Gael stepped carefully through the ruined hideout, his boots crunching over scattered debris and dried blood. The air was thick with the stale scent of burnt wood and copper—the ghosts of the massacre lingering in the walls. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to move, to look past the dark stains that marred the stone floor. If he let himself think about it, he would never leave.

  Lukas was outside, finishing what needed to be done. Burying the crew.

  That left Gael with a different task—the one Lukas couldn’t bring himself to do. He moved through the dimly lit space, the memories pressing down on him like a weight. Here, by the old table, Lander used to sketch out terrible portraits of them, always drawing Lukas with exaggerated muscles and Gael with ridiculous, flowing hair. He found one, half-ripped and covered in soot, and tucked it into his coat.

  He made his way to the workbench in the corner, where a broken essence censor lay among scattered tools. The last thing Vess had been working on before the heist. He picked it up, running his fingers over the intricate carvings along its metal frame. She had spent hours on this, tinkering, adjusting. He didn’t know if it had ever worked, but it had mattered to her. That was enough.

  One by one, he gathered what little remained of their lives here. The things that proved they had existed before the heist, before the deaths, before everything collapsed.

  Then, finally, he reached Vess’ belongings.

  Gael hesitated. Would she come back? Would she step through this door, just as he had, and expect to find something waiting for her? Or had she abandoned this place completely, just as she had abandoned him in that moment, blade raised and eyes filled with a fury he still didn’t understand?

  No.

  She wasn’t gone. Not completely.

  He took a breath and knelt, collecting her things with care—a few scattered notes, the knife she had left behind, a frayed scarf she used in the colder months. He bundled them together, placed them carefully inside his bag.

  Then he found a scrap of parchment and ink and began to write.

  The wind carried the scent of the sea up to the rooftops as Gael climbed to their usual spot. He moved carefully across the slanted shingles, finding the place where they used to sit together—watching the city, sharing stolen bottles of cheap liquor, dreaming of something better.

  He placed the bag of her things against the stone ridge, pressing the letter beside it.

  Then he sat.

  For a long time, he said nothing. Did nothing. Just breathed in the salt and smoke of Jesarin, letting the weight of everything settle in his chest.

  He heard the scrape of boot on stone behind him. For a heartbeat, he thought—hoped—it was her.

  But it wasn’t.

  “I see you had the same idea,” Lukas said. His voice was quiet, rough with exhaustion.

  Gael turned to find him standing there, a crude letter in his hands, the parchment stained with dirt from where he’d been digging graves.

  Lukas sat beside him, glancing at the bag Gael had left. “Think she’ll find it?”

  Gael exhaled, eyes drifting back over the city. “I don’t know. But it’ll be here if she does.”

  Silence stretched between them, a shared, unspoken grief.

  Then, finally, Gael spoke. “I’m leaving in two days.”

  Lukas didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. Just kept his gaze on the rooftops ahead. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Gael swallowed. Saying it out loud made it real. The idea of leaving had always been a distant thing, a whispered thought late at night, but now it was carved into stone. “The Academy entrance trials start soon. If I don’t go now, I’ll miss my chance.”

  Lukas exhaled through his nose, stretching his legs out in front of him. “And I assume you’re about to tell me I should come with you.”

  Gael let out a quiet laugh. “No. I’m telling you that I need you to come with me.”

  Lukas finally turned to look at him, brows raised. “That’s a pretty big ask.”

  “I know.” Gael hesitated, then shook his head.

  Lukas tilted his head, waiting.

  Gael clenched his hands together, pressing his knuckles against his knees to keep himself grounded. “I wouldn’t have made it through Jesarin without you. Without the crew.” He exhaled sharply, rubbing at his jaw. “Every time I thought I was gonna drown in this place, you dragged me back out. You and Vess and Soren and Lander—you were the only thing keeping me here. Keeping me together.”

  Lukas didn’t interrupt, just watched him carefully.

  Gael let the words spill out before he could stop them. “I came to Jesarin chasing a dream that wasn’t even mine.” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing toward the city. “I thought if I became a knight, if I proved myself, everything would just…fall into place. That I’d finally feel like I belonged somewhere.”

  His throat tightened. “But I don’t think I was ready to face what that actually meant.”

  Jesarin had been a proving ground, a battlefield made of back alleys, duels, and stolen moments of laughter. It had given him everything—his friends, his enemies, his scars. But it had taken just as much.

