The glow builds between us, an emerald light blooming from my palm, spreading in delicate threads across his ruined flesh. His body trembles as the fire’s legacy peels away: the cracked skin knitting, the blackened edges softening to pink, new life unfurling where death had claimed its hold. His breath catches, and though he tries to hide it, a single tear slips down the side of his face. My power moves through me like a current, washing him clean, mending him piece by piece.
But when my hand reaches the old scars, the ones carved deep across his chest from the flames of Rethmar long ago, his fingers, renewed, snap up, closing around my wrist.
“Stop,” he says. The look in his eyes is something I’ve never seen before, defiance, yes, but also pride. The fire of a boy who survived what should have killed him. “Not these.” He draws my hand away from the ridged skin. “These belong to me. They’re what’s left of the boy I was… the boy who learned what it means to live through fire. They’re mine to keep.”
For a long moment, I say nothing. The light at my fingertips flickers, then fades.
I nod softly and withdraw my hand. “Then keep them.”
Ronin sits up, rolling his shoulders, testing his limbs. He rakes a hand through a head of thick blond hair, then he stands, and the sheet slips away, leaving him utterly bare. He doesn’t seem to care, turning his attention to his healed body, flexing muscle and pinching skin in disbelief.
I turn away, though if I’m honest, not as fast as I should have.
“Do you have a blacksmith in this place?” he asks.
I nod, continuing to look the other way. “The Tenders are fine crafters. Metal, wood, stone, they shape them all.”
He nods once, more to himself than to me. “Good.” His fingers curl into a fist, testing its strength. “I am in need of a new mask.”
I clear my throat. “Well… perhaps put some pants on first.”
He glances down, finally noticing. His hand flies to cover himself… not very successfully.
A laugh cracks the silence. We both turn. Reon is peeking out from behind his curtain.
“Not bad, human,” he says, nodding in approval. “Not bad.”
When we step out into the fading afternoon light, the murmurs ripple through the village like wind through reeds. The Tenders stop what they’re doing. Their eyes widen, flicking between me and the man who walks beside me.
Ronin’s transformation steals their breath. Whispers follow in our wake.The Jewel has healed him… the Golden Son lives…Their reverence presses like a tide, warm and suffocating all at once.
We move toward the great tree at the village’s heart, its spiraling trunk hollowed into a staircase that winds upward, lined with glittering lanterns. Reon and Ronin climb behind me. The air grows cooler as we rise, the murmurs below fading into a hum.
At the top, the Fae await. What remains of the Blades. Daed, Orios, Solena and Zyphoro huddled together in hushed discussion, but when Zyphoro sets eyes on Ronin, she breaks away in an instant. For a heartbeat they simply look at each other, a silent exchange of something none of us will ever quite understand. A bond forged not by words, but by survival and the impossible things they must have endured together.
Then Zyphoro reaches for him, her arm sliding around his neck as she draws him in. Her cheek rests against his shoulder, and for the first time since I’ve known him, Ronin allows himself to lean back into someone’s touch. His mouth twitches, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing it, and his hand comes to rest against the small of her back.
The tension in the room breaks like a wave. Shoulders ease. Eyes soften. The others look between one another, surprise first, then relief, and the tight circle loosens, opening as though granting Ronin space to stand among them.
Zyphoro’s acceptance is enough.
If she, fiercest of the Blades, can stand beside the Golden Son, then the rest of them can too.
And thank the Souls for that, because the battles we have already fought will mean nothing if we turn on one another now.
Daed steps forward. “Do you wish to speak, wife?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I may be many things now,” I answer, “but I am no tactician. War is your art, husband, and in that, you are unmatched. Lead us as you always have.”
“I will not paint you a pretty picture,” he begins, voice deep, echoing through the hollow trunk of the great tree. “An’kel is a place of nightmares. Its soil soaked in the blood of every soul who’s dared trespass there. Its demons are ancient, their power boundless and upon his throne, within the temple of his making, sits Gygarth. We will be taking the fight to him, into his own dominion, where he holds every advantage.”
Zyphoro exhales sharply, folding her arms. “Your pep talks are as bleak as ever, brother.”
Daed’s jaw tightens. “Would you rather I lied to you? We owe our people honesty. And the truth is, some of us will not make it back.”
Silence settles like dust.
“But I would not ask any of you to face what I am unwilling to face myself.”
