Lior stood over the husk, his expression unreadable.
With a sigh, he crouched and picked it up.
Slowly, he lifted it.
He carried it with care, coiling dark tendrils around it to shield it from the wind. His footsteps made no sound, leaving only dark footprints in his wake. Walking barefoot posed no hardship—he was used to it.
He placed Fenric just beneath a nearby tree. The same one they'd spent so much time under.
Kneeling down, he began digging at its roots.
He remained silent throughout, his expression aloof as he clawed at the frozen ground.
Dirt crept beneath his long nails. Eventually, they cracked one by one, his fingers slick with mud and blood. Freezing snow numbed them.
Still, he kept digging, ignoring the pain.
Using Umbra would've made the task quicker, easier. But he refused. Whether out of stubbornness or an instinct he couldn't name, he did it by hand.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. By some miracle, the husk was still whole. Even after two months, it hadn't changed.
The silhouette that had haunted his dreams. The wound he received—still slow to heal.
Now, he was about to bury it.
An hour passed, filled only with digging.
Lior climbed out of the pit. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down at it.
"This should be deep enough."
He glanced at Fenric's body, then at his dirtied hands.
As he walked toward the husk, he brushed his hands against his pants.
Gently, he carried Fenric over.
Treading lightly, he descended into the grave.
He laid Fenric's body carefully at the bottom, then climbed out.
One last glance at the husk. His mouth twitched, eyes solemn.
He looked away, afraid his calm facade might crack.
Scooping up a handful of dirt, he began to fill the hole.
The first handful partially covered Fenric's charred feet.
A few dozen more, and his entire body was blanketed in a thin layer of earth.
Lior paused before covering his head.
He saw it clearly—bright green eyes and long, messy chestnut hair. That childish smile, full of life. The image brought Lior peace once.
Now, there was only a charred cocoon where that boy used to be. Not a single hair remained.
Lior couldn't hold it in anymore. Tears poured down in streams as he clenched his teeth.
Even after two months, some wounds hurt just the same.
He made no effort to hide it, continuing to shovel dirt with a pained grimace.
It fell across Fenric's face, burying it from view.
He sobbed with each handful, as if each clump of earth pulled more grief from his chest.
Eventually, he finished.
He walked back toward the cottage.
Moments later, he returned—holding a flower and a short sword.
Approaching the grave, he finally spoke.
"I never forgive those who betray me, you know?"
Stopping at the edge, he continued.
"But you'll be the first—and the last—I forgive."
"You were just a child, forced to come here. That makes it my fault too."
He glanced at the small, delicate white flower in his hand.
Planting it gently in the center of the grave, he added:
"I remember when you gave this to me. How excited you were... what you told me."
A weak smile fought its way onto his face.
"I kept it in my room all this time."
"But you were wrong," he whispered, tapping the surrounding dirt. "If it stayed by my side, it would've withered and died."
A few more tears escaped before he finished.
"Just like you."
With trembling fingers, he pressed the flower into the soil.
"Here," he said, lifting the Kodachi. "Your sword. It only feels right that it retires by your side."
Nodding softly, he placed it beside the flower.
A somber look etched into his face as he patted down the dirt.
"I have to leave now," he murmured. "There's still a lot left to do."
One final pat. Then he rose.
Turning, he added:
"Don't worry. The ones who did this will pay—along with the ones who sent us here."
"I promise." He didn't look back.
Just as he took his first step away, a whisper brushed his ear.
"Thank you, Lior."
Startled, Lior froze.
He didn't turn. Even if it was only his mind playing tricks, he let himself believe it had been Fenric.
Without a word, he walked on. A joyless smile stretched across his face.
Behind him, the grave lay still beneath the old tree. The flower and Kodachi resting above the bark.
In time, the grave would become legend.
The flower bloomed and never withered, forming a bed of white blossoms. A miracle.
And the Kodachi—unlike every other blade touched by The Ghost of Solmira—never turned black.
It remained the only sword untainted.
---
Amid the rubble of ruined Virelith, a lone figure stood.
Bare-chested. His military pants, undersized and tattered, hung high above his ankles.
Long raven-black hair fell just past his chest, dancing in the wind.
Lior walked toward a ruined temple, stone fragments clinging to his feet.
The temple stood between the outer edge and the heart of Virelith.
One side had collapsed entirely. The other leaned perilously, fine dust drifting off its crumbling stone.
Gripping Ashrender, he stepped through a jagged opening.
"Nothing's changed, huh," he muttered, entering.
Debris littered the stone floor. Wind slipped through the cracks in the walls, whispering like a distant cry.
Then, it hit him.
That overwhelming feeling.
Sorrow. Solitude. Fear… and something else. Now, he finally understood what it was.
"Longing," he whispered, stepping deeper.
Dark haze enveloped his body to shield him.
It worked.
"It worked," he echoed, exhaling.
As he walked, he spoke to himself.
"I had a hunch it was longing... ever since Fenric called for his mother. The way he missed her—I was sure."
"But why didn't I see anyone? Anything I longed for?"
"Why couldn't you mess with my mind too?"
He stopped before a white marble altar. A quote was etched into its face:
Longing is not weakness
He read the line beneath:
All beings carry a fragment of something lost, ancient, or unreachable.
Running his fingers across the engraving, he muttered:
"All beings but me."
"I don't long for anything anymore… except power. I stopped longing for people long ago."
His eyes drifted to what lay atop the altar.
A traditional white Asian garment. Layered and flowing. A cross-collar robe over an inner wrap, paired with wide-legged pants.
Attire meant for a swordsman—light, elegant, beautiful.
Lior took off his pants.
With grace, he donned the garments. The soft fabric soothed his skin. The breeze teased his hair as it fluttered like silk.
He looked down.
"It looks good, but..."
The Umbra stirred, dark essence seeping from his body.
The garments changed.
The white bled into deep black, midnight blue tracing the edges.
Admiring the result, he smirked.
"The angel was right," he murmured. "Black does suit me."