Reymund's comrade sprinted ahead, eyes blazing.
"One of those elven bastards is still alive!" he shouted, drawing his sword as he charged.
"Wait—!" Reymund reached out, running after him.
The elf stood in the center of the ruined village. Her once-golden hair was matted with blood and ash, streaked with the grime of battle until its true color was nearly lost. Her clothes, tattered and burned, fluttered weakly in the wind that carried the stench of death.
The soldier didn't slow. He roared as he lunged forward—only for the elf to slip aside, her movements graceful, deliberate. In one swift motion, her blade flashed, and his head fell clean from his shoulders.
The woman exhaled quietly, almost tiredly, then wiped the blood from her sword with a folded cloth.
Reymund stopped several paces away, his face grim.
The battle is over. There's no need to fight anymore...
But the elf kicked the man's severed head toward him like a ball. It rolled to Reymund's boots, its dead eyes still locked in fury.
You couldn't just let it go, could you? he thought bitterly. She wasn't the one who killed our comrades...
Reymund stooped, lifting the head by the hair. He walked toward the fallen body. The elf stood beside it, silent, watching.
He raised one hand, palm open—a gesture of peace. A weary smile forced itself onto his lips.
"It'd be a shame," he said softly, "if his family couldn't give him a proper burial."
The elf's expression didn't change, but she gave a small nod. Reymund bent down, lifted the body, and began to drag it aside.
Then, her voice came—measured and calm, yet carrying something deeper. "Do you not seek revenge?"
"I do," Reymund answered without turning.
"But not against you."
She arched an eyebrow. "Then who?"
"The ones who sit above all this," Reymund said, his tone sharpening. "The ones who treat this war like a game—while my comrades rot in the mud as its byproducts."
"And who might they be?"
"It doesn't matter. The Convergence has begun. The king is a good man. The elves will not be mistreated."
"How can you be so sure?" she asked quietly. "And what will you do if you're wrong?"
Reymund froze.
What would I do? Could I do anything?
No.
Even if I can't… I must try. Mother tried, didn't she?
And she was killed for it.
Cecilus tried too. Strongest man I ever knew—and he failed.
Would it make any difference if I stepped forward now?
The elf waited in silence, then spoke again, her voice trembling slightly.
"Tell me, human… what reason do I have not to kill you where you stand? My family is gone. Their bodies lie scattered and burned, their spirits silenced. Tell me—why does your life deserve to exist, when my anger demands your blood?"
Reymund began to laugh. It started as a quiet chuckle and built into a raw, unrestrained sound that echoed through the ruins. It was laughter stripped of all sanity—yet not madness, only release. The first real laugh he'd let himself have in years.
"What's so funny?" the elf asked warily.
"My puny life doesn't deserve to exist," Reymund said between breaths. "That's the joke. Do you think I want this war? My term's been over for months, but I stay here, rotting in this hell. I don't have the courage to go home—to face my brother, or the house I grew up in.
"I sit here, afraid, watching elves die. My best friend was killed because I was too afraid to help him." His voice cracked. "You want to know who I seek revenge against? Strike me down, elf! Because the man I hate most is myself. I should've died years ago."
Reymund sank to his knees, shoulders trembling.
I can't do anything. Even my father's death wasn't my doing—it was Cecilus's. I couldn't even stand beside him when it mattered.
The elf's expression softened. "I don't want to kill you."
"What?" he asked, lifting his head. "What happened to your anger?"
"It's obvious you don't care that I'm an elf," she said.
"I don't," Reymund murmured. "I just want the bloodshed to end."
"Then prove it," she said firmly. "When the time comes—show me that you mean it."
She lifted her sword, pressing the tip gently against his shoulder. Her gaze was sharp, but not hostile.
"Prove it, royal."
Reymund's eyes widened.
Cecilus… is this what I was meant to find? Is this the purpose you left behind?
If the king falls, will I be ready?
He reached up, taking her offered hand, and rose to his feet.
"I never introduced myself," he said, smiling faintly despite the weight in his chest. "My name is Reymund. Reymund Ascension."
The elf's expression softened. "Mine is Yeldove Crow."
She smiled—a small, genuine smile that seemed almost out of place amidst the desolate landscape.
"I hope the world truly changes, as you said."
Reymund nodded. "I hope so too."
***
Years later.
The world did change—or tried to.
News spread across the continent: a royal was marrying a high-ranking member of an elven tribe.
Reymund stood before the altar, watching as the priest recited their vows. Yeldove had only agreed to settle down because of his promise—his vow to ensure that the Convergence would endure.
He meant it.
The ceremony was crowded. Nobles and strangers filled the hall—many of the same who had once ignored his existence. Even his mother's indifferent relatives attended, smiling as though they hadn't abandoned him. His younger brother Huon stood among them beside their stepmother, who feigned affection well.
After the wedding, Reymund sold off half his father's estates and moved with Yeldove to the borderlands. She opened an orphanage and a school; he let her decide everything. It was her world as much as his.
When their first child was born—a son, in the dead of winter—his hair was as white as snow. His ears tapered like his mother's, and his eyes mirrored Reymund's perfectly. He didn't cry at birth. Not a sound.
He looks like me… and like Mother, Reymund thought, voice trembling as he watched the tiny chest rise and fall.
Yeldove cradled the infant gently. "Are you sure about the name?"
"Y–yes," Reymund said. "Ayas is fine. It's a wonderful name…"
The baby began to wail at that exact moment, loud and shrill.
Yeldove laughed softly. "Seems he doesn't like it. Try again, Reymund."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know—what about another elven name?"
The crying only grew louder.
Reymund closed his eyes. Is this really a tribute—or just me clinging to ghosts?
He exhaled slowly. "We'll name him Cecilus. Cecilus Crow."
The baby fell silent.
***
It only took a year for everything to fall apart.
The king was assassinated. The Convergence shattered. Chaos spread across the continent, and the elves fled the human territories once more.
Reymund's resolve was tested—and for once, he didn't run.
His son, Cecilus, was destined for greatness. The king had no heirs, and Reymund's child—half royal, half elf—stood as the perfect bridge between two worlds.
Fear still clung to him, but he finally understood what it truly was: not fear of death, but fear of failure.
Failure to meet his father's expectations.
Failure to avenge his mother.
Failure to stand by his dearest friend.
He'd failed at all of it. But not again—not this time.
A barrier cannot wage war, he reminded himself, but it can protect what one holds dear.
Years passed. He lived beside his son, through every storm of emotion—rage, fear, disappointment—but never without love.
When Cecilus revealed that he could hear thoughts, Reymund was terrified. To stand near his own child and feel exposed was unbearable.
But it didn't matter. His son succeeded where he had failed. He made the dream real.
And for Reymund, that was enough.
My life may mean nothing to the world. But if my son lives on… maybe the world will remember.
Yeldove understood more than he ever expected. She would live for centuries beyond him, but perhaps—even long after his death—she would still remember.
Maybe that will be enough.
***
The memories flooded through Cecilus's mind—the wedding, the awkward reunion, his father's sorrow over not knowing his favorite color. The final moments when Reymund tried to give up his soul. The pain, the blood, the sacrifice.
He understood now.
His father hadn't just sent memories—he'd sent a truth. The council was working with demons.
But Cecilus didn't care about that.
All that mattered was how wrong he'd been about his father.
I'm sorry, Father.
I didn't know you—not really. We didn't know each other at all.
But rest peacefully. I will save Mother.
He ran toward the exit, breath ragged, until he saw her—Marina—waiting at the doorway.