The sun hung low in the late-summer sky, spilling copper and gold across the treeline as Kael adjusted their stance. Sweat clung to their brow, the warm air thick with the scent of pine sap and earth. The small clearing, just beyond the reach of the academy's barrier, had become a secret training ground for those who wanted freedom from watchful eyes and the layers of enforced safety spells.
Rys stretched his arms out beside Kael, grinning the way he always did before throwing himself into something reckless. "No wards, no instructors, no limiters. Just us and whatever we can push ourselves to do."
"Which means no excuses either," muttered Lira, a slender second-year whose illusions had a habit of unraveling under pressure. She gave a pointed look at Kael, though there was no malice behind it—just the kind of teasing that had become familiar over the months.
Kael smirked faintly but said nothing. Their focus lingered on Rys. For all the rough edges, Rys seemed brighter here—lighter—without the structure of the academy hemming him in. He was the kind of person who thrived under pressure, but without rules to keep him contained, his energy spilled over like wildfire.
The group of six divided naturally: Kael and Rys at the center, sparring against each other to test strength and adaptability; Lira and another illusionist weaving distractions from the edges; two others—Bren and Sathi—alternating between offense and defense drills.
Kael lunged, testing the new weight distribution of their weapon. Rys countered effortlessly, his blade ringing against Kael's in a sharp arc of steel. Sparks flickered between them, not magical—just the scrape of metal meeting metal with real force.
"You're slower today," Rys said between strikes, teasing. His smile widened as Kael pressed back harder, trying to wipe the grin from his face with sheer pressure.
"Or you're too reckless," Kael shot back, though the words came with a faint laugh.
The rhythm of combat blurred into something almost playful, but with a dangerous edge. Every strike mattered more outside the academy's barrier, where no safety enchantments softened a blow gone wrong. Even sparring cuts would sting, bruise, bleed. It was why their group came here: to remind themselves what real combat felt like.
From the side, Bren called out, "Careful not to kill each other before the tournament. That'd be a waste."
Rys tilted his head back and laughed, the sound carrying through the clearing, catching in the summer-warm air. He didn't slow, didn't let up—if anything, his movements grew sharper, more daring.
Kael steadied their breathing and pressed forward again. They could feel the edge of something coming—an undercurrent neither of them could name—but for now, it was just the clash of steel and the fire in Rys's eyes, blazing bright against the fading sun.
---
The clang of steel rang once more, but before either Kael or Rys could reset, the ground beneath them trembled. At first, it was subtle, like the shift of a heavy cart rolling past in the distance.
"...Did you feel—" Bren began, but the words broke as the earth groaned, deep and guttural.
The tremor sharpened. Stones rattled loose from the treeline, the soil cracking underfoot. Rys faltered a step, blade dipping. Then, without warning, a sharp report split the clearing—a thunderous crack from below.
Kael's ears rang as a bloom of earth and flame erupted almost directly beneath Rys. The blast threw Kael backward, their body slamming against the ground with enough force to drive the air from their lungs.
The world became sound and heat. A roar of fire. A shuddering quake. A choking haze of smoke and dust.
When Kael forced their eyes open, their vision swam. Lira lay crumpled a few paces away, clutching at her leg. Bren staggered to his feet, half-burned along one side. Sathi was coughing, blood streaking her lips.
And Rys—
Rys had taken the brunt of it.
His form lay twisted at the heart of the blast's crater, armor charred, skin blackened along his arm and side. He was still conscious—barely—but the sound of his breath was wet, ragged, already failing.
"RYS!" Kael's voice tore from their throat as they dragged themselves forward, ignoring the screaming protest of their own bruised ribs.
One figure moved freely: Jalen, the only one spared from the blast's reach by sheer chance of position. Without hesitation, he sprinted toward Rys, scooping him up with a grim efficiency.
"We don't have time—he won't last here!" Jalen barked, already running toward the distant road that led to the nearest clinic.
Kael tried to follow, legs trembling, vision narrowing. The last thing they saw before the haze pulled at their edges was Rys's face—pale beneath the soot and blood, his eyes barely open, locked on Kael for just a heartbeat—before Jalen carried him away, faster than anyone else could keep pace.
The clearing still smoked, fire licking at the fractured earth. Kael's hands shook as they braced against the ground, the taste of ash sharp on their tongue.
