realized with a strange flutter in her chest.
When had that happened?
"You idiot," she said softly, voice caught somewhere between amusement and anguish. "You didn't need to come."
"Of course I need to," Kane replied, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "I knew you'd try to carry it all the grief alone again. I wasn't going to let you."
She felt her composure waver.
The guilt, the grief, the weight of eighteen names etched into her soul like wounds—he somehow knew it all without her needing to speak.
"I'm here now," Kane whispered. "So let me… Let me carry it with you. Even just a little."
His arms tightened as if he could hold back the storm inside her.
Arasha slowly closed her eyes, her hand rising to press gently against his back. "They had families waiting for them, Kane. And they believed in me. I led them, and now—"
"And they'd still believe in you," Kane interrupted, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes.
His gaze, usually boyish and curious, had steadied into something older. Stronger. "Just like I do. Always."
Her breath hitched, the first real crack in the dam.
And in that moment, Kane was no longer just a squire.
He stood beside her now, not as a boy, but as a man willing to share her burden.
The sword between them sat forgotten.
The silence that followed was not heavy. It was a comfort, the quiet of understanding that needed no words.
Then Kane gave her a small, tired smile.
"Also… Leta threatened to tie me to a cart if I didn't check on you."
That startled a weak laugh out of Arasha. "Of course she did."
"Come on," Kane said, reaching for her hand. "Let's get out of this cold chamber. Even steel needs a fire to rest by."
And this time, Arasha allowed herself to be led.
Outside the Commander's private chamber, the corridor lay in the soft golden hush of morning.
The stone walls, usually echoing with the hurried boots of squires and the firm steps of knights, now held a rare quiet, as if the base itself waited in breathless anticipation.
Sir Garran stood with his arms crossed, the seasoned lines around his eyes faintly softened, his gaze trained on the chamber door.
Next to him, Leta leaned casually against the wall, arms folded and a smirk already beginning to curl on her lips.
They had waited long enough to be sure their commander had rested.
That much was Garran's condition.
But it was Leta's sharp eye that caught the movement first—the gentle creak of the door opening, the subtle shuffle of feet, and then…
Arasha stepped out, her hair slightly tousled, the exhaustion in her eyes lessened, though not gone.
But what made Leta's grin widen was the sight of Kane right behind her.
And more notably—
Their hands were still clasped.
Leta didn't even try to contain herself.
"Well, well," she drawled, loud enough to be heard, "I was going to say 'good morning'—but it seems it's a very good morning, isn't it?"
Arasha's reaction was immediate.
She started to pull her hand away, face faintly pink under the pallor of fatigue. "Leta—"
But Kane, his ears reddening fast, tightened his grip before she could pull away.
"I'm not letting go," he said quietly but firmly.
Arasha blinked at him in surprise.
And then, softly, she smiled. "I missed you, Kane."
Leta's mouth dropped open in gleeful disbelief. "By the light," she gasped, smacking Garran lightly on the arm, "Did you hear that? She said it! I might faint. Catch me, Sir Garran!"
Kane turned crimson.
"I—she—I mean—" he stammered, but didn't let go of her hand.
"Careful, lad," Garran said, a rare chuckle escaping him as he regarded the two. "Leta might declare a holiday at this rate."
"I should!" Leta declared dramatically. "This should be commemorated! The day our ever-dutiful, steel-hearted commander confessed she had feelings—"
"I said I missed him," Arasha cut in dryly, but the soft upward curve of her lips.
"Same thing!" Leta crowed. "Same—thing!"
The four of them laughed then—genuine and bright.
The sound echoed in the hallway like sunlight cutting through clouds.
For a precious moment, the weight of the world, the grief of lost comrades, the threat of rifts and monsters and kings faded beneath the warmth of camaraderie and affection.
Kane gave Arasha's hand one last squeeze before gently letting go, his voice quiet. "I missed you too. Very much so."
Arasha met his gaze, still tired, still burdened—but more herself than she had been in days. "I'm glad you came back. I'm glad you're here to lend a shoulder to lean on. I truly needed that."
Arasha was the one to grab Kane's hand and squeezed it.
Kane squeezed back with a smile.
Garran, watching them with a quiet satisfaction, finally broke the silence.
"Well, if the flirting's done, Commander, the scouts brought reports you'll want to see."
Kane coughed and looked away. His ears were red.
Arasha exhaled, her expression sobering. "Of course. Let's get to work."
But as they walked together, side by side—Kane just a step behind, Leta was humming a teasing tune.
Garran, with a hidden grin, led the way.