Night came softly.

Not like a storm. Not like an ending. It arrived the way exhaustion did—quiet, inevitable, settling into the bones.

They made camp far from the watchtower. No one suggested going farther. No one suggested staying closer. It was the kind of unspoken agreement that only happened when everyone understood the weight of what had just passed.

Jorah built the fire. He always did when words failed him.

The flames caught slowly, licking at the dry wood until warmth spread outward in uneven waves. Sparks rose and vanished into the dark, brief and bright and gone—Kael watched them longer than necessary.

Eira sat beside him, close but not touching.

That mattered.

Kael felt hollow in a way he hadn't expected. Not empty—emptied. Like a room after furniture was removed, echoing with the absence of things that had once taken up space.

Anger had been one of those things.

For years—two lifetimes, if he counted honestly—it had lived in him like a second pulse. Rage at betrayal. Rage at loss. Rage at the future that had been stolen and rewritten and torn apart.

Now it was gone.

And without it, something else was exposed.

Jorah broke the silence, because of course he did—but his voice was quieter than usual. "You know… when I imagined revenge, I thought there'd be more screaming."

Kael huffed a faint breath. "I'm sorry to disappoint."

"No, no," Jorah said, poking the fire. "Just saying. I was mentally prepared for dramatic last words. Possibly a monologue. Maybe a sword through the floorboards for emphasis."

Eira glanced at him. "You're coping."

"I cope with humor," Jorah replied. "And denial. Mostly denial."

Kael smiled faintly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Jorah noticed. He always did.

"So," Jorah continued more carefully, "how are you actually doing?"

Kael didn't answer right away.

He stared into the fire, watching a log collapse inward, sparks bursting like startled stars. His chest felt tight—not with grief exactly, but with pressure. Like something too big to name pressing outward.

"I thought," Kael said slowly, "that after it was done… I'd feel lighter."

Eira turned fully toward him now.

"And?" she asked gently.

He swallowed. "I feel… exposed."

Jorah frowned. "That doesn't sound good."

Kael nodded. "It's not bad either. Just—without the anger, I don't know where to put everything else."

Eira's voice was steady. "Like what?"

He hesitated.

Then the words came, quiet but relentless.

"The fear. The guilt. The grief." He exhaled. "The part of me that still remembers dying."

The fire crackled.

Eira didn't interrupt.

Jorah didn't joke.

Kael pressed his palms into the dirt, grounding himself. "I thought revenge would close the wound. Instead it just… showed me how deep it was."

Eira shifted closer—still not touching, but close enough that he felt her warmth.

"Revenge doesn't heal," she said softly. "It only ends a question."

Kael nodded. "And leaves you with the answer."

Jorah leaned back on his hands, staring up at the stars. "You know… I once punched a man because I thought it would make me feel better."

Kael glanced at him. "Did it?"

"Nope," Jorah said cheerfully. "Broke my knuckle. Made everything worse. But I did feel very righteous for about six seconds."

Eira snorted quietly.

Kael managed a real smile this time—small, but genuine.

Then it faded.

"I walked away," Kael said. "From Kieran. And for the first time, I realized… I didn't want him to suffer."

Eira watched him closely. "What did you want?"

Kael's voice cracked, barely. "I wanted it to never have happened."

The words hung heavy between them.

Jorah closed his eyes.

Eira reached out then—slow, deliberate—and rested her hand over Kael's.

He startled slightly at the contact, then relaxed.

Her grip wasn't tight.

It didn't need to be.

"You don't have to carry this alone," she said.

Kael laughed weakly. "I keep hearing that."

"And yet?" she prompted.

"And yet," he admitted, "I still try."

She squeezed his hand once. "Old habits."

He nodded.

The night deepened. The fire burned lower.

Kael felt something rising now—not anger, not grief exactly, but release. The kind that came after holding breath for too long.

His shoulders trembled.

He tried to steady himself.

Failed.

Eira felt it immediately.

"Kael," she said softly.

He bowed his head, breath hitching as something finally broke loose. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. Just a quiet, shaking exhale that turned into another—and another.

Jorah looked away without a word, suddenly very interested in the firewood.

Kael's chest ached as tears slipped free—hot, unbidden. He hated how weak it felt. Hated how long it had taken.

"I died," he whispered, voice rough. "I remember it. Every time I close my eyes, I remember it."

Eira shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his. "I know."

"I wasn't ready," he said. "I didn't get to choose."

Her voice was steady, anchoring. "You're choosing now."

He shook his head. "I don't know how to live without being angry."

She turned toward him fully. "Then don't live without it yet. Just don't let it drive."

His breath shuddered.

"I'm tired," Kael admitted. "I'm so tired."

Eira leaned in, resting her forehead against his temple—careful, intimate, platonic but charged with something deeper.

"Then rest," she said.

Jorah cleared his throat loudly. "For the record, if either of you start crying too hard, I will panic and probably make it worse."

Kael laughed wetly. "Thank you for the warning."

"Anytime."

The laughter faded, leaving quiet—not heavy, not empty. Just real.

Minutes passed.

Then Kael straightened slowly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He looked… lighter. Not healed. But steadier.

"I don't regret walking away," he said. "But I do regret thinking revenge would fix me."

Eira smiled gently. "It wasn't meant to."

Jorah nodded. "That's what friends are for. Preventing catastrophic emotional decisions."

Kael looked at both of them—really looked.

Two people who had stayed. Who hadn't flinched when the world unraveled. Who hadn't asked him to be a legend or a weapon.

Just human.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Eira didn't answer.

She just stayed.

Above them, far beyond sight, something ancient watched.

The Source felt the shift.

Not power.

Not threat.

Something worse.

Acceptance.

Kael Vorrion had faced his past and refused to let it define him.

Revenge had not consumed him.

And that meant he was no longer predictable.

The Source recoiled—not in fear, but in calculation.

The threads trembled.

The war was not over.

But Kael was finally ready for it.

He stared into the dying fire, voice calm and certain.

"Whatever comes next," he said, "I face it as myself."

Eira's hand remained in his.

Jorah added dryly, "And with backup."

Kael smiled.

For the first time since his first death, it felt like enough.

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