  “I’ve spent the last three years fighting tooth and nail to survive here. To become something more than some nameless street rat with a wooden practice sword and a stupid dream.” Gael huffed a breath. “But I was never doing it alone. And I don’t want to start now.”

  Lukas tapped his fingers against his knee, considering. “That all sounds very touching, but what exactly do you need me for? The Academy isn’t Jesarin, Gael. You’ll be in a whole new world, surrounded by noble-born knights and magi who’ve trained their whole lives. You’re good, but you’ll be starting from nothing again.”

  “I know,” Gael admitted. “That’s why I need you.” He turned to face him fully. “You’ve always kept me grounded. Kept me sharp. I don’t just want to survive at the Academy—I want to thrive. I want to make something of myself. And I can’t do that alone.”

  Lukas let out a slow breath. The wind caught in his hair, ruffling the edges of his shirt.

  “This isn’t just about the Academy, is it?” Lukas said finally.

  Gael shook his head. “No. It’s about more than that. I’ve spent too long waiting for things to happen to me. I don’t want to be a passenger in my own life anymore. I want to control what happens next.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Then, Lukas smirked, though there was no real amusement behind it. “Martyr’s sake, you always did know how to talk circles around someone.”

  Gael grinned despite himself. “You’re just slow.”

  Lukas snorted, shaking his head before exhaling, staring back at the city. His hands flexed against his knees, tension still coiled beneath his casual exterior.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

  That was enough—for now.

  They sat together, staring out over Jesarin. The city pulsed with life below, unaware of the ghosts it had left behind.

  Gael clenched his fists, grounding himself in the rooftop beneath him.

  This was it.

  One more night. Two more days.

  Then he was gone.

  The halls of Ores’ manor were always too quiet.

  Lukas had never gotten used to it—the way the stone walls swallowed sound, the way the air hung thick with the scent of old parchment, incense, and something sweeter, more artificial. A place like this shouldn’t have felt like a home, yet somehow, for a time, it had.

  And now, he was leaving it behind.

  He swung his bag over his shoulder, the weight of it lighter than it should’ve been. He didn’t own much, never had, but as he stood in the dim glow of the entrance hall, he felt the weight of something else pressing against his chest.

  He adjusted the strap, then glanced down at the ridiculous tailored suit he’d worn for the heist, now neatly folded on a nearby chair. A symbol of what could have been. He smirked to himself, shaking his head. “Never again.”

  He turned toward the door—and found Lurras and Ores waiting.

  Lukas slowed to a stop, eyes flicking between them. Lurras stood with his usual languid confidence, arms folded across his chest, a faint smirk on his lips. Ores, seated in the high-backed chair at the end of the hall, looked as unreadable as ever, her dark eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

  “You didn’t think you’d leave without a proper send-off, did you?” Lurras drawled.

  Lukas exhaled sharply, shifting his bag. “Figured I’d slip out before anyone decided to throw a party.”

  Ores tilted her head slightly. “A shame. I had a parade planned.”

  Lukas smirked. “I’ll send you a letter when I’m famous. Maybe then I’ll deserve one.”

  Ores chuckled, the sound soft. Then, without preamble, she tossed a small bag toward him. He caught it out of reflex, the distinct clink of coins heavy in his palm.

  “Consider it a signing bonus,” she said smoothly. “If you take the offer.”

  Lukas arched a brow. “Offer?”

  Lurras unfolded his arms, stepping forward. “You’re a good fighter, Lukas. Better than most of the squires I’ve trained.”

  Lukas scoffed. “Didn’t win.”

  “No, but you learned.” Lurras’ gaze was steady, appraising. “You adapted.”

  Lukas frowned, shifting the weight of his bag over his shoulder. He thought of the fights over the past weeks—the brutal, bruising training with Lurras, the street fights where instinct took over, the moment in the auction hall when he’d cracked a full-grown knight across the jaw and sent him to the floor. He hadn’t won, not outright. But he had survived. He had struck first. And he had kept Gael alive when it mattered.

  Lurras must have seen the realization settling in his eyes because he smirked faintly. “You held your own against an enforcer in the ring. You struck down a knight mid-cast. You fought a man in full runeplate and walked away breathing.” He tilted his head, watching Lukas closely. “That’s worth more than a single victory.”

