Zarius leans against Caedes’ hands as the changeling puts himself between the fellblood and the stairs. His body feels fragile like any amount of pressure would cause him to crumble and the heat emitted from his body has lessened to mere coals. There’s hardly any force behind his movements, so stopping him from climbing the stairs is easy enough. Well, easy physically at least.

Being this close, Caedes can see the extensive amount of damage his body has sustained. His skin is broken and riddled with deep bone-deep cracks. One of his horns is splintered while the other has lost its tip entirely. What remains of his gear hangs loose on his body with only the clothing imbued with magic withstanding the earlier inferno. He feels…smaller, lighter and there’s a gauntness to his face that wasn’t there before.

The glint of silver hanging from Zarius’ neck catches Caedes’ eyes. At the end of a silver chain is a familiar glass vial…but its surface is marred with a large crack. There is no remnant of the healing liquid it once held.

Zarius doesn’t lift his gaze to meet Caedes’ pleading eyes. There’s no twitch to his face or tilt of his head to signal any acknowledgment of the changeling’s words. He just leans against his cool palms with his arms dangling limp at his sides.

Each shallow, wheezing breath that leaves his body reeks of charred flesh and comes with a wisp of black smoke and more ash that falls from his mouth to the floor between their feet.

Cyran has no trouble closing in on the pair from behind, and there’s no reaction or resistance as he grabs onto the fellblood’s shoulder and pulls him backwards.

The fellblood’s body weight falls back on the blade which easily sinks in deep up to the hilt. A slight gasp leaves his lips as his heart struggles to pulse before growing still. His head then rolls back and his legs give out from under him. A few snapping noises like the crackle of dry wood in a fire follow as he falls to the floor, the bones in his body weakened to the point of splintering under his weight.

The last flicker of blue light leaves his eyes revealing the once vibrant gold tarnished with blackened scars. More ash sloughs off his skin and there’s another clink of metal hitting the floor as his other horn breaks. The heat radiating off his body cools, leaving what’s left of his body brittle to the touch.

It’s not long after his body rests on the floor, staring unblinking up at the domed ceiling that there’s a shift in the ground beneath their feet. The glowing eyes of the carved dragon behind the altar start to leak molten rock as a sudden tremor strikes the chamber. Pieces of stone chip and rain down from the ceiling to the floor below. The pillar that was cracked before shifts, threatening to collapse at any moment as the tremors slowly start to intensify.

This place was becoming more unstable by the second. There's no time to process what has happened, and little time to waste on anything more than attempting to escape before the whole thing caves in on them. 

The silence that follows is deafening; and his mind reels in the quiet until his thoughts become white noise.

Caedes’ hands twitch in trepidation when the fellblood bumps against him; a flinch shakes his shoulders; but he holds his ground and Zarius does not proceed.

… Perhaps because he cannot.

In the pause, Caedes traces the visible damage on his person with dismay. The changeling’s attention flickers from broken horns to bone-deep fissures cutting through the fellblood’s skin; ash flutters from his mouth with each wheezing breath; and he seems so, so fragile. He fights to steady his breath and remain calm; but when something glints from around the fellblood’s neck; his gaze flickers down. 

The white noise gets louder; and all Caedes can do is stare at a vial as broken and empty as Zarius’ unwavering gaze.

“No,” he chokes on a whisper.

— and he should have known better. Days and months will pass, and Caedes will see this moment and many more of this day in his nightmares, and he will know that he let it happen. In hindsight, he will know that he should have been more alert; that he should have handled it all differently; and he will wish that he was and that he had.

Just like before, he will wish he could change so much, and he will never be able to. He will never be able to apologize, and will sit on the 'What if's' until they become a distorted fact in the back of his mind.

Zarius jerks back without warning; Caedes lunges forwards in an attempt to stop him. His fingers curl around the necklace instead, snapping its silver chain and throwing him back with the release of tension. He stumbles on the heels of his boots, wavering gaze flicking from the necklace, to the knife thrust into Zarius’ chest, to its origin.

The feeling is utterly crushing; the betrayal turns his ribcage to dust; and the white noise stops so suddenly.

Cyran’s silhouette flickers behind the changeling’s pale eyes; and for just a moment, he sees a man who he trusted; a man who pushed a blade through his chest; and a man who sent everyone he loved to their graves. Shadowed wings splay outwards and vanish; and then, it’s Cyran standing behind Zarius. All the same.

The fellblood’s heart flutters; it stops; and something in Caedes breaks. All of his emotions flat-line at once, finally reaching a peak where they can stack no longer. The anger, grief, helplessness, and betrayal collapses into a feeling so numb and aching that he can no longer feel them.

