The One Who Should Not Return
His words hadn't finished echoing when the guards arrived.
Three of them—royal cloak, harmonic insignia, pulseblades half-drawn. They emerged from the treeline like the forest itself had sent them.
Kaelen turned sharply, instinct flaring. "No—he's not—!"
"Drop your weapon!" the first guard barked.
A younger voice. Fast hands. Eyes scanning the Riftborn corpses still fading into static ash.
"Back from what?" another shouted. "He's unregistered—masked, cloaked, carrying resonance! We saw the glyph spike!"
The third didn't speak.
She just stared at Zephryn.
Her blade lowered slowly.
Her breath caught like she'd seen a ghost.
Or worse—like she'd been waiting to see one.
Kaelen stepped forward, pulseguard half-raised. "He's not the enemy."
Yolti moved beside him. "He saved the entire village."
But the guards didn't relax.
Because Zephryn still hadn't moved.
Not since the mask dropped.
Not since his name burned its way back into the open air.
He just stood there. Watching.
Like someone who didn't trust what time had done while he was gone.
"…Zephryn?"
The third guard finally spoke. Her voice cracked.
Kaelen blinked. "You… know him?"
The woman dropped to her knees.
She took one step forward and bowed her head.
"I watched you fall. I saw your mother's house burn. You're supposed to be dead."
He didn't answer.
Because dead things don't speak.
Not until the world gives them a reason to come back.