He found her again before dawn, standing where the river bent and the reeds thinned, staring at the water as if it might answer her.
Mist clung low to the surface, pale and hesitant, the way morning always was before deciding whether to become day. The fires had burned down to embers. The village slept unevenly—relief never rested as deeply as exhaustion.
She did not turn when he approached.
"You're building a dependency," Kael said quietly. "You won't survive it."
His voice wasn't sharp. It didn't need to be. Truth carried its own edge.
She shook her head, too quickly, like someone batting away a fly they refused to acknowledge. "We survived because of you."
Kael stepped closer, boots crunching softly on gravel. The river reflected his shape in broken pieces—never quite whole, never still.
"No," he said. "You survived because you acted before I arrived."
She turned then, eyes red, jaw tight. "We lit fires. We waited. We prayed—"
"You chose," Kael interrupted gently. "You moved. You fought fear long enough to be seen. That matters more than anything I did."
She searched his face, looking for something—permission, maybe. Or absolution.
"You don't see what we see," she said. "When you're here, people breathe differently. They stand straighter. They sleep."
Kael smiled faintly, without humor. "That's exactly the problem."
She frowned. "How is that a problem?"
He exhaled slowly, watching his breath fade into the mist. "Because when people breathe because I'm near, they forget how to breathe without me."
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Kael continued, voice calm, almost conversational. He had learned that panic made people defensive, and defensiveness made them deaf.
"You saw it yesterday," he said. "The father by the river. He waited. He knew what to do—but he waited anyway."
Her throat tightened. "He was afraid."
"So was I," Kael said. "Fear didn't stop me. Expectation stopped him."
She hugged herself, as if the morning had suddenly grown colder. "You're saying we shouldn't ask for help."
"No," Kael replied. "I'm saying you shouldn't replace yourselves."
She shook her head again, slower this time. "That's not what we're doing."
Kael's eyes hardened—not with anger, but with clarity. "That's exactly what you're doing. You're carving out space where your own will used to live. You're leaving it empty and hoping I'll fill it."
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of damp earth and smoke.
"That's what gods do," he said.
The word landed between them like a dropped blade.
She flinched.
"I never called you that," she said quickly. "We never—"
"I know," Kael replied. "You don't have to. Gods don't start as gods. They start as answers."
She swallowed. "You're not a god."
Kael met her gaze, and for a moment there was warmth there—something human, almost kind.
"Neither were they," he said softly. "Once."
She stared at him, truly seeing him now—not the weapon, not the solution, not the name whispered in the dark. A man who looked tired in a way sleep wouldn't fix. A man who carried consequences like scars beneath his skin.
"You saved us," she said.
Kael nodded. "Yes."
"And now you're leaving."
"Yes."
"Why?" The question broke out of her, raw and unguarded. "If you can help—if you know how—why walk away?"
Kael looked past her, toward the village still wrapped in half-light. Toward people who would wake believing the world had tilted in their favor.
"Because if I stay," he said, "you'll stop choosing. And when I finally fall—or leave, or become something you shouldn't trust—you'll be weaker than you were before I came."
She laughed softly, bitter. "You talk like you already know how this ends."
Kael smiled then. A real one. Brief. Dangerous.
"I've been watching it happen since the first fire was lit for me," he said. "I just didn't want to believe it."
She hesitated. "What if we fail without you?"
Kael leaned closer, lowering his voice—not commanding, not pleading. Inviting.
"Then you'll learn," he said. "And learning hurts less than surrender."
The sun crested the horizon, Sol Aurex spilling gold across the river. In its light, Kael looked almost ordinary—dusty, scarred, human.
She straightened slowly.
"What should we do?" she asked.
Kael stepped back, giving her space again. Choice required room.
"Break the habit," he said. "Don't wait for the next threat to ask who will handle it. Decide who will. Train them. Trust them. Fail loudly. Fix it yourselves."
She nodded, once. Not convinced. But thinking.
Kael turned to go.
"Will we see you again?" she asked.
He paused, then glanced back over his shoulder.
"Maybe," he said. "But if you do—something has gone wrong."
He walked away before the weight of her hope could settle on him again, before charm could harden into reverence.
Behind him, the village woke.
And for the first time since he had arrived, they would have to wake without him.