They returned to Bastion's main keep, but Bartholomew's death didn't mean the end of anything. The corridors still breathed danger, as if the old ruler's will clung stubbornly to the stones themselves. The place could still hide ambushes, last-ditch traps, or some cruel final twist left behind to make sure the tutorial could never be completed in peace. And there was a crucial step left: securing the fortress for themselves. That meant, above all, keeping the remaining Bastion soldiers from pouring in through the gates until the Haven could consolidate control.

Charlie had already triggered the mechanism in the chamber; nobody else could turn it off now. Danger no longer came only from bandits or opportunists in the Safe Zone. It could come from men who had once sworn loyalty to Bastion, soldiers who might assume the Haven had seized the keep the same way the Renegades had tried years ago.

Inside, tension hummed under every step. Luke found himself in a room set up for the wounded. The air reeked of iron, sweat, and burned cloth. Groans rose from mattresses on the cold stone floor; men and women slept or tossed, half-healed or still dangerous to move. Quinn came in, bright-eyed, and clapped Luke on the shoulder as if to shove cheer into him.

"Finally that bastard's dead, right?" Quinn said.

Luke nodded, but his response was flat. The exhaustion on him wasn't only physical, it was the weight of the night, and a small, persistent disappointment at not having finished Bartholomew himself.

Quinn didn't linger. He went off to join the others combing the fortress for chests and vaults where the king had stashed resources. Everything taken had to be recovered before looters or the returning army found it. Luke let himself fall into a chair. Across from him, Ronan lay on an improvised mattress, still weak. A young healer worked silently, pressing her hands to his chest, Ronan's fiancée. He looked up when Luke approached.

"How are you?" Luke asked.

"Quiet as always, huh?" Ronan croaked, trying to sound tougher than he felt.

"Shut up," his fiancée shot back, not looking up from the wound. Her tone had the calm authority of someone who set the rules between them. Luke noticed Ronan obey her without argument and couldn't help thinking she held the real reins.

The healer met Luke's eyes for a beat, then gave him the report in plain terms. "He'll recover. Organs failed from the disease, but the skin's improving. Before, his face looked like a rotting fruit. But, thank you. I heard you gave him the antidote. Without it, he would've died. Poison and plague together, that's fatal."

Luke looked away. "It was just strategy," he said. The lie felt thin, but he meant it in a way: letting Ronan live was a calculation, not mercy. Part of him had wanted Ronan to atone, another part still counted on the man's usefulness in what came next. Or maybe he was simply tired of deciding who should die.

He stood, stepping back to give the couple their space. All the while the same question nagged at him: could they hold the gates against Bastion's soldiers? For the moment the answer was an honest no.

He wasn't weak, but he knew his limits. Right now, he was spent, body, mind, and soul. Every bone screamed for rest, and he didn't have enough HP left to drag himself into another fight.

Charlie lingered close, steady as ever, like a knight sworn to guard him. In truth, that was exactly what she was. Luke pushed himself forward until he reached Mason, who was leaning in a corner with a clipboard in hand, eyes scanning inventory notes. Probably stockpiles.

Mason looked up, grinning. "Did you hear? We caught that bastard Oswald. Since Bastion's whole treasury is ours now, I want that twig interrogated. He's bound to know where they hid the real supplies."

Luke didn't flinch. "And Jonathan? Did anyone find him?"

The smile drained from Mason's face. He shook his head. "No…"

That silence stretched in Luke's ears like a tolling bell. Jonathan was nowhere. Not among the dead, not among the captured. Just gone. Like a shadow slipped from its master. That absence gnawed at him.

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Jonathan was no longer just another man. He had grown stronger in the time apart. He'd even aided the bandits in taking the second fortress and played a key role in the kidnapping of the Haven's leaders. Now, lost in the chaos, he wasn't simply missing. He was a threat waiting to resurface.

Luke muttered, almost to himself, "He's going to be a problem sooner or later."