It’s a unique sort of pain that he has felt before and prayed that he would not again; but the gods are dead, so it is only fair that no one would hear him.

Ultimately, Caedes can’t find his voice; even when the fellblood’s legs break and Zarius starts to fall apart before them; he… can’t. 

His palms tremble around the broken chain between his hands, his gaze focused so attentively on the husk that was Zarius that he may as well bore a hole through what he used to be. The azure light in his eyes fades away, leaving behind a lifeless pyrite; and no sooner has it disappeared, does the whole god-damned temple begin to shake.

Something wet falls against his forearm, and then another; his vision has long begun to blur, and he grits his teeth through the slow, agonizing realization of what he’s just witnessed. The temple is starting to fall around them, but all of him feels like lead; even as something cracks behind him and the magma illuminates the room; Caedes makes no move to leave.

Finally, he lifts his head to look at Cyran and utters an anguished, shuddering question.

“What have you done?”

Death arrived with the snapping of a metal chain and the sound of crackling fire and Cyran could only pray that it lended a gentle hand to the lost souls and lead them to rest after a long and weary day. One where the fire did not mean the crumbling of a broken vessel, but the warmth of a hearth. Where silence did not mean the agonizing stretch of infinity between Cyran’s knife and the body hitting the floor, but the kind embrace of sleep.

The spirits sought to end Zarius’s life by their own means; against all machinations, it was a mortal who claimed the final blow. The hand of a friend. Perhaps it was better this way. Zarius was not the kind of man who would be satisfied with compliance, nor would he ever wish to see the thing those spirits had made him. Under their subjugation and helpless to their whims. Would his soul now give one last sigh of relief in knowing that his death had spared him a terrible and unknowable fate? Or was it merely wishful thinking on behalf of the assassin, who dared stare at the blood on his hands and call it mercy?

Questions better suited for a man who had not just committed such a horrible act. Muscle memory kicked in as his mind went blank. The knife went in, and it came out just as smoothly, leaving only a single, neat stab wound. Precise. Only a fraction of a second for Zarius’s body to let out a final, gurgled gasp, and for gravity to claim him. Bones crumbled and fragmented and his body plummeted to the cold, uncaring cobblestone. And the last fire extinguished from his eyes, blue to brilliant gold to ash. Cyran watched the embers, uncomprehending - unable to think, breathe, process. Unable to look away.

With the last of Zarius’s body, so, too, did Cyran’s barriers shatter.

Cyran’s head spun; no, the world was spinning, every image and sensation a kaleidoscope so vibrant that it took him a moment to understand that it was not in his head, he was not imagining it. Though Caedes’s home lay dead at his feet, slain by a man he trusted, the rest of the world was only just beginning to fall. The realization ought to have snapped Cyran out of his reverie - yet, he remained frozen, blood ice in his veins, his hands trembling, his mind finally piecing the last few moments together. And when he could finally, finally, being himself to feel something, it was not guilt he felt. It was fear at the lack of it.

And then the silence broke with an anguished cry. Cyran looked up, finding crimson eyes muted with grief.

And Caedes stared back at Cyran, the way one would a monster.

“I…” He breathed; his lungs felt they were about to collapse. This was wrong, all wrong. The worst case scenario was never supposed to be the eventuality. Spell Slicer slipped from his grasp, landing amongst the rubble, the ash, leaving only the gilded cap in his possession - this, too, melded into the shadows.^{[Klepto Gloves]} His fingers, too numb to notice. “I - I couldn’t - couldn’t find him, he…”

Cyran couldn’t find him, and he was gone, gone since the spirits dragged his soul into the abyss and claimed him.

Wasn’t he?

Rubble pelted his head like rain. Cyran made no move to exit, even the thought of moving his trembling legs a monumental effort. He gripped at his arms, nails digging into skin like that might anchor him; he staggered back, too terrified to even support himself.

“He was in so much pain, and then he -“

Cyran choked on his words,

“He was just gone, and then -“

A blade, severing the bonds of life, and now all that remained was Cyran and the man Zarius had never had the chance to love. He’d done the right thing. There would have been no saving Zarius from what he’d become.

He’d done the right thing.

“I’m sorry.”

The earth gave another violent shudder; the foundations would not last long. Something was happening. Even through the haze of panic, survival instinct kicked in where his rational mind could not act; a single thought breaking through the fog. I can’t lose you too.

He didn’t yet know he already had.

“Caedes, we - we have to go, something’s happening-“ Bone-dry eyes darting towards the exit, he held his hand out for Caedes to take. A pitiful offer from the man who’d wielded a dagger in that same hand only moments ago. It was all he could think to do in that moment. And still, he knew Caedes shouldn’t take it, lest Cyran destroy him too.