They already knew.
Something had broken far deeper than the earth.
---
The clinic's doors slammed open under Jalen's shoulder. He staggered inside with Rys limp in his arms, Kael stumbling in just moments later with the others half-dragging themselves behind.
"He's critical!" Jalen's voice was raw, urgent. "Help him—now!"
The healers rushed forward, hands already glowing with practiced light. They laid Rys out across a long, low cot, the air thick with the scent of charred flesh and smoke.
Kael gripped the edge of the cot, throat tight. He could see it in the healers' eyes before they said a word—their gestures too frantic, their spells too desperate.
The eldest healer finally looked up, her hands trembling.
"The damage… it's too deep. The lungs are seared, the heart torn from the shockwave. We can ease his pain—but not save him."
Kael's chest caved inward. A ringing filled their ears.
"No… no, do something else—anything else! He's not—"
Rys's hand shifted, weak but deliberate, searching. Kael caught it instantly, clutching it as though they could anchor him in the world by force alone.
His lips cracked as he spoke, voice no louder than a breath. "Kael…"
Kael leaned in, tears burning down their ash-streaked face. "I'm here. I'm here, Rys. Hold on. Please."
A faint, pained smile tugged at Rys's lips. "You… always were stubborn." He coughed, crimson staining his teeth. "…Guess I… won't see the tournament with you."
"Don't say that. We'll get through it—together. Just like always." Kael's words broke, desperation clawing at their throat.
Rys's gaze softened, his grip weak but insistent. "Don't… stop. Promise me… you'll keep going. Live, Kael. Live for both of us."
The healers had drawn back now, quiet shadows along the walls, leaving the two of them in the dim glow.
Kael shook their head, voice shattering. "I can't—"
"You can." His final words came slowly, shaped with what strength he had left. "I… love you."
His hand went slack.
The world froze.
Kael pressed their forehead to his chest, the silence deafening as the warmth faded beneath their touch. A raw, guttural sound tore from their throat, filling the stillness where Rys's breath had been.
The healers lowered their heads. Jalen stood in the doorway, fists clenched, unable to meet Kael's eyes.
The ember of Rys's life had gone out—leaving only smoke, and the hollow ache of everything unsaid.
---
The clinic smelled of steam and linen and the sharp, antiseptic tang of burns. Kael sat on the edge of the cot long after the healers had washed hands and bowed out of the small curtained room, their fingers still wrapped around Rys's cold ones. The world beyond the curtained doorway was a blur of motion—murmured condolences, the clatter of trays, a dozen small tasks moving like clockwork—but inside that narrow island everything was still, as if the air itself refused to move.
Hands tried to reach them.
Lira's palm settled on Kael's shoulder, tentative, firm. Bren muttered something about getting fresh air and stronger sleeves and which herbs to fetch. Jalen stood pressed against the wall, jaw clenched, unable to say his name out loud in the room where Rys had last been. Sathi hovered with the polite awkwardness of someone unsure whether to speak or to leave them in peace.
"I should tell them myself," Kael whispered, head bowed so the others could not watch the lines of their face break. "I have to tell them."
"You can't do it alone," Lira said, but she didn't step back when Kael pulled away. That quiet consent carried meaning. Kael's legs were steady enough; they rose, straightened, and left the curtain's shelter as if stepping through water.
Outside, the waiting area was a soft confusion of faces—students, a few teachers, and a scattering of acquaintances who'd come because the clearing was known and people came to the clinic in bursts. Kael's hands trembled as they moved through the crowd, but their posture was deliberate. They did not reach for a carriage or a messenger; they did something harsher, something raw: they reached into the only trick they could summon instantly.
No phones. No instantaneous mail. Only the old, awkward magic Kael had learned to shape with sound and intention: a one-way voice cast, a transmission that could carry words across distance without reply. It was a spell they'd only used in tests before—never for urgency, never for grief.
They steadied themselves against a pillar and spoke the haiku they had memorized like a prayer, the foreign cadence of its lines lifting into the cold air.
Bridge this distant light.
Carry my voice to his sight.
Hold him through the night.
To anyone else the lines were a strange chant—soft, precise, a foreign rhythm wrapped in syllables—something they might guess was a spell but not understand. The healers glanced up at Kael, their hands still stained with soot and ointment, and the room hummed for a breath.