Mason shrugged, less concerned. "Maybe. But with Bartholomew gone, how much support could he really gather? He's alone. Probably running as far and fast as he can, terrified of being hunted down. I doubt he'll matter… at least not for a while."

Luke's gaze lingered, distant. "I hope you're right."

But he knew better. Jonathan's descent was his fault. He'd wanted to tell him the truth about Angelica's death. Instead, when the Haven fell into chaos, Jonathan was blinded by rage. He thought Luke had abandoned him to die, when in truth Luke had carried him out while unconscious. The first thing Jonathan saw upon waking was Luke killing Angelica. Cecilia had tried to explain, had told him who really saved him from the Midnight Warden, but none of it mattered. Jonathan had seen only betrayal, loss, and the woman he cared for bleeding out at Luke's hands.

That day had broken him, body and mind. And Luke knew he hadn't handled it well. He hadn't caused Jonathan's pain, but the way he'd let it unravel had only deepened the wound. That was why he was willing to forgive him, at least partly. Jonathan had attacked the Haven, colluded in plans to kill Luke and his allies. He deserved punishment, yes, but not the same execution Paul or Kruger had earned. Because Jonathan wasn't the one who plotted Angelica's death. He was just someone shattered, manipulated by Bartholomew. And for that reason, Luke wanted to spare him. Lock him away until the tutorial ended. Give him a chance to recover from the wreckage.

His thoughts were cut short by a hoarse voice rasping from across the room. "That bastard…"

Luke turned. Dustin staggered forward, leaning heavily on Thiara for support. He was pale, barely standing, but still breathing fire. "That bastard friend of yours caught me good," he growled, meaning Jonathan.

Dustin and the others had faced him inside the fortress, and they'd nearly paid the price.

Thiara kept him steady. She glanced at Luke, her eyes still holding a faint wall of suspicion that time hadn't erased. And yet, despite herself, she let slip the smallest smile.

"Thank you, Luke. I heard that while I was unconscious, you, Ronan, and Charlie saved us."

His reply was quiet, measured. "It was the least I could do. In the past, you and the others helped me more times than I can count."

The words were honest, but the air between them was heavy. Speaking with Thiara again after so long felt strange. The distance hadn't disappeared; it had simply shifted into something different, less defined, but still there.

She hesitated, her voice unsteady. "Angelica's death… it hurt more than I can say. I saw her as a mother."

Luke opened his mouth, but Dustin's hand landed firmly on his shoulder before he could answer.

"Thanks, traitor."

Luke arched a brow, until he noticed the tired smile tugging at Dustin's lips. The man laughed softly at himself. "I owe you my life. And I hope now, without Bartholomew in the way, we can finally make it out of this cursed tutorial… together."

"That's what I want more than anything," Luke said without hesitation.

Dustin shifted his grin toward Charlie. "And thank you as well, knight. I know I'm not the easiest man to carry." He kept his eyes on her as his smile lingered. "This knight is always at your side, isn't she, Luke? You're a lucky man."

Dustin and Thiara started down the corridor, but before they vanished from sight, Luke felt a light tap at his back.

He turned—and froze. Cecilia, Miriam, Gilbert… one after another, familiar faces from the Haven were stepping forward. Their expressions carried a mix of hesitation and guilt.

Miriam broke the silence. "We'd like to apologize to you."

Luke blinked, caught off guard.

"This time for real," she added. "Not just as occasional allies. But as comrades again."

The weight of so many eyes on him at once left him awkward, unmoored.

Then, one by one, hands started to reach out toward him.

"I'm sorry," murmured one.

"Me too… I'm sorry," said another, stepping closer.

Luke hesitated, uncertain, his mind reeling.

A younger soldier from the Haven approached, face flushed with shame. "I… I threw stones at you. Literally. The day you tried to explain yourself. I refused to listen."

Miriam's hand remained outstretched, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Angelica was special to all of us. Thank you for avenging her."

And so, one after another, they came forward.

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