The fortress was silent.
Not the silence of peace.
The silence of grief.
Of exhaustion so deep that even celebration felt wrong.
Arden lay in the medical ward, his left arm reattached through Elara's bloodline healing.
His left eye back in its socket, though his vision through it remained blurry.
His throat bandaged, voice returning slowly—rough and painful.
But alive.
He stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep despite the exhaustion.
Roy is dead.
The thought kept repeating.
Over and over.
I watched him die. Watched him sacrifice himself. And I couldn't stop it.
Outside his room, he could hear soldiers moving quietly.
Speaking in hushed tones.
The fortress that had been so alive with defiant energy now felt like a tomb.
Victory felt hollow when bought with so much blood.
The door opened.
Michel entered, carrying a tray with food and water.
His usual cheer was absent.
"You should eat," he said quietly, setting the tray on the bedside table.
Arden tried to speak.
His voice came out as a harsh whisper: "How many?"
Michel was quiet for a long moment.
"Of the two hundred who charged? Fifty-three survived. One hundred and forty-seven dead."
The numbers hit like physical blows.
"Wire Knights lost thirty-one. Eastern Rangers lost forty-two. Kar'eth cavalry lost seventy-four." Michel's voice was flat, reciting facts. "In total, including the siege defense and the charge... Kar'eth lost two hundred and eighteen soldiers."
Two hundred and eighteen.
More than a quarter of the garrison.
"The Berserker army collapsed completely after the Overlord died," Michel continued. "War Essence sustaining them failed. Most died instantly. The survivors fled into the mountains. We're still hunting stragglers."
Arden closed his eyes.
Something inside him snapped.
"You could have saved them."
Michel paused.
"What?"
"YOU COULD HAVE SAVED THEM!" Arden's voice cracked as he shouted, throat burning. "You're a fifth-stage Transcendent! Peak fifth stage! You could have killed the Overlord yourself!"
He forced himself to sit up despite the pain, glaring at Michel with tears streaming down his face.
"Roy didn't have to die! Those one hundred and forty-seven soldiers didn't have to die! You could have used your domain from the start! Ended it in minutes!"
Michel's expression didn't change.
Remained calm.
Almost clinical.
"Yes. I could have."
The simple admission made Arden's anger flare hotter.
"Then WHY?! Why did you let them die?!"
"Because I wanted to see how far you would go," Michel said, his voice still flat. "How much pressure you could withstand before breaking. And it worked—you touched fifth stage. Manifested an incomplete domain. Wounded an immortal."
He looked directly at Arden.
"That was valuable. Worth the cost."
"WORTH THE COST?!" Arden tried to stand, fell back on the bed. "Roy is DEAD! One hundred and forty-seven people are DEAD! And you're talking about VALUE?!"
"Yes." Michel's voice remained steady. "I'm a Transcendent. I see patterns. Possibilities. Outcomes. And sometimes, those outcomes require sacrifice."
"They were PEOPLE!"
"They were soldiers. They knew what they signed up for. They understood the risks when they volunteered for that charge."
Michel's eyes were cold now.
"Roy's death? That, I regret. He was interesting. Worthy and I liked him. His sacrifice method was innovative, and I genuinely respected him as a combatant."
He paused.
"But the others? Frankly, Arden, I didn't see value in most of them. Competent soldiers, yes. But nothing exceptional. Nothing that couldn't be replaced."
The words hit Arden like physical blows.
"You... you're a monster."
"I'm a Transcendent," Michel corrected. "There's a difference. When you've lived as long as I have, seen as many wars, as many deaths... individual lives start to blur. They start to resemble pieces on a board."
He sat in the chair beside the bed.
"I'm sorry Roy died. Genuinely. He impressed me. And I'm sorry you had to suffer. But the one hundred and forty-six others?" He shook his head. "They were necessary sacrifices for your growth. For the mission's success. For data I needed."
Arden stared at him with horror and rage.
"Get out."
"Arden—"
"GET OUT!" His voice cracked, throat screaming in pain. "Get out before I try to kill you! I don't care if you're fifth stage! GET OUT!"
Michel stood slowly.
Studied Arden for a long moment.
"You'll understand eventually. When you become a Transcendent yourself. When you have to make choices between individual lives and greater outcomes."
He walked to the door.
Paused.
"Roy's death genuinely bothers me. He had potential. I would have preferred to see how far he could develop. The others... were always expendable. That's the truth you'll have to accept eventually."
He left.
The door closing softly.