Then, clean and plain as if read by a messenger in the doorway, words flowed into the aether and landed where they were intended. The language that came through was the local tongue—simple, immediate, a letter made voice.
"Father," Kael said into the void in the voice that carried, "it's Kael. You must come—don't send anyone; come yourself if you can. Rys is gone. There's nothing you can do for him now but be here for me. I don't know all the words. I am sorry. I am so sorry. He asked me to live. I promised. I don't know how to do that yet. Please—come. I need you."
The message dispersed. Kael's throat closed as if someone had folded it in. They did not know how long it would take; the spell moved in a way that was not measured by hours. It simply carried the sound where it needed to go and stopped. Around Kael, people looked uncomfortable and reverent. The healers averted their eyes; the students clustered and whispered; Jalen's shoulders sagged in a way that showed he'd heard the part meant for the father even if he could not reply.
Kael's chest heaved; there was no rehearsal in this. For a heartbeat they stood there, hollow, as if every bone had been emptied of everything but the shape of sorrow. Then, because grief is not finished with practicalities, they breathed again and spoke another haiku—same cadence, same anchor—and sent another voice.
Bridge this distant light.
Carry my voice to his sight.
Hold him through the night.
This time the words that followed were for Rys's parents, and Kael shaped each syllable with a clarity that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with a heart that would not let the news be softened by distance.
"Mrs. and Mr. Halden," Kael said plainly, "this is Kael Adair. I am the one who was with Rys. He is gone. I am so sorry. There is nothing you could have done. He died suddenly, in an accident outside the academy protections. He was conscious at the end; he said he loved me and he asked me to live. I will be at the academy clinic until you arrive. There are things to be done—arrangements. Please come."
Their voice broke around the last sentence and they swallowed. They had given what they could in that one-directional way: the facts, the place, the plea. They had no right to demand how anyone grieved, only to make sure the people who needed to know did.
A hundred gestures of condolence followed—hands on shoulders, murmured names, offers to fetch water or to carry them back to the dorm. Kael declined them all, only because the silence in their chest felt like a necessary weight they needed to carry alone for a while. They sat again at the edge of the cot and let the world pass in small, clumsy acts. Jalen paced and then, after a long, braced hour, returned with news that Rys's parents were on their way and that Kael's own father had said he would leave at once.
"You did the right thing," Lira said quietly, sitting across from Kael, both of them watching the thin line where light fell across the cot. "You told them. You didn't wait."
Kael let the words lie on the small table between them. Telling them had been a kind of obedience to the practical: someone had to do it. But the ancient, small, private grief lingered nonetheless—the memory of Rys's hand searching for theirs, the final slackening of fingers, the quiet imperative. "Live," Rys had said. The echo of that command now sat in Kael's chest like a stone.
They stood later to move through the motions: there were forms to fill, the clinic director's gentle hands to accept signatures, a quiet procession to the hall where Rys's friends gathered and where news would be shared with those who needed to attend the farewell. People began to arrive—those who had been Rys's friends from home, ragged veterans of past skirmishes who had known him in a life before the academy, parents who came sweating from distant roads with faces lined by worry. The studio of grief gathered itself like a practiced storm.
When the first of the parents arrived, pale and exhausted and pressed with questions, Kael found them not with the spell or with the formality of official notices but with the hammered truth and the spare syntax of someone shorn of ceremony.
"I told them," Kael murmured later, voice raw. "I told them as soon as I could. I wanted them here."
Rys's mother gripped Kael's hands so tightly that the bones ached, but there was no anger in her face—only a hollowing sorrow and a hard, fierce love laid bare. "You were there," she said simply. "We know. We are so grateful you held him."
Kael bowed their head, not because of duty but because of the unnameable relief that came when innocence met forgiveness. The parent's words were a kind of balm—uneasy, messy, but true. It did not erase anything. It only made the space where Rys had been slightly less raw.
That night, Kael sat alone long after the lights in the clinic dimmed. The world outside moved, people breathing, trains or carts or distant voices on the roads. Inside, the small, private grief pulsed steady and deep. Yet somewhere beneath the ache there was the ember of Rys's last request: live. It was not a command Kael could answer yet. But hearing it from another's mouth, receiving the forgiveness of parents, feeling the small, practical order of notifying and receiving—these things, oddly, began to make a path through the impossible.
