Grodak
Grodak ran his hand along the stone of the forge, fingertips tracing every crack and groove.
He knew this place.
He didn't.
Both truths sat uneasily in his chest.
This wasn't the forge he had built with his own sweat and stubbornness back in Whitewater — but somehow it remembered him. Its cold surface pulsed faintly under his touch, as if it recognized its maker and welcomed him home.
Grodak leaned forward, arms spread against the stone stove, letting the chill seep into his muscles.
Anyone in Whitewater could tell you what held his heart — and they'd struggle.
His forge.
His wife, Xierma.
His people.
All three bound him, but only the forge ever spoke to him like this.
He took down his two-handed hammer from the row of tools — perfect weight, perfect handle, perfect balance.
Just like his own.
Too much like his own.
A smile cracked his face.
It was time to light the forge and see what it wished to make through him.
He collected the wood and bent to kindle the flame. The moment the fire caught, shadows twisted… and Grall appeared beside him.
Grodak's eyebrow lifted. His brother's expression was wrong — distant, shaken, as if he'd left a piece of himself somewhere he didn't want to look back on.
Grodak gave the forge space to heat and moved away, preparing his tools.
"What's wrong, Grall?"
"Grodak…"
Grall's voice failed. Words clogged his throat. The weight behind them was unfamiliar — Grall wasn't a man who hesitated.
That alone unsettled Grodak more than he wanted to admit.
Grodak turned fully toward him, worry wrinkling his brow.
"Grall. What is wrong, my brother?"
For several heartbeats Grall said nothing. His silence was a battlefield — Grodak could see it in the tension of his jaw.
At last:
"Grodak… Could you reforge Oathkeeper for me? It broke during the fight with the armored knight."
Grodak released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"That all?" He laughed, relieved. "Of course. When we get back to Whitewater's forge—"
"No."
Grall's voice cut the air.
"I want you to use this forge."
Slowly, Grodak looked into Grall's bandaged eyes.
"What do you see?"
He hated the idea of anything—anything— touching the forge he cherished. Even this false mirror of it.
"This forge," Grall said, slow and careful, "is imbued with the powers of the void. Wouldn't a weapon forged here… suit me well, brother?"
Grodak stroked his jaw, considering.
A forge touched by the void.
A god of death wielding its product.
"…It's poetic," he admitted. "As though the weapon shapes itself to its master."
"And armor," Grall added. "And two other weapons."
He sounded almost… nervous. Like the child he'd once been — wise beyond his years, but uncertain of himself.
Grodak smiled softly. A strange warmth filled his chest, the old warmth of two brothers dreaming of glory in a world too small for them.
"Should I make you that weapon you talked about as a child?" Grodak teased. "The one taller than a man, that you'd swing like this—"
He imitated the dramatic gesture Grall used to make.
Grall barely reacted. Lost in thoughts darker than any childhood memory.
"Huh?" he said, finally noticing Grodak's stare. "Oh. Yeah. Sure. Make it how you see fit."
He turned and left.
Grodak watched him go with a sinking feeling twisting beneath his ribs.
Then, forcing the dread down, he set to work.
---
Grall
Grall left the kingdom and walked, every step pushed by the single thought burning in his skull.
Find Jarada.
He stormed through the castle doors of Whitewater — and immediately orcs surrounded him, spears leveled at his chest, eyes hard.
"What is the meaning of this?" Grall commanded, power humming beneath his voice.
"Put your weapons away!" Xierma shouted from the back. Cassandra leaned weakly at her side, still recovering. "He is not the threat."
Grall didn't slow.
He walked straight through the ring of spears.
Blades pierced his skin — but the Shadow World flowed through him automatically, knitting wounds before blood could fall.
"You shame the orc race," Grall snarled. "I stand before you unarmed, and you draw weapons?"
Some lowered their spears immediately. Others hesitated.
That hesitation lit something savage inside Grall.
He ripped a weapon from one soldier's hands and unleashed violence.
"Is this what you want?" he roared, cutting through the guards. "Is this what you hoped for when you pointed steel at me?!"
A soft but firm hand closed around his shoulder.
He turned — and froze.
Cassandra stood above him, sorrow dimming her eyes, and gently pried the sword from his fingers.
"I know what you're searching for," she whispered so only he could hear. "But you will not find the Reaper by slaughtering these men."
Grall's blood chilled.
How did she know?
Before he could speak, she raised her hand and silenced him.
"Lady Xierma," Cassandra called with sweeping calm, "Grall needs rest. He has endured something none of us could understand."
Xierma nodded, livid at her disobedient soldiers.
Cassandra motioned, and even the stubborn ones stumbled backward under her gaze.
"Come, Grall," she said gently. "We'll find a room. Then you can tell me what happened."
He followed her without protest.
The moment the door shut, Grall turned cold and sharp.
"How did you know?" he demanded.
Cassandra sat at the desk, exhaling softly.
"You think you were the only one who spoke with the Source?"
She chuckled, though the sound strained. "He spoke to me before you revived me. With Sakurako's help."
She shook her head. "Reckless of you."
"I don't call it reckless," Grall said, leaning against the door and inspecting the stolen sword. "It is not foolish to reunite two lovers."
Cassandra's cheeks burned.
"We aren't lovers," she protested softly. "Not yet."
Grall shrugged. "That's your business."
"But that is not what you want from me, is it?" Cassandra said, brushing hair from her face.
"No."
"What do you know of the Reaper?" Grall asked, voice cold enough to still her breath.
