Finally freed from the hanging cage, Ophelienne staggered into the Great Hall, one hand pressed to her side. She had no armor. No sword. Just pain —and an unwavering sense of duty.

  Her eyes searched the vast chamber for Drustan.

  Ash drifted in slow spirals through the air. Frescoed walls framed towering bookshelves, crammed with ancient books and scrolls. Marble columns rose in silent witness, encircling the adventurers who had bested the mighty Maussolum.

  Thaerion stood motionless, like a statue carved from soot and dried demon blood. At their side, the Cloak rippled, unreadable as ever. And between them, Drustan: weary, battered… but alive.

  Lady Valiendre didn’t allow herself even a breath of relief.

  “You,” she growled at the elf.

  Thaerion didn’t flinch.

  “You tried to kill him,” she hissed. “You nearly killed me.”

  “I did,” the elf replied, unblinking. “I do not deny it.”

  Her fists clenched. Her voice trembled. “So what now? You finish the job?”

  “You are unarmed,” Thaerion said evenly. “Wounded. And no longer a threat to me.”

  There was no cruelty in the words. Only fact.

  “Try me,” she snarled.

  Drustan stepped forward, hands raised. “Stop. Please. Just… listen to each other. I want to hear what they have to say. All of it.”

  Ophelienne turned to him, stricken. “You haven’t forgotten what happened in the woods, have you?”

  Drustan’s voice wavered. “I haven’t. But I need to understand why.”

  Thaerion nodded.

  “I was raised to prevent the return of the Republic. That was the only truth I was given. My clan devoted their lives to that cause. They never explained why. Only that it must not happen.”

  Their gaze turned distant, unfocused.

  “But I’ve watched the boy. I’ve watched you. And I’ve spoken with the Cloak. You no longer sound like distant characters from ancient prophecy; just people trying to live.”

  Their tone softened —not in apology, but in reflection.

  “Besides, had I completed my mission… there would be nothing left of me. No reason to go on. So I choose a different path. I will help him live a life that is his. As long as he never takes the High Seat of the Holy of Holies, we are not enemies.”

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  Ophelienne stared, bitterness twisting her features.

  “Oh, so now you want to help him?” she spat.

  “I choose not to kill him,” Thaerion said calmly. “Choice changes everything.”

  Drustan turned toward the Cloak, hesitant. “Is this real? Are you not just using me?”

  “Dost thou not recall our accord?” the Cloak replied, fluttering with mock solemnity. “Fame and fortune, sought side by side! Dost thou forsake the dream so soon, little prince?”

  The boy faltered. The words struck deeper than he expected.

  He turned back to Ophelienne.

  “You kept me alive,” he said. “But never free. You made the choices. You never told me who I was. Or what I was walking toward.”

  “I was trying to protect you,” she whispered.

  “And what if I don’t want protection anymore?”

  She looked at him —truly looked— and saw the answer in his eyes before he spoke it aloud.

  Drustan stepped to the Cloak’s side.

  Lady Valiendre’s shoulders trembled. Her voice was barely audible.

  “You think you’ll be free with them. But you won’t. You’ll just be lost.”

  “I’ll take lost,” young Aurethian replied. “I can live with lost.”

  He turned his back to her, facing his new companions with sad, but hopeful eyes.

  Drustan, the Cloak, and Thaerion walked out of the Academy, followed by the hounds and the griffling. Ophelienne stumbled after them, still gathering herself.

  Beyond the gate threshold, the remnants of Garland stretched out like a carcass picked clean. The grand staircase overlooked a city of silence.

  There were no more devils. No more ravens.

  But every one of the captives had perished. Not by blade, nor fire or sorcery. The bodies bore no wounds. No signs of struggle. No trace of resistance. They had not been slain. They had been emptied.

  “Released” as the Maussolum would have it —from thought, from desire, from choice, and future.

  “That demon,” Thaerion murmured, voice low and frayed, “It took them. Their souls, their wills… everything.”

  The Cloak said nothing. Drustan weeped, emotionally exhausted.

  Ophelienne arrived last, slow and limping. Her whole frame trembled as she took in the devastation.

  A heavy silence settled.

  Then, at last, Lady Valiendre spoke:

  “I will stay.”

  The others turned.

  “Someone must mourn them. Someone must bury them. What happened here is our responsibility —all of ours,” she added, fixing her gaze on the Cloak.

  No further words were exchanged.

  And with neither ceremony nor farewell, they parted ways.