  Lukas flexed his fingers, remembering the sharp crack of his lightning-infused fist connecting with the knight’s helmet, the way the spell had folded into itself like it belonged there. His affinity still felt raw, unshaped, but it was his. And it was growing.

  “So what are you saying?” Lukas asked.

  Lurras let out a quiet hum. “Ores has a position open. Security, mostly, but she’s willing to extend you an offer—squire under me, in exchange for service to her estate.”

  Lukas blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

  A squire. A proper knight’s squire.

  He felt the weight of it settle in his chest, heavier than the bag slung over his shoulder.

  Lurras must have seen the hesitation because he added, “I don’t waste my time on people who won’t last. And you, Lukas—you’ll last.”

  A beat of silence stretched between them.

  Lukas exhaled sharply. It was tempting.

  Gods, it was tempting.

  He had spent so long fighting for scraps, for coin, for a way to survive the streets of Jesarin without ending up in a ditch. And now—now he had a choice. A future set in steel.

  His fingers tightened around the bag.

  Then he thought of Gael. Of the rooftop last night, the way his best friend had looked at him—not just as someone to lean on, but as someone he needed. Someone he wanted beside him when he took his first step toward something bigger.

  Lukas took a breath. And then, slowly, he tossed the coin purse back.

  Ores caught it without expression. Lurras just watched him, unreadable.

  Lukas gave a half-smirk. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, voice light but firm. “But I think I’ve got a different path in mind.”

  Lurras exhaled, shaking his head. “Figured as much.” Then, to Lukas’ surprise, he reached into his belt and pulled free a sheathed blade. He turned it once in his grip before tossing it forward.

  Lukas caught it.

  The hilt was worn, the leather grip slightly frayed, but the balance was perfect. The steel was solid, the edge honed sharp. This wasn’t a cheap blade. It had been used—tested. Trusted.

  “I have no use for it anymore,” Lurras said simply. “You might.”

  Lukas ran a hand over the leather grip, feeling the weight settle in his palm.

  For the first time in a long time, something about his path felt solid beneath his feet.

  The scent hit Gael first—rich, spiced, and laced with memory.

  Jesarin’s lower markets were still bustling, even as the day edged toward evening. The usual symphony of vendors shouting over one another filled the air, haggling over silks, essence tinctures, and fresh-caught fish. But Gael barely noticed any of it.

  His attention was locked on the stall at the corner of the square—the one they always came to after a fight, after a job, after long nights spent chasing coin through the streets.

  Lukas let out a low breath beside him. “Martyr’s sake. You’re telling me we almost left without stopping here?”

  Gael grinned. “Not a chance.”

  The vendor—an older man with a greying beard and arms as thick as tree trunks—glanced up as they approached, his weathered face creasing in amusement. “Well, look what the streets dragged in.”

  Gael leaned against the counter. “Two, please.”

  The vendor raised a brow, already reaching for the pies. “Didn’t think I’d see you two again.” He tapped an old, faded wanted poster of Lukas with his thumb—then motioned toward a new addition pinned beside it.

  Gael followed his gaze and let out a quiet huff.

  The sketch was crude, but the likeness was unmistakable—Vess, looking furious, and him, grinning like a madman.

  He exhaled, shaking his head. “I suppose that’s not too far off.”

  “Not far at all,” Lukas muttered, smirking.

  Gael chuckled despite himself turning back to the vendor. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice softer now. “Me neither.”

  The vendor didn’t ask questions, didn’t press. He just nodded, wrapping up two steaming meat pies, the scent of peppered venison and garlic wafting into the cool air. Then, without hesitation, he poured them each a mug of spiced wine, thick and fragrant, laced with just enough heat to chase away the evening chill.

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  Lukas took a bite first, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Martyr’s sake. I almost forgot how good these were.”

  Gael smirked, tearing into his own. The taste was the same. The world wasn’t.

  The meat was tender, the crust flaky and golden, soaking up the juices with every bite. It tasted like home—or at least, what had counted as home for them. Late nights, cheap meals, laughter over stupid jokes. For a moment, the weight of everything—the bodies left behind, the blood, the broken pieces of what their crew had been—didn’t feel so heavy.

  They ate in silence for a while, watching the market crowd mill past them. Somewhere nearby, a pair of street performers were playing a lively tune on fiddle and drum, the kind of melody that would have had Soren tapping his fingers on the table, Lander making some dumb joke about stealing the drummer’s boots.

  Gael exhaled, taking another sip of his wine.