"Careful, Grall." Cassandra's tone darkened. "You may be a god, but you still wield your strength like a child. Or have you already forgotten the beating I gave you?"
He didn't flinch.
"I don't care," he snapped. "Kill me. I'll return."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Yes. But how many times?"
Jarada's voice echoed in Grall's skull.
"…only one more time…"
Grall cursed.
"Fine," he said through clenched teeth. "Tell me what you know."
Cassandra approached him slowly.
"I know the Reaper exists. I know the Source fears what comes next. But he did not tell me who the Reaper is."
She met his gaze meaningfully.
"And I assume… he told you the same."
Grall's jaw tightened.
Spies. Listening. Always.
He stood to leave.
"No word to Grodak?" Cassandra asked. "He could help you."
"No. Not now. Xierma is pregnant."
Cassandra's gasp could have shattered glass.
"What? He cheated?!"
"What—NO!" Grall recoiled. "Xierma is pregnant with his child."
Cassandra froze. Then:
"They're going to have a baby!?"
"CALM DOWN," Grall barked. "I don't think they even know yet. And elves carry children for two years."
She blinked. "How did you know?"
Grall tapped his bandaged eyes.
"I see through magic. Including blood."
---
Jarada
Grall found Jarada in the library, writing as though nothing in the world had shifted.
Grall seized him by the shirt and slammed him against the wall.
"You escaped me in the void," Grall hissed, breath hot in Jarada's ear. "You won't escape me here. How do I regain the Reaper's power?"
Jarada gasped, disoriented.
"What power? Grall, what are you—"
Grall slammed him again.
"The powers of the Reaper. How do I get them back?"
Jarada's eyes glazed, his head lolling as though his bones had gone soft.
"I told you…" he whispered, hands rising to Grall's wrists.
The moment he touched him, fire ripped through Grall's arms. He recoiled instinctively.
Jarada straightened, exhausted.
"It happens over time," he murmured. "That is the nature of what you are."
"Can it be sped up?"
"No." Jarada looked into him — into the part of Grall he didn't want to acknowledge.
"Not while you live."
---
Grodak
Three days later, Grodak lifted the reforged Oathkeeper into the air.
Brilliant light poured off the blade, driving the morning shadows back.
"I've finished your three swords and your armor," Grodak said, turning toward Grall, who sat slumped in the chair, hollow. "But this one…"
He ran a hand along the ridge where he'd melded the metal, pride warming his voice.
"This sword… I think it might be the best thing I've ever made."
Cassandra & Sakurako
Cassandra's hands trembled as she held the letter. The ink smeared, the hurried script slanted, but what broke her was the last line — "stay safe, mother."
The word mother struck deeper than any blade. Those children… abandoned, orphaned, tossed aside… they were her family. They were everything.
Tears blurred the parchment. Cassandra pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, trying—and failing—to steady her breathing.
Warm arms wrapped around her from behind.
Sakurako.
She didn't speak at first; she simply held Cassandra, her touch grounding her like an anchor in a storm. Cassandra leaned back into her chest, letting herself be supported. For once, she allowed herself to rely on someone else.
"You don't have to face this alone," Sakurako whispered, lips brushing lightly against Cassandra's temple.
The new breathing apparatus Grodak had forged glinted on her neck as she tilted her head, brushing soft, affectionate kisses along Cassandra's jawline. Cassandra shivered, not from desire alone but from the overwhelming relief of being seen—of being loved in a way she had believed impossible for someone like her.
Their lips met slowly, tenderly, speaking all the things neither could voice. Cassandra's hands slid around Sakurako's waist, gripping tight, as if afraid the moment might shatter.
They held each other like that for a long while—no urgency, no fear, just the quiet, desperate closeness of two souls who had survived too much to take love for granted.
Sakurako rested her forehead against Cassandra's.
"We'll face what's coming together."
And for the first time in days, Cassandra allowed herself to breathe.
---
Continuation: Grall & the Mural
Three months passed with little to break the monotony of Grall's relentless search.
He dug through collapsed archive vaults, waded through forgotten crypts, and traded favors with hermits who had bartered their sanity for knowledge. Every scrap, every rumor, every shard of stone carving—he hoarded them all, trying to understand what The Reaper truly was.
But someone else was hunting too.
Xierma's agents.
Just as relentless. Just as desperate.
More than once, Grall arrived at a ruin only to find the dust disturbed, torches still warm, footprints fading into the sand. But none of their findings mattered. The libraries of Xeno-Movia were empty of Reaper lore, wiped clean either by design or fear.
He was close to giving up.
Until he found the mural.
It was carved into the rear wall of an ancient cavern, far older than the empire that claimed ownership of the land above it. The stone itself felt… wrong. As if it hadn't been shaped by tools at all, but by intention. By power.
Grall raised a torch.
His breath caught.
The mural depicted events that had only just occurred—the fall of the Bone Market, the rising dead, the shattering of Oathkeeper. The figures were stylized, faceless, yet unmistakably familiar.
And deeper still, behind the present, were carvings showing things that had not yet happened:
A sky torn open by shadow.
A city submerged in violet flame.
A creature that resembled Grall and yet not—its body woven from swirling black mist, its hands dripping threads of fate.
At the center was a sigil he recognized instinctively, though he had never seen it before.
The mark of The Reaper.
Grall reached toward it… and the stone pulsed beneath his fingertips.
Something ancient stirred.
Something waiting.
Something watching.