The small shelter they'd constructed on Floor 20 offered minimal protection from the harsh environment outside, but it was enough for now. The team had retreated here after Riva's sacrifice, each member processing the loss in their own way.

  Alexander sat cross-legged at the entrance, methodically disassembling and cleaning his weapons. Though the motions were practiced and efficient, his mind was elsewhere—repying the moments before Riva stepped in front of Elijah, analyzing what he could have done differently. His fingers moved automatically across the metal components as he mentally reviewed every tactical decision leading to that moment.

  "I should have seen it coming," he said suddenly, breaking the heavy silence. "The attack pattern was predictable. If I'd positioned us better..." He trailed off, reassembling his bde with unnecessary force.

  Neither Elijah nor Lyra responded immediately. Elijah sat slightly apart, eyes unfocused, head tilted as if listening to something beyond the shelter walls. Occasionally his lips would move in silent communication with voices only he could hear. Since witnessing Riva's consciousness extraction, he'd been in this state more often than not.

  Lyra had retreated to the furthest corner of the shelter, her back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest. Her hands moved rhythmically over her equipment, but her expression remained distant, closed off. The technical modifications she'd been working on y abandoned beside her.

  "It wasn't your fault," Elijah said finally, his voice sounding strangely yered, as if multiple tones spoke at once. He blinked, seeming to return to himself. "She made a choice."

  "A choice she shouldn't have had to make," Alexander countered, setting his weapon aside. "I'm responsible for this team. For everyone's safety."

  "Were you responsible for Marcus too?" Lyra asked quietly, speaking for the first time in hours. Her amber eyes met Alexander's with unexpected intensity. "For Valeria's betrayal? For this entire system that forces us to fight and die for entertainment?"

  Alexander flinched as if struck. "That's different."

  "Is it?" Lyra's voice remained level, but her fingers had stilled on her equipment. "Riva chose to protect Elijah. Just like the alchemist chose to help me escape. Just like Tel chose to teach me despite the risks." She looked away. "People keep sacrificing themselves. For the mission. For us."

  The unspoken question hung in the air: Were they worth it?

  Elijah shifted uncomfortably, then reached for his pack. He withdrew a small, crystalline object—a memory stone from his personal library collection. Unlike the standard Game library materials, this was something he'd created himself, storing information he deemed too important to trust to the Game's systems.

  "I've been trying to find her," he said, turning the crystal in his hands. "In the whispers."

  Alexander and Lyra both turned to him, understanding immediately what he meant.

  "The preservation system," Alexander said. "You think she's there? Actually... conscious?"

  "I don't think. I know." Elijah's certainty was unsettling. "There are millions of them. Minds preserved after death, used for computation. It's like... a vast network of imprisoned consciousness." He closed his eyes. "Some are aware. Others are fragmented. But they're there."

  Lyra moved closer, her technical curiosity momentarily overcoming her withdrawal. "Have you been able to identify her pattern? To communicate?"

  Elijah shook his head. "It's too chaotic. Too many voices overpping. But I'm getting better at filtering." He hesitated. "I think she's trying to reach us. I keep hearing echoes that feel like her."

  Alexander ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of uncertainty. "This is... disturbing. If death isn't really death in the Game, if consciousness continues..." He didn't finish the thought, but they all understood the implication: How many had they killed for the quota? Were those consciousnesses somehow aware, trapped in the system?

  "It's worse than death," Lyra said quietly. "If what Elijah says is true, they're being used. Exploited as computational resources without consent." Her voice hardened. "That's not preservation. That's ensvement."

  The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of this realization.

  Eventually, Alexander rose and moved to the center of the shelter. From his pack, he removed a small cloth bundle. Unwrapping it revealed three simple candles—standard emergency supplies, but repurposed now.

  "On Terminus, when someone from a Privileged family dies, there's a ritual," he expined, setting the candles in a triangle formation. "I never thought much of it before. Just another meaningless tradition." He pced Riva's identification token—retrieved after her body disappeared—in the center of the triangle. "But maybe there's value in acknowledging loss. In marking passages."

  Elijah nodded slowly, understanding. "The Unaligned have simir practices," he added, surprising both Alexander and Lyra with this knowledge. "Though theirs involve community sharing of memories."

  "In Sector 17, we used light," Lyra offered unexpectedly. "Small lights released into the darkness. One for each person lost." Her voice softened. "When Tel died, the whole sector lit the night. Hundreds of lights."

  Alexander nodded, then lit each candle carefully. The warm glow illuminated their faces in the dimming shelter.

  "For Riva," he said. "Who protected this team even while serving another purpose."

  "For Riva," Elijah echoed. "Whose consciousness continues, though her body is gone."

  They both looked to Lyra, who hesitated before adding, "For Riva. Another sacrifice I won't forget."

  They remained in silence for several minutes, watching the candles burn. Something shifted in the atmosphere between them—a shared acknowledgment not just of Riva's loss, but of all they had lost since entering the Game. Of Marcus, though they had never properly mourned him. Of the people they had been before, now transformed by struggle and survival.

  Later, as night cycle began, Elijah retrieved a text from his personal library—not a tactical manual or technical guide, but a collection of philosophical writings on consciousness and continuity. He began reading aloud sections about identity persisting beyond physical form, his voice a quiet counterpoint to the silence of their shelter.

  Alexander eventually joined him, surprisingly familiar with some of the passages. Lyra listened without comment, but her posture gradually rexed as the readings continued.

  By unspoken agreement, they established their first true team ritual: the sharing of knowledge in the aftermath of loss. A practice that acknowledged grief without allowing it to consume them. A recognition that even in this brutal system, they could create moments of meaning and connection.

  Tomorrow would bring new challenges—the final guardian of the Amber Realm awaited them. But tonight, they allowed themselves this space to process what had happened. To honor Riva's choice. To strengthen the bonds that would carry them forward.

  And as they read and reflected together, the candles burned steadily in their triangur formation, a small but defiant light against the Game's darkness.