"E-Eila...?" she whispered, her voice fracturing.
The tears spilled over her eyelashes before she could even blink. She didn't hesitate. Imara dropped to her knees beside the cot, burying her face into the heavy wool blankets as she sobbed, her hands desperately gripping Eila's arm just to prove he was real.
Eila looked down at the blonde hair burying itself into his side. The Paradox Debt was silent. His mind was his own.
He was back in the hut, with the only woman who stopped him from becoming Atelo.
_____________
Eila breathed deeply, his lungs screaming in protest as he tried to fill them with air.
He laid rigid on the bed, his fingers tangled in the heavy wool of the blanket. Beside him, Imara had buried her face into his side. Her shoulders trembled violently as she sobbed, her hands locked onto his left arm in a desperate, bruising grip, terrified that if she let go, he would slip into the dark again.
Eila stared blindly at the wooden ceiling. The suffocating silence of the Apocrypha was gone, replaced by the sharp scent of burnt mugwort and the damp smell of the spilled water pooling on the floorboards.
Then, the horrific reality of his physical body came crashing down on him.
Move, Eila commanded himself. He wanted to raise his right hand to stroke Imara's blonde hair.
Nothing happened.
He looked down. The right arm was unblemished and intact, the violent purple scars of the Paradox Debt completely erased. Yet it refused to move. It felt empty. The familiar hum of his mana circuits, the terrifying scale of the power he had once wielded... it was completely gone.
"E-Eila...?" Imara choked out, finally lifting her tear-streaked face from the blankets. Her blue eyes were bloodshot, scanning his pale face with sheer terror. "Don't move. Please, you've been unconscious for four days..."
"I know..." Eila rasped. His voice sounded like grinding stones.
He forced his left hand—the only limb that seemed to work—to cover Imara's hands. It took an agonizing amount of physical effort just to squeeze her fingers.
The heavy wooden door creaked slightly. Riko stood in the doorway. The chaotic, obnoxious energy that usually surrounded the girl was entirely absent. She held a steaming clay cup of water, her knuckles white as she gripped the ceramic. She took a careful step inside, her emerald eyes dropping to the floor.
"You're awake," she whispered, speaking more to herself than Eila.
She walked to the bedside, meticulously avoiding his gaze, and placed the cup on the small wooden table. She lingered there for a second, her hands hovering awkwardly at her sides.
"Master Orlon said it would be weeks," Riko muttered, staring intensely at a knot in the wood of the table. She shifted her weight, swallowing hard. "I... we didn't mean to..."
She trailed off, unable to form the words. The guilt of dragging the Hero of Aethelgard into a suicide mission hung heavily in the freezing air.
Eila looked at the girl. He remembered the blinding flash of the Orbash, the sheer terror in the Cinders' eyes as the explosion rushed toward them. He had made the choice to redirect the blast, fully knowing it would break him.
He slowly reached for the clay cup with his good hand, his muscles screaming in protest. The moment his fingers brushed the ceramic, his weakened grip failed. The cup tipped, sloshing hot water over the rim.
Imara instantly caught it, steadying his hand with both of hers.
Eila stared at the spilled water, the profound, humiliating reality of his weakness settling into his bones. He looked back up at Riko, his voice a hollow, exhausted whisper.
"You don't need to apologize," Eila said. Speaking took more effort than slaying demons right now. "Even monsters meet their judgement."
"I-I will go and bring Master Orlon," Riko said, quickly spinning and walking out of the room. She closed the heavy wooden door behind her.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Imara..." Eila began, the word scraping painfully against his dry throat. "Do you..."
He couldn't finish. The sheer exhaustion of trying to formulate a sentence felt like lifting boulders. Imara simply shook her head, leaning forward to rest her forehead gently against his dead, unmoving right arm. She didn't need him to speak.
Heavy, uneven footsteps echoed in the hall. The door creaked open.
Grand Mage Orlon stepped into the room. He leaned heavily on Kian's shoulder, his frail frame looking as though a strong gust of wind would shatter his bones. But his eyes; deep, sunken, and terrifyingly sharp, locked instantly onto Eila. The rest of the Cinders filed in silently behind him.
Imara quickly wiped her eyes, stepping back to give the Grand Mage space.
Orlon did not offer a greeting. He limped to the edge of the mattress, his gaze dropping to Eila's unblemished, paralyzed right arm.
"The Apocrypha?" Orlon whispered. It was the grim recognition of a fellow survivor.
Eila gave a fraction of a nod. He still wasn't sure if the infinite white station or the azure room he had visited matched the ancient texts, but the sheer gravity of it matched the terror in the old mage's eyes.
