Signo trembled again.
A cold wind swept across the continent, a whisper of resurrection and reckoning.
The Graces stirred.
All but one—Chroneth, Grace of Time, still slept in her timeless chamber, untouched by the shifting tides.
But the other six had already gathered atop the floating isle of Elarith, summoned by fear they dared not name. Even gods could feel dread.
Velmira was a storm incarnate.
"VORALIS! ANSWER ME!" she bellowed, voice cracking the silver glass walls of the sky-palace. "How did that surge reach Neuraleth?! That cursed continent was supposed to be dead!"
Voralis, Grace of Life, whirled on her with equal fury, slamming her staff into the floor. "Don't blame me, Velmira. You let Neuraleth rot. You let it become a graveyard! Now it breathes, and you blame me?"
Velmira unsheathed her obsidian blade, its edge humming with corrupted grace. Voralis raised her staff in answer, emerald light flaring.
"Enough," growled Aurex, Grace of Beasts, stepping between them. His massive form towered over both, his voice rumbling like a fault line ready to break. "You squabble like dying mortals. Compared to me, you are nothing but noise."
From his shoulders, two sealed beasts—fanged shadows bound by divine chains—snarled and pushed Velmira and Voralis back with eerie, silent power.
A soft chuckle followed.
"Now, now," cooed Invidia, Grace of Minds, eyes glowing like a thousand moons. She raised her hands lazily—and in an instant, Velmira and Voralis froze, their limbs shaking under invisible pressure. "Let's not spill blood today. Especially not your cute little divine blood."
Their bodies trembled, but the two cooled their rage and stepped back, breathing hard.
The room fell into a tense silence. For the first time in centuries, they didn't know what they were facing.
Meanwhile…
Night settled over the high mountain cave. The winds outside whispered secrets through the rocks, and only the stars above bore witness to what had returned to the world.
Lysara sat by the fire, arms wrapped around her knees. The others slept, but she couldn't.
She volunteered for the first watch, but her thoughts weren't on the mountains.
They were on him.
Azriel.
"He doesn't die."
That truth wouldn't leave her mind. She had seen him fall—seen his body torn apart—and yet there he was, breathing beside her hours later, wounds gone, eyes deeper than before.
Azriel drifted once more—falling not through space, but through memory—into the place he now silently called Reflection.
The orchestra played again. This time, the music was slow… grieving… as if even time itself was hesitating.
The mirrors fell from above, shattering gently like snow.
And before him: the three chairs.
On one sat the warrior from his first death.
On another, Lucia—slumped, broken from their brutal battle.
And now… the second chair.
It held himself.
Still, ruined from his suicide in Reigo. Still wearing that haunted smile.
Azriel stared at it for a long time…
Then reached out…
And touched.
The flood came instantly.
Memories he already knew—yes—but now, they weren't just memories. They were crystal clear, sharpened. Every moment from his days as a wandering nomad, every close call, every heartbreak… clearer than he'd ever remembered them.
And then—oddly—it repeated.
That had never happened before.
He blinked.
Now he was seeing them again… but not through his own eyes.
Through Lysara's.
Then Gio's.
Then Corren's.
Brikka's.
Even through the terrified eyes of a civilian caught in the crossfire.
Each perspective added something.
Each truth deepened the wound.
And then… it came.
That day.
The one he buried deeper than the rest.
When Voralis tortured his parents.
Young Azriel, just a boy, watching in horror.
But this time—he could hear her thoughts.
The joy she took in his despair. The deliberate way she let him watch.
He screamed. Not out loud—but in his soul.
Then, slowly… it ended.
He found himself still in Reflection.
But… he hadn't woken up.
That had never happened either.
Confused, Azriel began to walk.
Through the void.
Past the chairs.
Past the orchestra.
Past the shattered mirrors.
The farther he walked, the more memories bloomed on the endless walls.
Not just his… but distorted, broken fragments—blurred thoughts, fractured feelings, stray moments he'd forgotten.
Now, all vivid.
All real.
"Great," he muttered bitterly. "I finally understand myself... but now I'm stuck in this damn place?"
The void cracked again.
Not shattered like glass.
But caved in—like something had blinked.
And with a gasp—
He woke up.
"H-hey. It's your turn now."
Lysara's voice pulled him from the last strands of that other world.
