He stepped close.
She didn’t turn.
She trusted him.
And as the blade slid forward, his body forcing the strike, his mouth silent, his soul screaming in agony.
He felt the blade connect.
Felt her gasp.
Felt her trust break like glass beneath his feet.
Tears burned down his cheeks.
But his hands didn’t tremble.
And Eiren’s voice whispered one final time in his skull:
“Only in the fulfill of your promise do you rise to meet her.”
Maris turned.
Just enough to look at him.
The blade, his blade, was still buried in her back, her blood soaking the hilt, her breath faltering as she faced him.
Her eyes met his.
And in them, he saw everything.
Pain. Shock.
But not betrayal.
Not anger.
Just… understanding.
Even as her body failed, even as her knees began to buckle, her gaze held himsteady.
She knew.
That it wasn’t him. That his hand had been stolen. His will twisted like vines around a dying tree.
And that made it worse.
Because she didn’t hate him.
She still believed in him.
She turned her back on him as she fell forward, trusted him, even now.
Trusted him to carry what came next.
And then she collapsed, sword still lodged in Eiren’s chest, their bodies falling together.
Alarik stood frozen.