Orlon reached out with a trembling, age-spotted hand and pressed it flat against Eila's chest, directly over his heart.
No incantation was spoken. A dim, pulsating red glow seeped from Orlon's palm. The magic pushed into Eila's veins, but there was no warmth. It felt like cold water pouring into a hollow bucket. Eila gritted his teeth as the intruding mana hit the dead ends of his circuits.
The red glow flickered and died. Orlon dropped his hand.
The room held its breath.
"Well?" Kaito asked, his arms crossed tight as he leaned against the doorframe.
Orlon slowly turned his head to Imara, and then looked down at Eila. The profound pity in the old man's eyes was infinitely worse than a death sentence.
"They are not merely burnt," Orlon rasped, his voice brittle. "The Poena Discordiae—better known as the Paradox Debt—has scorched the very bedrock of your pathways. Your physical vessel survived the toll, Eila, but your circuits have been reduced to mere whispers. You are, for all it matters... a mortal."
Eila offered a slow nod. Speaking had become too taxing. He just lay back against the soft pillow, letting the silence swallow the room. Orlon and the CINDERS quietly filed out, closing the door behind them and leaving him alone with Imara.
They didn't speak. Imara simply sat beside him, holding his right hand in both of hers, her eyes fixed on his knuckles. Eila lay quiet, staring at the ceiling.
___________
It was the dead of night.
Imara had finally succumbed to a deep sleep in the chair beside his cot, her body giving out after days of relentless anxiety and continuous healing magic.
Eila could not sleep.
The physical wounds of Kaelen's assault had closed, knit together by Imara's desperate healing magic, but his body felt impossibly heavy. He threw the wool blanket off and carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet hit the floorboard.
He tried to stand. His knees instantly buckled.
Eila caught himself against the wooden bedside table, his breath hissing through his teeth as raw agony spiked up his calves. He was weak. Terrifyingly weak. Refusing to stay in the bed, he dragged himself forward, leaning heavily against the wall, using the rough timber to keep himself upright as he limped out of the room.
The safehouse was dead silent, save for the rhythmic snores drifting from Kian and Kaito's room.
Eila reached the front door. He unlatched the heavy iron lock and pushed it open, letting the crisp night wind wash over his sweat-drenched face. He stumbled out onto the frost-covered grass, his legs trembling violently under his own weight.
He looked up.
The sky was a sprawling, infinite canvas of absolute black, pierced by millions of brilliant, icy stars. He had slept under this exact sky a thousand times during the border wars, yet he had always been too busy sharpening his sword or waiting for the demon horns to ever truly look at it.
His eyes locked onto the brightest point in the sky. The North Star.
You burn too, he thought, the silence ringing in his ears. Do you set yourself on fire just to trick the world into thinking the dark isn't absolute? Or do you do it to convince yourself you matter?
The star shimmered, indifferent and cold. Eila's mouth twitched into a bitter smile.
Go ahead and mock me. I'm just another fool in a long line of them, thinking I could illuminate the dark. But look at you. You've been fighting the dark for eons, and for what? It's a futile war. The dark always wins the moment you run out of fuel.
Eila raised his right hand, pointing his index finger toward the silhouette of a nearby tree. His chest tightened.
If you were created only to burn, he thought, eyes narrowing at the star, then the greatest defiance is to simply go out. Let the dark have its victory. At least then, you could finally rest.
Eila raised his right hand. His arm violently trembled, the muscles protesting the simple movement. He pointed his index finger toward the dead oak tree at the edge of the clearing.
He was the Hero of Aethelgard. The void could not take that from him.
"IGNIS MYTH: NIMPO."
He waited for the searing, concentrated heat to flood his veins. He waited for the familiar, comforting roar of his mana circuits igniting.
Nothing.
A sickening, hollow vacuum seized his chest. The dead circuits violently rejected the command. The spark failed to catch, instead rebounding directly into his own internal organs like a physical shockwave.
Eila's eyes went wide. His lungs violently contracted.
He collapsed to his hands and knees in the freezing frost, violently vomiting a thick, black torrent of blood onto the grass. He gagged, his body convulsing as the agonizing truth finally set in. He couldn't even summon a spark.
"EILA!"
The wooden door slammed open. Imara sprinted into the freezing night, dropping to her knees in the frost beside him. She desperately wrapped her arms around his trembling, convulsing shoulders, pressing her warm hand flat against his spine. A frantic surge of soothing, blue mana flooded his back, desperately trying to stabilize his violently shivering body.
Eila stared down at his own dark blood steaming against the winter frost.
The star continued to burn above him.