Zarrek.
Nearly sixty years had passed since Stonewake, yet the grizzled warrior looked hardly changed. More grey in his stubble. A few extra scars and lines telling of a life not lived in comfort. But, otherwise, the same brother he’d lost. To pride or fate, he still didn’t know. The bastard stood there, stone grey Glider blood on his battleaxe, his runes still fading from recent combat. No fear. No shame. Just a stillness. Watching.
Watchingthem.
Kailorien didn’t speak.
Not yet.
He only tightened his grip on Auryn. Lifted her higher, like he could hide her from the world. Like the sheer presence of his body could shield her from everything—madness, the Council, memory.
Especially memory.
Especially the Pale Madness.
He’d seen it himself. Knew what it was, what she did in those healing chambers. How she mopped up blood, held their hands, and prayed to a Destroyer that would never listen.
He looked down, adjusting his hold. Her eyes had closed, her cheek pressed against the curve of his chest plate. Not asleep. Not unconscious. Just…withdrawn. Folded inward like an animal hiding from thunder.
He pressed his lips to her hair.
“You’re safe,” he whispered. “I’m here, starlight. I’m not letting go. Whatever you saw, whatever is happening, we will face it together. Tomorrow, the day after, whenever you’re ready.”
Only then did he lift his head.
Only then did he allow his gaze to shift to the man still standing at the edge of shadow, blood drying on his jaw.
“Zarrek,” he rasped.
The name chafed like ash on his tongue. A taste he’d locked away in both sensation and memory. But, no matter how many times Kailorien looked away and looked back, the man didn’t vanish. He stepped closer into the humming Polis-light, the blood on his skin gleaming dark and real.
“You’re dead,” Kailorien said, not as accusation, not as question. Just fact.
“Close enough,” Zarrek shrugged.
A long beat passed between them. Only Auryn’s uneven breath stirred the space.
“Why didn’t you come back sooner?”
Zarrek looked away, toward the slaughtered Reskala, toward the half-collapsed alleyway.
“I’m still not back. Just passing through.”
Another pause. Kailorien’s throat bobbed. “She mourned you. We both did.”
“I know,” Zarrek said, subdued. His hand flexed once around the haft of his battleaxe, then stilled. “She told me.”
“You staying this time?”
Zarrek shrugged. “Wasn’t planning to. But she ran into me. And then—” His gaze flicked to the blood-streaked street. “Well, now I’m starting to think twice.”
“About helping?”
“About leaving you two alone with your heroic tendencies.”
A dry huff left Kailorien. No humor in it. Just weariness.
“Still can’t resist playing the martyr, can you?” Kailorien asked.
