The room was quiet, save for the gentle sloshing of water against the wooden tub. The steam had long since dissipated, leaving behind a faint scent of lavender oils and the dull ache of exhaustion. Yirtin sat submerged, his golden fur damp, his body raw from the scrubbing of the servant. He had barely registered their presence, barely felt her hands washing away the filth and dried blood from his skin. Her touch was impersonal, methodical, yet it felt intrusive—like she was peeling away what little remained of his dignity.

  His eyes flickered down to the water.

  Clear, clean, pristine.

  Then the color shifted.

  Red seeped into the ripples, blooming outward like ink spilled upon parchment. The reflection of his own face warped and twisted, and suddenly, he was no longer in the bath—he was there, on the battlefield.

  The screaming began.

  The wet, sickening snap of bones breaking. The gurgling of men drowning in their own blood. The roar of something monstrous in the dark, a thing of nightmares, a beast that did not belong in the world of men. His men—his brothers—were screaming for him.

  "Captain! Orders! What do we do?"

  "Sir!"

  "Sir!"

  "Sir!"

  His vision swam. He was drowning, not in water, but in the weight of his failure, in the memory of blood and fire and death. He could feel it, thick and warm against his hands, against his chest—he could feel Ortho’s body crumpling in his arms, his friend’s eyes wide with something that wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite pain, but a terrible realization.

  And then it was gone.

  "Sir."

  The voice was softer now, less desperate.

  "Sir."

  A hand touched his shoulder, gentle but firm.

  Yirtin blinked.

  His golden eyes snapped back to reality, to the dimly lit chamber, to the servant standing beside him. The young woman—a simple worker, her ears folded slightly in deference—looked at him with hesitant concern.

  "We are done."

  Yirtin inhaled slowly, his chest rising, then falling. He lifted his hands from the water, watching the way the droplets slid down his fingers. No blood. Just water.

  He rose, naked and silent, his muscles stiff from both exhaustion and tension. He had thought the bath would cleanse him, but he felt no lighter, no purer. If anything, he felt filthier. Not with dirt, but with guilt, with grief. With the knowledge that no matter how much he washed, the past would remain stained upon his soul.

  The servant turned to fetch a towel, but before she could take more than two steps, the door creaked open.

  "Leave," a familiar voice commanded.

  The servant froze.

  Yirtin didn’t turn immediately. He didn’t need to. He knew the voice, knew the weight it carried in his chest. Knew the way it made his heart twist and his stomach tighten. He heard the servant hesitate, but she did not question the order. With a hurried bow, the girl left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Yirtin finally turned.

  She stood there, framed by the flickering light of the oil lamps, her white fur almost silver in the dim glow. Her blue eyes—once the eyes that had softened him, that had anchored him—were unreadable. She still wore her armor, though the plates had been stripped away, leaving only the fitted leather beneath. The spear that had once rested upon her back was gone. But the weight of her presence was more than enough.

  "Yirtin," she said softly.

  "Arana, don’t speak to me." His voice was low, weary. "You will shame your clan."

  A flicker of emotion crossed her face—hurt, frustration, something deeper beneath the surface—but she mastered it quickly.

  "I’ll be brief, Yirtin."

  He nodded. A silent permission.

  "I left you some supplies for the journey," she said. "Water, rations, clothing. Kogun allowed me to provide you with a weapon and a piece of armor. But that is all we were able to smuggle."

  Yirtin exhaled through his nose. "You're going against the Code."

  She shrugged. "Nothing in the Code forbids leaving supplies in a caravan."

  "You’re aiding the dishonored."

  "No," she said, stepping closer. "I am aiding the love of my life."

  The words struck harder than he expected.

  For the first time since the trial began, Yirtin felt something crack inside him, something raw and unguarded. But he did not allow himself to show it. He only looked at her, his eyes tracing the familiar lines of her face, the subtle quiver of her lips, the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for him.

  "Arana," he breathed.

  She swallowed. He could see it, the effort it took for her to remain composed. Her voice, when it came, was softer than before.

  "What do you feel, Yirtin? Speak to me. What goes on in your mind?"

  For a long moment, he said nothing. He let the silence stretch, let it suffocate them both. Then, finally, his voice emerged, quiet, broken.

  "Pain," he said. "Terrible, terrible pain. Guilt, like I have slaughtered my own family. Like I am the monster in their stories. I feel dead. I feel exposed. I feel like nothing."

  A sharp inhale.

  Then she was moving.