  Jesarin wasn’t theirs anymore. It had never truly been.

  Lukas glanced at him, finishing the last of his meal. “So, this is it, huh?”

  Gael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, swallowing the last of his own. “Yeah.”

  Lukas tilted his head. “Feels weird.”

  Gael huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

  Neither of them moved for a moment, letting the city breathe around them, letting the last taste of Jesarin settle in their bones.

  Then, finally, Gael stepped back from the stall. “Let’s go. I have a place in the city I've never shown you or Vess"

  Lukas raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue.

  They left the market behind, walking toward upper district.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Jesarin’s Eldrin District was a world apart from the lower streets.

  The air was sharper here—cool, crisp, carrying the faint scent of old parchment, burning incense, and the hum of arcane energy lingering in the stones. The buildings were pristine, towering with etched runes that pulsed faintly, guiding travelers without need for lamps. Unlike the twisting chaos of Jesarin’s lower wards, this place was measured, deliberate, controlled.

  Lukas let out a low whistle. “Hells, I knew you said you used to live up here, but I figured you meant, like, in someone’s attic.”

  Gael smirked. “I had a bed. Sheets, too.”

  Lukas grinned, shaking his head. “Luxury.”

  Gael’s pace slowed as they neared Alister’s estate. The wrought-iron gate stood exactly as he remembered it—sturdy, etched with old runes, untouched by time. The windows were dark now, the house empty of the life it once held.

  Gael stopped just short of the gate, staring up at the manor.

  “Didn’t think I’d come back here,” he admitted.

  Lukas studied him for a moment, then nodded toward the looming estate. “This where it all started?”

  Gael exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.” His fingers clenched against his wrist. “Alister took me in when I was eleven. I was half-starved, barely knew how to cast, and thought I could fight off a city full of enforcers if I just swung hard enough.” He scoffed lightly. “He taught me how to fight properly, cast spells. Gave me a place to stay.”

  Lukas tilted his head. “And then?”

  Gael’s expression darkened slightly. “And then I learned the truth.”

  He let the words hang there, the weight of them settling into the night. Lukas didn’t push. He didn’t need to.

  Instead, Gael took a slow step forward, leading him around the side of the estate. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  They slipped through a gap in the fencing, stepping into a secluded courtyard tucked behind the estate. Here, the air felt different—quieter, untouched by the harsher edges of Jesarin. The fading sunlight barely reached past the ivy-covered walls, but Gael didn’t need light to know where he was going.

  Kneeling near the overgrown edge of the garden, he reached out, brushing his fingers over a small stone marker, weathered by time.

  Lukas crouched beside him, frowning. “This a grave?”

  Gael nodded. “I made it.”

  Lukas was quiet, watching him. He didn’t ask who it belonged to. Not yet.

  Gael exhaled slowly. “Her name was Pera. She was my first friend.”

  Lukas glanced at him, waiting.

  “She was an orphan, like me. We trained together. Lived in the same dorm. She was… kind.” Gael’s voice tightened slightly. “Too kind for a place like this.”

  Lukas didn’t move, but Gael could feel the shift in his attention.

  “She disappeared one night,” Gael continued, voice flat. “No warning. No explanation. I started asking questions, but no one would answer me. Not until I found Alister’s ledgers.”

  Lukas exhaled sharply. He didn’t ask what Gael found. He didn’t need to.

  “She was gone,” Gael murmured. “Killed. Tossed away like she never mattered. Like she was just part of the process.” His fingers tightened against the stone marker. “So I made her a grave. Because someone should have.”

  Lukas looked at him, something unreadable in his expression. “That why you pushed him?”

  Gael let out a breath, standing slowly. He glanced toward the manor’s side wall, where one of the second-story windows had been boarded up, the wood old but still sturdy.

  “That’s where it happened,” he said simply.

  Lukas followed his gaze. “Huh.”

  Gael didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

  After a moment, Lukas exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Well,” he said lightly. “I probably didn’t need to know the details.” He smirked faintly. “But I trust you killed for a good reason.”

  Gael huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. I did.”

  Lukas gave a sharp nod, stepping away from the grave. “Alright, then. One more stop before we go?”

  Gael glanced at him, then at the distant lights of the lower districts.

  “One more stop,” he agreed.

  The pit smelled exactly the same as Lukas remembered it.

