Ash.
That was all that remained.
Ash, soot, and silence.
Lord Irvin stood at the edge of the ruined town, the wind brushing the hem of his cloak as it carried the scent of charred memories. Where once children laughed and mothers called out for supper, now only whispers of ghosts remained.
He closed his eyes.
He could still hear them. The screaming. The thunder. The fire.
Renin's voice.
"Thank you… big brother."
Irvin gritted his teeth.
He had done the unthinkable. Led the hand that delivered death to his own people. To knights who had served him since youth. To the very heart of Citra.
The weight of the Empire's safety… rested on a mountain of corpses.
And he had built that mountain.
He opened his eyes.
Lucas was still there—kneeling in the ash, unmoving. The Saintess knelt beside him, her robes ruined, her hands stained with tears and blood. She hadn't said a word since dawn.
They both looked broken.
A small breeze lifted a burnt wooden doll into the air, spinning it before it fell at Irvin's feet.
Renin's toy.
Irvin knelt slowly, picking it up with trembling fingers. His knuckles went white as he clenched it to his chest.
"I chose this path…" he whispered to himself, "So that others wouldn't have to."
A voice behind him spoke—one of his generals.
"My lord… the soldiers are asking what to do next."
Irvin didn't turn around.
"Tell them to burn it again. No spores can remain. Salt the earth. Nothing must grow here for a hundred years."
"Yes, my lord."
The general hesitated.
"And the Prince…?"
"…Leave him."
Irvin finally turned. His eyes fell on Lucas, who still stared into the ashes as if time had stopped.
"He's still carrying them," Irvin said quietly. "He needs to."
The general saluted and left.
Rain began to fall again. Gentle. Unrelenting.
Irvin walked forward, past the blackened well, past the spot where Renin once stood, and placed the scorched doll gently in the earth. He covered it with a piece of cloth torn from his cloak.
A grave, even if no bodies remained.
He looked to the heavens and whispered,
"May the gods damn me instead. Let them go to peace."
And then, turning his back on the dead, he began to walk away—step by step—until only the footprints remained.
....................
Lucas returned to the capital a different man. The Saintess, too, left for the Holy Kingdom, her spirit as scarred as his. They had done the unthinkable—not out of cruelty, but out of duty. And duty demands sacrifice. Irvin, ever the seasoned commander, offered no comfort. The horrors they had endured were the burdens of rulers—wounds that must be carried in silence. Still, in the quiet recesses of his heart, Irvin wished Lucas could go back to the bright-eyed man he once was. But he knew better. Such innocence doesn't return. It only haunts.
When Lucas and the surviving knights marched through the capital gates, not a single one bore injuries. The palace staff praised them—called it a clean, flawless mission. But they were blind to the truth. There were no smiles among the knights. Only hollow eyes and dragging steps, like ghosts returning home.
Lucas delivered his report to the emperor in full, every word precise, without wasting a breath. Luna, solemn and silent, passed her report to Knight Commander Jin. As Lucas stepped out of the throne room, he found himself face to face with his older brother.
Isla stood tall, his posture as refined as ever, his expression unreadable. The light from the corridor caught the sheen of his dark armor, full of blood and stench.Nevertheless,he had returned from Dracia a hero—crowned with glory, praised by bards and nobles alike.
"You're back," Isla said simply.
Lucas nodded.
"You've changed."
"So have you," Lucas replied, his voice nearly a whisper.
For a moment, the two princes stood in silence. Then Isla gently placed a gloved hand on Lucas's shoulder—not as a prince, not even as a soldier, but as an older brother. There were no words of comfort. Isla never spoke in comfort. But Lucas understood. That touch said everything: I know. I understand. Don't blame yourself,it's simply were necessary.
Without another word, Isla turned and disappeared into the emperor's chamber.
Lucas returned to his quarters and collapsed into bed, but sleep never came. The screams, the smoke, the smiling face of a boy named Renin haunted his mind.
Days later, without announcement or fanfare, Lucas slipped from the palace. His next task awaited—this time not against plague or shadows, but the blood and steel of war.
At dawn, two banners flew high at the western gate. One bore the crest of the Empire, the other the seal of the Lord of Cintrel. Side by side, Isla and Lucas departed for the border of Cintrel and Valte.
The empire would soon bleed—but the weight of Citra still clung to Lucas. Unspoken. Unshakable.