Likath stood in silence, his gaze lingering on Lulu's sleeping face.
It was not pity.
Not fear.
It was something heavier—something ancient.
A look Rolin could not read… and perhaps was never meant to.
The cavern breathed around them, the distant growl of the beast echoing like a reminder that time itself was running out.
Slowly—deliberately—Likath reached beneath his cloak.
From the shadows of his hand emerged a dagger unlike any Rolin had ever seen.
It was forged of three twisted blades, coiling around one another as if alive, meeting at a single point. It resembled not a weapon meant to slash, but one designed to bore through flesh, armor… and fate itself.
The blades were deep crimson, so dark they seemed to drink in the light.
The handle was carved from blackened wood, old and worn, wrapped in gleaming golden bands etched with symbols of forgotten wars.
From its pommel hung a thin cord, swaying gently, ending in a sigil—two crossed swords, fire rising between them, burning without warmth.
Likath held the dagger for a moment longer… then tossed it toward Rolin.
Rolin caught it, the weight of the weapon sinking into his palm far heavier than steel should allow.
Before Rolin could speak, Likath produced another item—a small metallic sphere, smooth and cold, no larger than the palm of a hand. It shimmered faintly, as if hiding something restless within.
He threw it as well.
Rolin stared at the objects, confusion tightening his chest.
"What… is this?"
No answer came.
Likath turned away.
The motion was slow, almost ceremonial, as he faced the jagged fissure ahead. With a quiet metallic whisper, he drew his swords, their blades reflecting the dim light like mirrors of an ending yet to come.
Only then did he speak.
"Take the child," he said, his voice steady as stone.
"Follow the right side of the crack. In less than an hour, you'll reach a crossroads. One path leads to the mountain's summit. The other descends… to where the knights are gathering."
Rolin's breath caught.
He understood.
Likath wasn't giving instructions.
He was saying goodbye.
"You're going to die," Rolyn said quietly.
Likath didn't deny it.
Before he could leave, Rolin forced the words out.
"Why?"
His voice trembled despite himself.
"I killed the others. I deceived you. I don't deserve this."
Likath stopped.
For a long moment, only the cavern's echo answered.
Then—
"I'm not doing this for you."
Likath didn't turn around.
"I'm doing it for her," he continued, his voice softening,
"and for something you will never understand… even if you live a thousand lifetimes."
Rolin's jaw tightened until it hurt.
"Do you really think," he growled,
"that you can kill that cursed monster?"
Likath exhaled slowly.
"I could have," he said.
"Once."
The words carried a weight Rolin didn't grasp.
He didn't ask.
Instead, he said, "Then tell me.
What is this other thing I'll never understand?"
Likath finally looked back.
In his eyes there was no fear.
No regret.
Only a calm so profound it frightened Rolin more than the beast ever could.
"…Honor."
The word fell like a verdict.
Likath turned away and walked into the darkness.
Rolin lifted Lulu into his arms, careful not to wake her. He slung the leather bag over his shoulder and moved toward the right path, while Likath's footsteps faded down the left.
Just before the shadows swallowed him, Likath's voice echoed one last time.
"Rolin Azir…"
Rolin paused.
"Beware of swords."
Rolin answered without looking back, forcing bitterness into his tone.
"Of course I will.
Who doesn't beware of swords?"
From the darkness came Likath's final reply—cold, calm, unshaken.
"fool."
And then—
Silence.