  No matter how many years passed, how many bodies had bled into the sand below, it never changed. Sweat, blood, cheap liquor. A place that swallowed people whole and never spit them back out the same.

  Lukas hadn’t set foot here in over three years now.

  Now, he walked through the crowd as a ghost slipping between the living. No one recognized him. No one flinched at his presence.

  And that was the strangest part of all.

  “This is where the bets get recorded,” he murmured, his voice steady as he led Gael toward the betting table set near the pit’s edge.

  Scribes hunched over stained ledgers, tracking coin faster than it changed hands. A small mountain of gold was piling into Ambrose’s personal pool.

  Lukas tilted his head. “He’s got a lot riding on this one.”

  Gael whistled. “You always this knowledgeable about cheating?”

  Lukas smirked, watching the numbers shift. “Surviving.”

  He knew this place better than anyone. The backrooms, the ledger tricks, the way Ambrose rigged fights before anyone realized their odds had been stolen.

  He let his gaze drift to the pit below. Two fighters squared off—one bigger, broad-shouldered, the clear favorite. The other lean, hungry-looking, already marked with bruises.

  No one bet on the hungry ones.

  Lukas knew that better than most.

  He rolled his shoulders. “Ambrose is betting big on the red sash.”

  Gael arched a brow. “So what happens if he loses?”

  Lukas exhaled slowly. “Ambrose loses money. A lot of it.”

  Gael’s grin was pure mischief. “Good. Let’s fix the odds.”

  Lukas didn’t need to ask what he meant.

  He was already moving.

  Lukas scanned the room, calculating.

  Gael could talk his way into or out of anything, but Lukas? Lukas understood the bones of this place.

  Lukas knew which fights were rigged. Gael knew how to spin a rumor that spread like wildfire.

  Lukas knew how to read the betting lines. Gael knew how to twist them.

  Lukas knew the underdog had no chance—unless something changed.

  All it took was one whisper placed in the right ears.

  Ambrose has been fixing bets.

  He’s stacked the odds against his own fighter.

  Look at the numbers—he's not stupid.

  It spread through the room like rot. People glanced at each other, uncertain. Gamblers flipped their bets. Coin flooded into the wrong pool.

  Lukas stepped up to the betting table, dropped a heavy handful of gold on the underdog. Just enough for people to see.

  That sealed it.

  The odds shifted.

  Ambrose’s cut was disappearing before his eyes.

  The pit roared below, a beast of sound and sweat and shifting gold.

  Lukas had felt this before—the energy of the crowd crashing like waves, the vibration of booted feet hammering against the floorboards, the collective pulse of gamblers watching their coin teeter on the edge of ruin or fortune.

  But this time, he wasn’t standing in the sand. He wasn’t waiting for the call to fight, wasn’t tightening blood-slicked fingers around aching knuckles.

  He was above it now. Watching.

  And that made all the difference.

  The fight was brutal, ugly—exactly the way Lukas remembered them. No wasted movement, no hesitation. Just fists flying, bodies breaking, a clash of instinct and endurance.

  The favorite—Ambrose’s fighter—moved with sharp, practiced strikes, his footwork careful, his stance solid. His opponent? Desperate, raw, half a second too slow. The type that people only bet on out of foolish hope or reckless spite.

  The type Lukas had been.

  He knew how this was supposed to go. Everyone did.

  But then, at just the right moment—

  Gael sent a small gust of wind right at the fights feet.

  It wasn’t much. Just a shift. A breath.

  But it was enough.

  The red-sashed fighter took a step—miscalculated. His ankle turned slightly, a fraction of a second too slow to adjust. It didn’t look like much.

  But Lukas knew better.

  In the pit, a fraction of a second was everything.

  The underdog saw the opening. Took it.

  A brutal hook to the jaw.

  Bone met bone in a sickening crack, the force of it twisting the fighter’s head to the side. His body followed a moment later—legs buckling, balance gone, arms limp before he even hit the ground.

  He crumpled like a broken tower.

  Lukas exhaled.

  For a single breath, the entire pit went silent.

  Then—chaos.

  The eruption of noise was deafening.

  Bets flipped. Coin hit the tables in a frenzy. Fortunes were rewritten in an instant, scrawled across sweat-stained ledgers as gamblers screamed their frustration, their elation, their rage.

  And Ambrose’s smugness?

  Gone.

  Lukas had seen him plenty of times before, lording over his empire of fists and blood and gold. Always composed, always certain, always knowing the outcome before it even began.