When the day finally folded into a hush, Kael pressed their forehead to the cooling cot and let the tears come. The support of friends had not fixed it. It had only held the shape of the wound while the rest of the world kept breathing. They would need to learn how to carry Rys inside them—how to honor the boy who laughed too loudly, who fought too fiercely, who had asked them to keep going. The first step, they realized with a terrible clarity, was simply to keep moving.
And so Kael rose, shoulders set, and took the errands the night still allowed—small, necessary acts that marked the beginning of a new life built on the memory of someone lost. The path would be long. The first footsteps were the hardest.
The great hall was draped in muted colors, neither entirely solemn nor celebratory, as though the Academy itself struggled to find the right balance between grief and remembrance. Candles floated along the edges of the room, casting soft halos of light that flickered against high stone walls. Long tables had been pushed back to leave space for students and guests to gather, and above them hung banners embroidered not with the Academy's crest, but with a simple sigil: a small flame cupped in two hands. A symbol chosen for Rys.
Kael stood near the center, their hands still raw from fidgeting, restless since dawn. They had barely slept since Rys's death, each hour blurring into the next, yet here they were—expected to speak, to endure, to smile when others approached. Their chest ached with every breath, but Kael forced themselves to keep standing, shoulders squared, because Rys would have teased them mercilessly if they slouched.
The first to approach Kael were students from the Academy. Some had sparred with Rys, others had simply shared meals with him, but all seemed marked by his absence. They spoke of his jokes, the way he filled silences with absurd metaphors, the reckless gleam in his eyes when a challenge was offered. One girl, her voice trembling, recalled how Rys once spent an entire afternoon trying to cheer her after she'd failed an exam, crafting increasingly ridiculous impressions until she laughed despite herself.
Kael listened, nodding, their lips twitching once or twice in reluctant memory. But every laugh caught in their throat, weighted down by the reality that these were fragments of a life already finished.
Mirek came next. He clasped Kael's shoulder with the quiet gravity of a man who had buried comrades before. "He was reckless," Mirek admitted, "but his heart was never in the wrong place. Don't let yourself forget that, Kael."
"I won't," Kael murmured, voice low, steady. "It's… it's all I can hold onto."
As the evening deepened, the crowd shifted. Rys's parents arrived, faces drawn but dignified. His mother's eyes were rimmed with red, though she held herself with the strength of someone who had promised not to weep in public. His father carried a wooden box—Rys's first adventuring token, Kael realized, the one they had both received years ago when they registered together.
Kael's heart clenched. Memories tumbled forward: two boys—one loud, one quiet—arguing over who would slay the first beast, only to trip over each other in their eagerness. Long nights by campfires, Rys teasing Kael for staring too seriously at the stars. Childhood dares by the riverbank, Kael warning against danger while Rys leapt anyway.
Rys's father pressed the token into Kael's palm. "He would want you to have this," the man said. His voice shook only slightly. "Not as a burden. As a reminder that he walked beside you every step."
Kael swallowed hard. "I don't… I don't deserve it."
"You do." His mother's voice was soft but unyielding. "We know what happened. We know you tried. None of this was your fault."
The words cracked something inside Kael. For days, a quiet, gnawing guilt had lingered—if only they'd been faster, stronger, more careful. But here, from the people who had lost the most, came absolution. Kael bowed his head, tears slipping free at last. "Thank you," they whispered. "I'll carry him with me."
Kael's father, Joren, stepped forward from the gathered crowd. His presence was a calm weight, as steady as the earth beneath their feet. He embraced Kael briefly, an unspoken exchange of strength. When he finally spoke, his words were meant for all: "Rys was family to us, long before the Academy. He grew up alongside my child, and his laughter filled our home as much as theirs. Tonight, we grieve. But tomorrow, we remember that he lived as he chose—bravely, fully, without regret."
Silence followed, heavy but reverent. Then, slowly, music rose: not mournful, but gentle, carrying the cadence of rivers and campfires and home. Students and guests lit candles one by one, placing them in the center of the hall until a small sea of flames flickered, casting warmth into the shadows.