The fellblood's body lies broken at their feet as the chamber too begins to crumble all around them. Eyes devoid of glimmers of life are left half-lidded, staring into a void no living being could perceive. Breath left the lungs, with just wisps of smoke escaping between cracked lips. 

Moments seem to stretch out between the two. But time wouldn't stop for explanations, apologies, or excuses.

There's another loud cracking noise as a fracture races across the chamber's ceiling. The broken pillar shifts and stone slides against stone as it starts to buckle under the weight of tons of volcanic rock above them. 

Tremors continue to shake the chamber, increasing in intensity with each passing second. The floor shifts and drops a few feet as the left side of the chamber comes crashing down. The falling rocks from above take out chunks of the main staircase leading back to their only path back to the entrance. 

More cracks form, splitting open the staircase up to the altar. A pocket of toxic gas erupts, quickly filling the chamber with a sulfuric stench. Lava starts to lead through the cracks in the walls and flow towards them.

Despite what either man may want to say or do, lingering any longer is not an option if either wishes to survive to see the light of day.

They have to leave. 

Quickly. 

Zarius remains dead.

The changeling’s gaze remains unbroken by breathless excuses and collapsing temples; rock pelts his head and shoulders while the inner sanctum falls apart around them; but he remains motionless. Everything aches. The hollow pain in his chest grows more devoid with each word that comes out of Cyran’s mouth; each stuttered syllable slams a blade between his ribs, hammering home the fact that Zarius is gone.

Caedes can still see him in his blurred, peripheral vision… the scorched corpse of Zarius lying motionless.

Caedes has seen many dead in his short lifetime, and he has killed many as well; but he was lucky to have seen few die that truly meant something to him. He had lost so many in one night— but only his mother truly haunted his memories; the way he watched her collapse at the foot of the stairs, saw the recognition in her eyes while the light faded.

She died with a last warning on her lips that he had not heeded in the end.

This, too, will be a sight that he’ll see every time he closes his eyes; a memory he’ll relive in the silence of rooms lit by lonely candles in vigil; and a pain that he won’t be able to drink away. This, too, will be a dream that wakes him in a cold sweat, and a broken apology to the shadows for his incompetence in those moments.

Cyran’s voice feels so far off, as does the rumbling of the sanctuary.

How will he tell Eameia?
What happens to the Rha’Oriyn?
What about Askr?
What happens to everything Zarius worked for?
The allies?
The guilds?
What happens to Eirynor, Snow, and Shael?

Was it really all in vain in the end?

Caedes wants to wake up.

He grits his teeth behind pursed lips and chokes back a sob; he’s unable to look down at what remains of Zarius: because broken and shattered on the floor of this accursed temple is not how he wants to remember him. It isn’t until Cyran utters an apology that he starts to drift back into reality.

All of the words that the elven man had stumbled through finally begins to process through his shock and grief; and Caedes blinks, tears falling from the corners of his eyes unbidden, just as they have for the few seconds that feel drawn out into hours.

Finally, he finds his voice; but when he speaks, it tremors.

“His heart was still beating.” The hollow ache in his chest turns alight with something new; something angry but muted by shock and grief. A large piece of ceiling collapses further up the sanctuary, rattling the floor under his feet. Caedes’ shoulders shudder when he takes a breath.

That something starts to ignite; it burns cold and returns some light to the glazed look in the changeling’s eyes.

The slap of Caedes’ hand meeting Cyran’s as he violently thrusts the offer of help away might have reverberated in the temple had it not been on the verge of collapse. He can feel his hackles raising, grief-stricken rationale distorting Cyran’s words.

“We came here for you.” His pitch lilts. “I trusted you— Zarius trusted you!” Caedes’ expression twists into a fanged snarl as he continues. “He told you everything, and you fucking killed him because you decided that he was gone— that he was beyond saving?” The anger in his voice trembles, choking on restrained grief. “Who do you think you are, Fenastra?”

Caedes looks down; the silhouette of Zarius’ corpse sending a fresh grief-stricken shock through his spine. He squints his eyes shut. The sharp bite of glass from Zarius’ broken vial against his palm is the only thing keeping him from freezing up again.

Even in his state, he knows the fellblood’s body is… too fragile. It’s too fragile to take him home. It’s too fragile to lay him to rest properly.

He can’t even take him back to his family; the thought of leaving him here makes Caedes feel sick. He blinks damp lashes open. The decision is clear, but it is… hard. It’s hard to make. It hurts. The anger dissipates, ashen and cold; and what comes out is quiet, almost lost in the groans of shuddering pillars and supports.