  Not now.

  His perfect, calculated system? Ruined in a single round.

  And Lukas?

  Lukas just watched.

  He watched the pit turn against itself, gamblers accusing each other of having inside knowledge, bets being redrawn, fights breaking out at the edges of the crowd. He watched the scribes scrambling to fix the ledgers, Ambrose’s pit runners whispering frantically to their master, trying to salvage the losses.

  The chaos made Ambrose sweat.

  Lukas rolled his shoulders, tension easing from his body like unraveling thread.

  “That felt good,” he admitted.

  Gael smirked, the glow of victory sharp in his eyes. “Told you.”

  And then—

  Ambrose looked down.

  And for the first time in years—he saw Lukas.

  It happened slow.

  First, recognition.

  Lukas saw the exact moment Ambrose's gaze landed on him, the way his brows knitted together, trying to place a memory that didn't fit the present. For years, Lukas had been nothing but one of many nameless fighters in the pit—another body to be thrown against the sand, bruised and bled for sport.

  But now—Lukas wasn't a boy in chains.

  He wasn’t kneeling. He wasn’t waiting.

  And Ambrose—Ambrose didn’t know what to do with that.

  Then came confusion. A flicker of hesitation in the pit lord’s expression, as if the world had tilted sideways and he wasn’t sure where he was standing anymore.

  And then—

  Fear.

  It was in the twitch of his fingers, in the way his shoulders stiffened. A muscle memory Lukas knew too well.

  Back then, it had meant a strike was coming. A lesson. A punishment. A reminder of where he stood.

  Lukas had flinched at that motion more times than he could count.

  Not this time.

  This time, he didn’t move. Didn’t brace. Didn’t shrink.

  Ambrose did.

  The older man’s chair scraped against the wooden floor as he tried to push back too fast. His foot caught on the uneven boards.

  He fell.

  Backwards.

  Hard.

  His goblet slipped from his grasp, tumbling as he hit the ground, red wine spilling across his silk coat like a wound.

  Lukas just stared.

  For years, he had imagined this moment.

  Standing over Ambrose. Watching him suffer. Watching him pay.

  But this?

  This was nothing.

  Ambrose wasn’t some invincible tyrant. He wasn’t a force that controlled the pit, that controlled Lukas.

  He was just a man.

  A small, pitiful man who had built his power on the backs of those too broken to fight back.

  And for years, Lukas had let him have that power.

  He let out a slow breath, the realization settling deep in his bones.

  Power is only given to those we allow to have it.

  For years, Lukas had feared this man. Obeyed him blindly. Thought there was no escape.

  And now?

  Ambrose couldn’t even look at him without falling apart.

  The thought should have felt like victory.

  It didn’t.

  It felt sobering.

  Lukas tilted his head. “Huh.”

  Gael, still leaning casually beside him, raised a brow. “You good?”

  Lukas exhaled.

  For the first time since the day he left this place, he felt lighter.

  Like something had finally let go of him.

  “Yeah,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “I’m good.”

  He took a slow step forward.

  Ambrose flinched.

  That was enough.

  Lukas turned away.

  Gael clapped him on the back. “Ready to go?”

  Lukas exhaled. “Yeah.”

  And just like that—they left.

  They didn’t look back.

  Jesarin would remember them not as the boys who fought in its pits, but as the ones who walked away—free.

  ______________________________________

  The Rakan District never truly slept.

  Even at this hour, furnaces still burned, their embers flickering against soot-stained brick. The distant clang of metal on metal echoed through the streets, the rhythm of hammers never fully fading. Iron, coal, smoke, and sweat—Jesarin’s industry never stopped, not even for the dead.

  Lukas and Gael walked the dirt path in silence, their steps steady, unhurried. The air smelled of salt, of damp wood from the docks, of lantern oil burning low in the distance.

  The grave was ahead.

  It wasn’t much. Just a wooden post, crooked from the wind, their names carved into the grain by Lukas’ own knife. Lander. Soren.

  It was what they had.

  Gael knelt first. Lukas didn’t. He just stood there, arms crossed, looking down at the marker.

  They were really gone.

  Not that he’d needed proof. He’d been the one to dig the graves.

  He shifted his weight, feeling the rough dirt beneath his boots.

  “They would’ve told us we were idiots for coming here,” Lukas muttered.

