My rune pulses cold against my arm.
He reaches into nothing — his hand disappears into empty air and comes back holding something small. A stone. Dark, about the size of my palm, with faint glowing veins running through it like frozen lightning.
He holds it out to me.
“When you are ready to return to your academy,” he says, “this will take you home.”
I take it. It’s warm despite looking like volcanic glass. Heavier than it should be.
“Why me?”
“Because you will not use it before she is ready.” His eyes flick to Torric, then back to me. “Others might. You will wait.”
Fair. Torric would absolutely activate this thing the second he thought Kaia needed to leave.
I pocket the stone. Feel its weight settle against my thigh.
“Thank you.”
The God nods. Then he moves past me, toward Kaia.
She’s still on her knees. Still crying those quiet, exhausted tears. She looks smaller than I’ve ever seen her.
“Little Valkyrie.”
His voice is impossibly soft. Kaia lifts her head slowly, like it weighs more than she can carry.
Her face is wrecked — red-eyed, tear-streaked, grief written into every line. She doesn’t try to hide it. Doesn’t have the energy.
“What now?” Her voice is hoarse. Broken. “What am I supposed to do now?”
The God crouches in front of her. Puts himself at her level instead of towering over her.
“Now,” he says, “you rest. You heal. You let them—” he gestures at all of us, “—carry you for a while.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“You will learn.” He reaches out, almost touches her face, then stops. Pulls back. “You restored something today that has been broken for centuries. You returned souls to their rest. You opened a Gate that would have stayed closed forever, and you did it with love instead of force.”
Kaia’s breath catches.
“The next part is not mine to guide,” the God continues. “What comes after the war is always harder than the war itself. But you are not alone. You have never been alone.”
He looks at Kieran then. Direct. Pointed.
Kieran’s jaw tightens. His fingers tremble once before he forces them still.
“Centuries of regret,” the God says quietly. “Centuries of punishment you inflicted on yourself. Tonight, let it rest. She carries your absolution now. Has carried it longer than you’ve been willing to accept.”
Kieran’s composure cracks. I see it — the fissure running through that ancient stillness, the way his breath goes sharp and uneven.
Kaia reaches for him.
It’s instinctive. Unconscious. Her hand stretches out, and Kieran moves like he’s been waiting centuries for permission.
He catches her hand. Pulls her into his arms. Holds her like she’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
The bonds flare. All of them, all at once — grief and love and something that feels like healing.