He does not want to leave Zarius; but he does not look back.

“For a long time, I thought you were too good for Darkveil.” He closes his eyes and pushes forward past Cyran; Caedes makes no effort to get out of his way, aggressively bumping past the elf to make his way out.

His last words to Cyran are numb; flat in tone, but sharp in their spite:

“I was wrong; you’re right where you belong.”

His heart was still beating.

“His soul was gone.” Cyran croaked, a weak response. One that, with each passing second, he felt less sure of; seeds of doubt blooming in the garden of his mind. He’d been so sure of what he’d seen and felt… the life twisting from his fingertips, joining the many, dissolving, nameless, faceless -

Better to die as Cyran remembered him than endure that pain.

“Caedes, please -“ Please don’t let Zarius’s death be in vain, please don’t die down here with him. His offered hand was met with hatred, as cold and vast as the night sky as Caedes smacked his hand away. Cyran recoiled as if it had been his face, fingers curling around empty air.

He shut his eyes and blinked away tears, offering no rebuttal. There was nothing left to say. He knew little of their relationship outside of their own interactions he’d been allowed to observe, and a few scant non-answers from Zarius. But regardless of the nature of those feelings, it had born a deep trust between them, and a mutual love and care for one another that ran as easily as a river and wove itself as naturally as a spider’s web. Perhaps it could have flourished into something more. Perhaps one day he and Zarius might have worked up the courage to stand across one another and put feelings before the job. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

But it didn’t matter, because Cyran had taken that chance from them.

Each harsh word ripped from Caedes’s mouth felt like the tightening of a noose, a condemning sentence - Cyran opened his mouth as if to defend himself or offer rebuttal, desperate to salvage this - to cling to the memory of a tentative friendship forged in the fading dusk of peaceful woods - until Caedes uttered the single word that undid him entirely.

A name he’d tried desperately to forget. A name that had been stripped from him. A name that ought to have been buried. And one Caedes definitely shouldn’t know. But that thought was only a distant one in comparison to the dread that had turned his body cold with numb, a shock of horror. Because Caedes was right. He may not have inherited his father’s name but it seemed he couldn’t escape the man’s cold, bloody legacy. It was not so long ago that Lormundel Fenastra had gazed upon Cyran and deemed him, beyond saving, too.

Perhaps he should have been. All those years ago, in the manor as the ghost of Rowan ripped him to shreds, or when Caedes found him in the woods, lost, or when Del saved him from the disciples of Vulcadreus, or…

Too many times to count. Too many times he’d accepted kindness and repaid it in blood.

Who do you think you are, Fenastra?

He gripped at his arm, nail digging into flesh - the sensation of pain did not center him, nor did it provide an answer. “Probably someone you just should have let rot.”

And that was the truth of it all.

He did not reach out again as Caedes shrugged past him, the force of his blow making Cyran stagger. He drew a breath and tasted ash. In the distance, he thought he could hear a roar. None of it mattered now.

He made no move to leave. He was right where he belonged, after all.

Only when the sound of footsteps retreated and Cyran was on his own did his composure break apart entirely. His knees felt weak; he collapsed to his knees, letting out a shuddering gasp, shoulders shaking and hands trembling, and the sensation burned, each heaving breath feeling like its last; and perhaps it ought to be, if death was something he deserved. But that would be too merciful.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured, his words lost in the roar of the collapsing cave, the cracking of the earth overhead. He didn’t have long. Every ounce of his being wanted to be able to collect what was left of his friend, so that Anslem and Zewala would have - would have something to bury. A naive thought. There would be no grace for Zarius as he was, save what would remain of his pit as it collapsed. There would be no body to mourn, if he was even allowed to do so.

But he would always remember. He never forgot a face he killed.


Dust and rock was beginning to fall around him - smaller chunks, then bigger, and bigger, as crimson light seeped through the cracks. Cyran held out his palm, a small, nondescript blade forming in the palm of his hand.^[1] One he hadn’t made use of in a long time. His first dagger. In a single, swift movement he stabbed it into the earth.

“Even in death you have my blades.” His last words a whisper, an offering. “May they protect your slumber.”

There was more he wanted to say. Actions and words he wished to apologize for. But there was never enough time. And his last seconds were stolen away from him by a quake more violent than anything he’d felt before, and the ceiling itself gave one last final groan before the remaining support columns crumbled to dust, and the sky fell upon him once more. The Specter merely closed his eyes, and allowed the shadow to swallow him whole as he took to the skies, leaving the tomb behind.^[2,3]

---

1. Summon: Possession
2. Bat Wings
3. Phase Walk