Kael stepped forward, holding their own candle. For a moment, their hand trembled, the flame wavering dangerously. But then they steadied, and set it down among the rest. The sight caught them—the collective glow, each light representing someone touched by Rys's presence.
They felt the ache in their chest shift, not lessened but reshaped. Pain and love woven together, inseparable.
The night stretched on. People shared food, stories, even laughter—soft at first, then freer as memory overtook sorrow. Kael moved among them, listening, speaking when words were required. With each recollection, Rys became less a wound and more a part of them, not gone but carried forward.
When the final candle guttered low, Kael found themselves outside, the cool night air biting against their skin. Stars glittered above, sharp and unyielding, and Kael tilted their head back, whispering, "You'd probably say something about how the constellations look like a drunk beast stumbling home."
The wind rustled, and Kael almost imagined a laugh carried on it.
They smiled, a small, fractured thing. But for the first time since the accident, it didn't feel impossible.
---
Kael's room was quiet when they returned, too quiet after the hum of voices and the flicker of candlelight that had filled the hall. The door shut with a soft click, cutting away the faint music that still lingered from the celebration below. The silence pressed in, and for the first time all day, Kael allowed themselves to sink against the wall, sliding down until they sat on the floor.
The wooden box Rys's father had given them rested in Kael's lap. They opened it carefully, reverently, revealing the small adventuring token. Simple, unadorned, just a sliver of carved stone inscribed with a symbol of their shared youth. Kael ran their thumb along its ridges, memories stirring like embers in ash.
They thought of Rys's grin after his first victory, his indignant protests when Kael dragged him away from danger, the way he'd always managed to turn even exhaustion into laughter. The ache was sharp, but now there was also warmth—pain braided with gratitude.
Kael exhaled slowly. "I don't know how to do this without you." The words were quiet, not meant for anyone but the shadows of the room.
They rose and set the token gently on the desk. Then, after a moment's hesitation, they pulled parchment from a drawer and lit a single lamp. Writing felt impossible—the words never seemed enough—but Kael needed to leave some mark of this day, some thread to hold onto. Their hand trembled as they began:
Rys, you were reckless. You were stubborn. You never listened, not once. But you were also the first to stand beside me, and the last to leave when I faltered. I will carry you forward, even when I can't carry myself. That's the promise I'll keep.
When Kael finished, they folded the page carefully, tucking it into the box beside the token. A private vow.
The room still felt heavy, though, weighted with all that had been left unsaid. Kael thought of their father—how Joren had stood tall at the celebration, steady for Kael when Kael felt ready to break. He had spoken of Rys as family, and Kael knew the words were true.
Kael whispered, "He deserves to hear me once more."
They stood and began shaping the spell. Words rose in rhythm, their cadence tight, rhymes locking each line to the next.
"Winds that weave the night,
carry forth my voice in flight,
guide it true to light."
The air stirred faintly, a ripple that shimmered outward, invisible but certain. Kael closed their eyes and spoke, knowing Joren would hear though no reply would come:
"Father… thank you. For being there, for speaking when I could not. You made me stronger tonight, even when I felt broken. I don't know how to move forward yet, but I will. I'll honor Rys the way he deserves, and I'll stand the way you taught me. Please don't worry more than you must—I'll endure."
The spell faded with a soft sigh, leaving the room quiet again. Kael lowered their hand, chest tight but a little lighter.
They turned toward the window. Outside, the Academy grounds lay silver under the moonlight. Training fields, stone walkways, distant towers—all the same as they had been yesterday, and yet nothing felt unchanged.
Kael pressed their forehead against the cool glass. "You're not here anymore, but… somehow you are. Everywhere."
For a long time they stood that way, letting the silence wrap around them. Eventually, exhaustion pressed heavier than grief, and Kael moved to the bed. They sat on its edge, fingers laced together, staring at the floorboards until the lines blurred.
Then, quietly, Kael whispered a final thought to the dark: "Goodnight, Rys. I'll see you in the morning sun."
When sleep came, it was fragile but real. And though Kael dreamed of fire and broken stone, they also dreamed of laughter—bright and unyielding, echoing through fields where two children once ran side by side.
For the first time since the accident, Kael's heart did not feel entirely hollow. The wound was still raw, but there was a sense that healing might be possible, not now, not soon, but someday.
The last ember had dimmed—but it had not gone out.