  She crossed the space between them in an instant, her arms wrapping around his bare torso, pressing herself against him in a desperate embrace. Her warmth, her scent—familiar, grounding—surrounded him, and for a moment, he almost forgot. Forgot the chains that had bound him, forgot the trial, forgot the blood on his hands.

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  She brushed her paws against his face, tilting his chin to meet her gaze. "You are feeling the right things, Yirtin," she whispered.

  His hand came up, hesitant, as if afraid she would vanish the moment he touched her. His fingers brushed against her cheek, and she leaned into it, closing her eyes for just a breath.

  "Forgive me, Arana," he murmured.

  She opened her eyes. "I don’t think I can, Yirtin."

  A knife in the heart.

  "You don’t love me anymore" His voice was barely above a whisper.

  Her expression twisted—pain, love, hatred, all fighting for dominance.

  "I love you more than I should," she admitted, her voice shaking. "It breaks me. Part of me wants nothing more than to profess myself yours. To beg you to stay, to run away with you. But the other part of me—" Her hands curled into fists against his chest. "The other part of me wants to rip your heart from your chest and make you feel even a fraction of the pain you have caused me."

  A weak, bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "That," he said, voice hoarse, "is the woman I fell in love with."

  Her breath hitched.

  "I’m sorry it has to end like this, Yirtin."

  "I’m sorry too, Arana," he said. "But one day, I will return to you."

  She shook her head. "I’m not sure I want that, Yirtin. We must move on."

  His hands tightened around her wrists. "Arana, this is all I know. You are all I know."

  She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against his. "I know," she whispered. "And it makes me want to tear my heart out. It makes me want to set myself ablaze. But I can’t. I can’t be with you."

  Then, without warning, she kissed him.

  Not a goodbye. Not a promise.

  A surrender.

  Yirtin kissed her back, fiercely, desperately, as if he could etch this moment into his bones, as if he could keep her, just for a second longer.

  But then it ended.

  She pulled away, stepping back, her fingers lingering against his for just a moment before she let go.

  "I love you, Arana," he whispered.

  She smiled, but it was a shattered thing. "I wish I could have loved you longer, Yirtin," she said, voice thick with grief. "I really do."

  Then she turned.

  She didn’t look back.

  "Farewell, my love," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

  "Farewell, my heart," he murmured.

  And then she was gone.

  Yirtin stood in the quiet of his chamber, the last sanctuary he would know within the walls of the Solareye stronghold. The air was thick with finality, pressing against him like a tangible force. He pulled on the simple beige shirt left for him, its fabric rough against his fur. The brown trousers fit loosely, a stark contrast to the fitted armor he had once worn with pride. There was no embellishment, no golden filigree, no insignia of rank or honor. Just simple, unremarkable garments. It was fitting. It was humiliating.

  He reached for the belt left beside the clothes, buckling it in silence. As his fingers brushed the wooden nightstand, they met something unexpected—small, smooth, familiar.

  His breath hitched.

  Arana’s parting gift.

  The same cinnamon she had always given him before battle, a token of comfort, a scent she loved. He ran his fingers over it, the coarse texture grounding him in the moment. The weight of everything bore down upon him at once—his failure, his shame, the loss of his men, the loss of her. He clenched his jaw, but it did nothing to stop the sting of tears from welling in his golden eyes.

  He let them fall.

  One by one, silent, hot, splashing against the wooden surface as he tightened his grip around the cinnamon stick. A part of him wanted to throw it away, to reject the memory, to push it all aside and numb himself to the ache. But instead, he brought it to his chest, held it there for a long, shuddering breath, before slipping it carefully into the pocket of his trousers.

  Then came the sound.

  A familiar voice, steady and firm, rang through the door.

  "Yirtin."

  He straightened, brushing his sleeve across his face before answering. "Brother?"

  "The carriage is here. Your items have been packed."

  Yirtin exhaled slowly, then turned toward the full-length silver mirror against the wall. For a brief moment, he studied his reflection.

  A golden mane, wild and unkempt. Light beige fur, still damp from the bath. Eyes of black iris set in golden orbs, once proud, now weary. A face he had known his whole life, yet now felt like a stranger’s.

  He sighed.

  Then he turned away.

  Crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, he reached for the door and pulled it open.

  Kogun stood there, his dark armor gleaming with golden accents, the polished steel reflecting the morning light filtering in from the halls. He was still as rigid as ever, his stance disciplined, controlled. Yet, beneath the hardened exterior, there was something else—something softer, something unspoken.