  Gael let out a breath—not quite a laugh. Something thinner. Something frayed.

  “Yeah,” Gael murmured. “Probably.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Lukas exhaled through his nose. “They deserved better.”

  Gael didn’t answer right away. Lukas didn’t expect him to.

  Instead, his fingers traced the carved names, slow, deliberate. Like he was committing them to memory, even though they were already burned into both of them.

  Then—so quiet Lukas almost missed it—Gael whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Lukas’ jaw clenched.

  He didn’t tell Gael it wasn’t his fault.

  Because it was.

  Not in the way Gael thought, not in the way that should eat him alive like it did. But in the way that came with being a leader, the one people trusted to get them through.

  Lukas knew that feeling. Had carried it too.

  Gael pressed his palm against the wood, his breath steadying.

  “I’ll make something of myself,” Gael murmured. His voice was quiet, but Lukas knew a vow when he heard one. “I swear it. I'll carve out whole districts in your name.”

  Lukas watched him quietly. Gael meant every word—and that was the worst part.

  They had grown up in a city where names were remembered only when carved into something—a wall, a ledger, a gravestone. Gael wanted Lander and Soren’s names to echo through Jesarin. Lukas just wished they were still here to hear them.

  He swallowed hard and reached into his coat, pulling out the knife—the same one he'd used to carve their names. Without a word, he drove the blade into the dirt beside the post.

  A marker. A promise.

  Gael looked up, meeting his gaze.

  “We should go,” Lukas finally said.

  Gael nodded, not arguing this time. They turned away, walking toward the city.

  Neither of them looked back—but the weight of their names would follow all the same.

  Gael adjusted the strap of his bag, rolling his shoulders. Everything he owned was on his back.

  Everything that mattered.

  Beside him, Lukas stood the same—a pack slung over one shoulder, his new sword resting against his hip. They had always traveled light. Now, it felt different. Final.

  Jesarin loomed behind them, its towering spires and smokestacks cutting against the pale morning sky.

  And just ahead—Lurras.

  The knight stood at the meeting point just outside the gates, arms crossed, his full runeplate gleaming in the morning light. The intricate engravings in the metal pulsed faintly with stored essence, waiting to be unleashed.

  He looked bored. Impatient.

  “About time,” Lurras muttered. “I was starting to think you two had gotten lost.”

  Gael smirked. “Lukas is a heavy sleeper.”

  Lukas shot him a look but didn’t argue.

  Lurras exhaled sharply, turning toward the road. “If you’re done making excuses, we should move. We’ll blend in better with the pilgrims.”

  Gael lingered.

  One last glance.

  At the streets that had shaped him. At the city that had taken so much and given him back even more.

  At the home they were leaving behind.

  He traced the familiar skyline with his eyes—the towering spires of the Eldrin District, the soot-streaked chimneys of Rakan, the crooked alleyways that had once been his whole world. The rooftops where he had run, the market stalls where he had stolen, the hideouts where he had laughed, planned, dreamed.

  He thought of Vess.

  She wouldn’t be here, not now. But he imagined her anyway—standing at some shadowed balcony, watching the city with that sharp, unflinching gaze of hers. Would she notice they were gone? Would she care?

  No. That wasn’t fair.

  She cared.

  She just had her own war to fight.

  For a moment, he wondered if she was safe—if she was still picking fights, still running jobs, still standing exactly where she’d always been.

  Then again, she was the strongest of them.

  She would survive.

  He just hoped she wouldn’t have to.

  A nudge against his shoulder.

  “You good?” Lukas asked, voice low.

  Gael exhaled, turning away from the city.

  “Yeah,” he said. "I'm just gonna miss this old place."

  They stepped forward, falling in beside Lurras as they merged into the flood of travelers.

  The road stretched before them, wide and restless, carrying them away from the past and toward whatever came next.

  Hundreds—thousands—moved along the path. Their voices buzzed in the crisp morning air, weaving through the clatter of cartwheels and the rhythmic stomp of boots. Merchants peddled wares from open wagons, priests murmured prayers to nameless gods, warriors slung blades over their backs.

  And the knights.

  Tabards of Sacyr’s colors stood out among the crowd, proud and unmistakable—young squires bound for the Grand Tournament, eager to prove themselves before the world.

  Gael watched them for a long moment.

  The path to Akeron stretched before them, unknown and daunting.

  And yet—he didn’t so much as glance back.

  End of Act 1..