Hemlock's study felt cramped with so many bodies pressed into the small space. The shelves of medicinal texts and herb bundles seemed to crowd inward as Ben Richards found himself wedged between Mark and a collection of clay pots, the familiar scent of dried wintergreen doing little to mask the tension in the air. The elder druid sat hunched over his cluttered desk, his left arm bound in a sling that couldn't quite hide the unnatural angle of his shoulder.
Borin stood near the single window, his weathered face grim in the pale morning light. Beside him, Elara kept one hand on Iska's head while the wounded snow wolf rested against her legs, the bandage around the animal's foreleg a stark reminder of the previous night's cost.
"The captain talked," Borin said without preamble, his voice rough from a sleepless night. "Took some convincing, but he broke completely once he understood what the occultist had been doing under his nose." The Ranger's jaw tightened. "Blood magic. If the Duke learned his company had harbored a practitioner..."
"He'd hang them all," Ben finished grimly. He'd seen Duke Ashworth's justice before. The man's hatred of dark magic was legendary, and for good reason.
Hemlock's fingers drummed against the desk's scarred surface, the only sign of his inner turmoil. "What else did he reveal?"
"They weren't here for gold or supplies," Borin continued, his gaze flicking toward the mounted antlers visible through the doorway. "They came for an artifact. Something specific from Oakhaven."
A heavy silence settled over the study. Ben's eyes followed Borin's glance, taking in the magnificent white antlers that dominated the main hall's hearth. Even from this distance, he could sense something significant about them—a weight that went beyond mere decoration.
"The captain's orders were simple," Borin added grimly. "Create chaos, draw out the defenders, and provide cover for the one who hired them." His expression darkened. "But here's what troubles me—the captain thought he was working for that Valerius character. Paid well, professional operation, but Valerius never struck him as the type with that kind of resources."
"You think this Valerius was working for someone else?" Mark leaned forward, his brow furrowed.
"Had to be." Borin's jaw tightened. "Nobody hires a full mercenary company and an occultist just on their own initiative. Someone with real power wanted what's in our village."
Ben shifted against the cramped wall, his expression thoughtful. "The captain also confirmed they're from Jarnborg. That's not a casual detail—it's a frontier trading city, the kind of place where you can hire muscle without too many questions asked."
"Jarnborg's three weeks' hard travel from here," Hemlock said slowly, his ancient eyes calculating. "Someone went to considerable effort to source mercenaries that far out."
"To avoid connection to local powers," Borin concluded grimly. "Hire foreigners, keep your hands clean."
Celeste cleared her throat impatiently, drawing all eyes to her. "While you're all speculating about employers, you're missing the more immediate concern." She gestured dismissively toward the main hall. "We found a sensing matrix on that Valerius's body. Blood magic, but sophisticated work."
The temperature in the small study seemed to drop several degrees.
"Meaning?" Elara asked, though her pale expression suggested she already understood.
"Meaning whoever sent them knows exactly what they're looking for," Celeste said with academic detachment. "The matrix wasn't just for general magical detection—it was specifically attuned. They didn't come here hoping to find something valuable." Her gaze flicked toward the antlers visible through the doorway. "They came because they knew precisely what was here."
Hemlock's weathered face went ashen as the full weight of Celeste's words settled over him. His uninjured hand moved slowly to cover his eyes, shoulders sagging under a burden that went far beyond his physical wounds.
"Caelus," he whispered, the name barely audible. "They came for Caelus."
The silence that followed was profound. Elara's breath caught in her throat, while Borin's jaw tightened with understanding and shared guilt.
"I should have realized," Hemlock continued, his voice thick with self-recrimination. "A Tier 2 peak beast's essence, mounted like a trophy in plain sight. Of course someone would eventually..." He looked up, his ancient eyes bright with unshed tears. "Elara. Borin. I am so deeply sorry. My pride, my sentiment—it cost us Kael."
"Teacher, no," Elara started, but Hemlock raised his good hand.
"It did. That boy died protecting what I should have hidden or destroyed years ago." The elder druid straightened with visible effort, resolve hardening his features. "No more. Baron Ashworth will learn everything—the attack, the sensing matrix, what they sought. And Caelus's remains will go with him, to the Duke's vaults where they belong."
He turned his attention to the Academy students, particularly Ben. "You three saved this village. Without your intervention, we would all be dead or worse." His voice grew formal, respectful. "I ask one more service of you—stay for the Awakening ceremony as Torsten promised." His gaze settled on the young druid. "And Mark, I would be honored to share what knowledge I can during your stay."
The murmur of voices from Hemlock's study had faded to silence by the time Alph pushed himself up from the makeshift bed near the hearth. His body protested every movement—the aftermath of his shattered core still echoing through muscles that felt like they belonged to someone else. But he couldn't lie still any longer, not with the weight of Kael's absence pressing down on him like a physical thing.