  "Brother," Yirtin greeted.

  "Yirtin," Kogun replied.

  Without another word, Kogun stepped beside him, walking in stride as they made their way down the long corridor, their boots echoing against the cold marble floor.

  The hallways, once so familiar, now felt alien to Yirtin. Every etched pillar, every tapestry, every banner bearing the Solareye sigil was a reminder of what he had lost. Servants and soldiers alike cast furtive glances as they passed, some filled with curiosity, others with quiet pity. No one dared speak, but the weight of their gazes was suffocating.

  By the time they reached the entrance of the keep, Yirtin had forced himself into an unreadable mask.

  The carriage waited in the courtyard.

  No—not a carriage.

  A wagon.

  A simple merchant’s wagon, built for transporting goods rather than passengers. Its wooden frame was sturdy but unremarkable, its wheels coated in dust from the long roads it had traveled. The only occupants were a pair of merchants—iron traders, by the look of them—already seated at the front, speaking in hushed tones as they adjusted the reins.

  Kogun gestured toward the wagon. "The iron merchants will take you to Amif," he said. "I told them you’d protect their cargo until they arrived in Moudhaz. After that, you’re no longer their concern."

  Yirtin nodded and stepped toward the wagon, but Kogun suddenly reached out, gripping his arm.

  "Here," he said, pressing a small leather pouch into Yirtin’s palm.

  Yirtin frowned, opening it. The weight of the contents was unmistakable. He reached inside, pulling out a single coin.

  A .

  A golden coin bearing the head of a lion on one side and the image of a knight wielding a spear on the other. The letter S was engraved beneath the knight’s feet—the mint mark of the Solareye forge. It was an old practice, but a trusted one. Every great merchant, noble house, and free city issued their own minted gold to prevent fraud, ensuring that no counterfeit alloy could taint their wealth.

  Yirtin glanced back at the pouch’s weight.

  "Fifty gold pieces," Kogun said.

  Yirtin's brows furrowed. "You're aiding me," he muttered. "But I’m a deserter. I am dishonored. The Code—"

  "The Code never prohibited us from paying for the services of men outside the company," Kogun interrupted. "You are no longer part of the company. I am hiring you to escort these merchants. Be loyal to the contract and protect them."

  Yirtin studied him for a long moment. "Fifty gold pieces is far beyond the standard rate for a caravan guard."

  "The Code does not establish prices for the services of others," Kogun replied smoothly. "I am allowed to pay you as I see fit."

  Yirtin’s grip on the pouch tightened. "Why this much?"

  "Because I believe you can more than prove yourself," Kogun said simply. "But you have to survive first. Get new weapons. Find contacts. Do whatever you must to reclaim what was lost." He exhaled. "For the Solareye name. But also for yourself."

  Yirtin looked away. "It is no longer my name," he murmured. "I have been stripped of it."

  Kogun’s eyes darkened, and before Yirtin could react, his brother stepped forward, grabbing the back of his head and pressing their foreheads together in the old warrior’s gesture of kinship.

  Golden mane against golden mane.

  A deep, low growl rumbled from Kogun’s chest, not of anger, but of something raw, something ancient—the unspoken bond between brothers who had fought and bled together, who had built each other into the men they had become.

  "Then be who you need to be," Kogun said, his voice edged with finality. "I don’t care what they call you. But I will always call you brother. Whoever you are."

  Yirtin closed his eyes, swallowing down the ache in his throat.

  When he finally pulled away, he nodded. "Thank you, brother."

  Kogun didn’t answer. He only stepped back, his expression unreadable once more.

  "Now go," he said. "Leave at once before Iros returns with his foolish anger."

  Yirtin turned toward the wagon, his steps slow but certain. He climbed onto the back, settling into the space between the stacked crates of iron ingots and supplies.

  The merchants barely spared him a glance.

  The driver flicked the reins. The horses whinnied, the wheels creaked against the stone, and the wagon began to roll forward.

  As they crossed the courtyard, Yirtin turned his head for one last glance.

  Kogun stood tall at the entrance, his dark armor catching the morning sun.

  His golden eyes followed the wagon’s departure, unwavering.

  "Farewell, brother," Yirtin called.

  Kogun’s lips barely moved, but the words reached him all the same.

  "Farewell, Yirtin."

  And then, the last words of parting—

  "By the Eternal Lion, I will see you again."

  Yirtin did not look back again.

  The gates of the Solareye Academy shut behind him.

  And his exile began.