She sat beside him in the cave, wrapping herself in a tattered cloak. Her eyes were tired, but not defeated.
Azriel blinked a few times, adjusting to the real world again. His heartbeat was still thundering in his ears.
"You okay?" she asked, softer now.
He didn't answer right away. He looked past her—toward the jagged mountains of Neuraleth beyond the cave mouth.
The stars were out.
And his understanding of them had changed.
Azriel finally nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."
He stood and walked past her to take the watch. But then paused.
"Lysara," he said.
She turned.
"...Thank you."
"For what?" she asked, surprised.
"For still seeing me. Even when I couldn't."
She didn't respond. But she smiled.
Then she lay down, eyes closing, and sleep took her quickly.
Azriel sat at the mouth of the cave, watching the darkness.
He didn't know how long they had. The Graces were moving. He could feel it.
But so was he.
While on watch, Azriel sat quietly by the edge of the cave, lost in thought as the night wind whispered through the mountain range.
He needed a plan.
He could handle Velmira's underlings now—but they were always considered the weakest among the Seven. If he wanted to face a true Grace and survive… he needed to get stronger. Much stronger.
He still carried the spear he'd taken from Archil. It was a fine weapon, but it wasn't suited for the kind of combat he now envisioned. He had absorbed Lucia's memories—her instincts, her reflexes—a swordswoman's legacy.
He needed a sword.
But not just any sword.
Her sword.
So he focused.
Azriel closed his eyes and tapped deeper into the remnants of Lucia's soul. Images bloomed in his mind—her earliest days, flickering like candlelight.
A town.
Small. Almost untouched by Neuraleth's rot.
So clean, so calm… it looked like it didn't even belong on the continent.
Wepah.
Lucia's hometown.
Tucked far from Neuraleth's slums, hidden between forests and ridges, Wepah was where she had trained day after day—swinging dull blades until her hands bled. And at the heart of it, a blacksmith. Her mentor. Her father figure. The one who gave her that first blade… forged not with steel alone, but belief.
For a moment, Azriel saw Lucia not as the brutal killer he fought, but as a child—a girl who once believed in honor, who dreamed of rising through the ranks to prove herself. A girl who had been lied to. Molded into a monster.
The memories turned darker.
Velmira.
Azriel flinched as Lucia's recollection of their first encounter flashed through him. The way Velmira broke her—not just physically, but emotionally. She didn't just train Lucia.
She dominated her. Claimed her.
Azriel's fists clenched.
"I'm not letting that happen again," he muttered under his breath.
The sun had just begun to rise, its faint light piercing the cold shadows of the cave.
Azriel stood, the spear strapped to his back, his torn clothes flapping in the wind. He stared out over the ridges of Neuraleth, toward the hidden horizon where Wepah lay. The town was days away on foot, tucked far from the path of the Graces, and perhaps that was why it still remained untouched.
Lysara stirred awake behind him.
"Azriel?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. "Where are you going?"
He turned to her, his expression steady, yet softer than usual.
"I need to go alone," he said.
Lysara blinked. "Why?"
"I saw her memories. Lucia's. There's a town—Wepah. It's where she learned to fight, where she was… still human." He paused. "There's something there. A forge. A man who raised her. If I want to stand a chance against the others… I need more than a weapon. I need to understand why she fought the way she did."
Lysara frowned, stepping toward him. "So you're going to relive her life? That's dangerous, Azriel. Her pain, her training—it nearly broke her."
"I know," he said. "But I have to carry it." His hand hovered near his chest, over his heart. "I don't get to ignore her past."
Gio approached then, stretching out his tired limbs. "You'll move faster alone," he admitted. "But we'll worry."
Azriel gave him a nod. "That's fair. But this part… this one's mine."
Gio placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "We'll reunite with the resistance. You better reach out. Don't make us come looking."
Lysara stepped forward and grabbed his hand. "Come back," she said, barely above a whisper.
"I always do," Azriel replied, offering a small, rare smile before vanishing down the rocky path.
Far away, in the hidden town of Wepah…
An old blacksmith hammered steel beside a dying forge. He paused for a moment, sensing something shift in the wind. He looked up at the sky, brow furrowed.
"…She's finally sent someone back, hasn't she?" he muttered.
And went back to work.
"Frenel, Right?"
He looked up.
"Azriel, pleasure to meet you."