The meeting hall felt too large and too empty. Every shadow seemed to hold the memory of crimson ice, every corner whispered of things that should have been prevented. He needed air. He needed to move. He needed to find the one person who might understand the hollow ache that had nothing to do with magical exhaustion.
Alph found Finn sitting alone beneath the ancient oak, his back against the gnarled trunk where they'd spent countless afternoons. The older boy's injured ankle was stretched out before him, but he wasn't favoring it now—he was simply staring up into the bare branches above, as if searching for something that was no longer there.
"Thought you might be here," Alph said quietly, settling down beside his friend without invitation. The cold from the snow seeped through his clothes, but it felt appropriate somehow. Everything should be cold today.
Finn didn't look at him. "He was supposed to be up there," he said, his voice hollow. He gestured weakly at the thick branch above them where berry stains still marked the bark. "Throwing things at us, making Emil jump at shadows. Not..." His voice cracked. "Not saving me."
The distant thunk of an axe biting wood carried across the village—Kael's father working through his grief the only way he knew how. Each blow seemed to echo in the silence between them.
"He shoved me clear," Finn continued, the words barely a whisper. "Saw that spell coming and threw himself between it and me without even thinking. And I just... I just watched it happen."
Alph closed his eyes, feeling the familiar burn of tears he'd thought he'd already shed. "I should have been faster," he said quietly. "I saw her targeting you, saw what she was doing, and I just... wasn't fast enough."
"You froze two killers solid," Finn said, finally turning to look at him. "You saved everyone."
"After Kael was already dead." The words tasted like ash in Alph's mouth. "All that power, all those abilities, and I couldn't save him."
They sat in the growing cold, two boys who'd learned the weight of being the ones left behind.
"He always said he wanted to be remembered," Finn said after a long silence. "Not like some great hero in the stories, just... remembered. For being the kind of person who made things better." He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. "Stupid bastard got his wish, didn't he?"
Alph let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "He'd probably be insufferably smug about it if he could see us now."
"'See? Told you I was brave,'" Finn said, attempting Kael's cocky grin and failing completely. "'Bet you feel bad about all those times you called me reckless.'"
They both smiled through their tears, and for a moment, Kael felt present again—not the broken body in the hall, but the friend who'd made them laugh even when the world felt too heavy.
"I keep thinking about what I'll tell his father," Finn said quietly. "How do you explain to someone that their son died because of your twisted ankle? That if I'd been faster, if I'd been better..."
"You don't," Alph said firmly. "Because it's not true." He turned to face Finn fully. "Kael made a choice. The same choice he'd make a hundred times over, because that's who he was. Don't you dare take that away from him by making it about your ankle."
The words surprised him with their vehemence, but they felt right. True.
Finn nodded slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. They sat in companionable silence for a while longer, watching their breath mist in the cold air. Above them, the oak's bare branches creaked softly in the wind—a sound that had always meant winter's approach, but now carried something deeper.
"We should go," Alph said eventually, though neither of them moved. "People will be gathering soon."
"Yeah." Finn pushed himself to his feet, wincing slightly as weight settled on his injured ankle. He offered Alph a hand up. "Together?"
"Together," Alph agreed, accepting the help.
As they made their way back toward the village center, smoke was already rising from the carefully constructed pyre near the northern edge of Oakhaven. Figures moved around it with quiet purpose—villagers carrying offerings, Borin making final adjustments to the wood, Emil's little sister clutching her bundle of wildflowers. The Academy students stood respectfully to one side, understanding without being told that this was a moment for the community alone.
The time for words was ending. The time for farewell had come.
The entire village gathered as the sun reached its zenith, their faces etched with the kind of grief that small communities carry together. Kael lay atop the carefully constructed pyre, wrapped in his father's best furs, looking smaller somehow than he had in life. The offerings surrounded him—Borin's perfectly fletched arrow, Emil's sister's wildflowers, small tokens from every household that spoke of a boy who'd belonged to them all.
Hemlock spoke the old words, his voice carrying despite his injuries, calling on the mountain to welcome one of its own. The flames caught quickly in the dry wood, climbing skyward with a hunger that seemed almost eager. Alph watched them dance and writhe, consuming everything they touched, leaving nothing but memory and ash.
As the fire reached its peak, painting everyone's faces in shifting orange light, Alph felt something settle deep in his chest. Not peace—that might never come. But certainty. The flames that took his friend away also burned away the last of his hesitation, his doubts about the path The Shaper had revealed.
He would become strong enough. Strong enough that this would never happen again. Strong enough to protect what mattered. The horizontal constellation, the impossible training, the exponentially greater challenges—none of it mattered compared to the promise he made to the dancing flames.
When the pyre finally collapsed into glowing embers, Alph remained standing long after the others had begun to drift away, his eyes fixed on the dying light and his mind already turning toward the work that lay ahead.