Arden sat alone, shaking with rage and grief and horror.
He let them die. On purpose. For an experiment.
Roy died for an experiment.
One hundred and forty-seven people died because Michel wanted to see what I could do under pressure.
He wanted to scream.
To break something.
To hurt Michel the way Michel's words had hurt him.
But he just sat there.
Crying.
Because what could a thirteen-year-old do against someone at peak fifth stage?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
-----
Riza Hawkeye stood in Roy's quarters.
The room was exactly as he'd left it.
Bed neatly made.
Weapons meticulously maintained.
Everything in its proper place.
Because Roy, for all his jokes and dramatics, had been a professional.
She'd come here to collect his personal effects.
Standard procedure after a soldier's death.
But her hands were shaking.
Don't break down. Not yet. There's work to do.
She moved through the room methodically.
Cataloging items.
Creating an inventory.
Refusing to think about the man who'd owned them.
Who'd lived here.
Who'd never come back.
On the desk, she found a sealed envelope.
Her name written on it in Roy's distinctive handwriting.
Her breath caught.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Knowing what it was.
A final letter. Written in case he didn't come back.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up.
Broke the seal.
Unfolded the paper.
And began to read.
Dear Riza,
Well, if you're reading this, I'm probably dead. Or at least mostly dead. Maybe three-quarters dead? Is that a thing? Anyway, point is—I didn't make it back like I promised. Sorry about that.
I know what you're thinking right now. "That idiot. That absolute moron. I told him to be careful and he went and died anyway." And you're right! I am an idiot! But I'm a legendary idiot, so that's something.
Despite herself, despite the tears already streaming down her face, Riza felt a vein throb in her temple.
Even dead, he's insufferable.
She kept reading.
I want you to know that whatever happened, it was my choice. Knowing me, I probably did something dramatic and heroic. Maybe saved a bunch of people. Maybe took down something way above my pay grade. Hopefully it looked cool. Did it look cool? I hope someone tells you it looked cool.
But seriously—don't blame yourself. Don't blame Arden if he survived. Don't blame anyone except me and my tendency to bite off more than I can chew.
I knew the risks. I always knew them. And I chose to take them anyway because that's who I am. Was. Grammar is weird when you're dead.
The letter's tone shifted.
Became more serious.
There's something I need to tell you. Something I should have said years ago but never had the courage. Or maybe I had the courage but not the right moment. Or maybe I'm just a coward who needed to be dead before I could be honest.
I love you, Riza Hawkeye.
I have loved you since the day you shot an apple off my head at two hundred yards to prove a point about firearms safety. I have loved you through every mission, every battle, every boring administrative meeting where you kept me from falling asleep in my reports.
I love your discipline. Your skill. Your dedication. The way you pretend to be annoyed by me when I know—I KNOW—you find me at least a little charming.
Riza's vein throbbed harder.
A smile cracking through her tears despite herself.
That smug bastard.
I never told you because of regulations. Because I didn't want to compromise your career. Because I was scared of ruining what we had by asking for more.
But if I'm dead, then regulations don't matter anymore. And I can finally be honest.
I love you. I have always loved you. And my only regret—aside from dying, obviously—is that I never got to tell you in person. Never got to see your face. Never got to hear what you would say back.
Though knowing you, you'd probably just call me an idiot and tell me to stop being dramatic.
"You absolute IDIOT," Riza whispered through tears, her smile widening even as she cried harder.
Her free hand clenched into a fist.
How dare he. How DARE he tell me this NOW when I can't even punch him for waiting so long.
The letter continued.
If by some miracle you felt the same way, I'm sorry I never gave us the chance. I'm sorry I chose duty over honesty. I'm sorry I died before we could have that conversation.
But I want you to know—loving you made me a better soldier. A better person. Knowing you were watching my back, trusting me with your life, believing in the mission we shared... it gave everything meaning.
So don't mourn too long. Don't let my death define you. You're Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye—the best damn sharpshooter in the eastern armies, the woman who never misses, the professional who holds everyone to impossible standards.
Keep being that person. Keep demanding excellence. Keep protecting people who can't protect themselves.
And maybe, sometimes, when you're cleaning your rifles or organizing paperwork or doing any of the thousand things you do perfectly, think of me. Remember the annoying fire captain who made too many jokes and died doing something probably stupid but hopefully meaningful.
The final paragraph was shorter.
More intimate.
I died loving you, Riza. That's not a tragedy. That's a gift. Because loving you was the best thing I ever did.
Stay sharp. Stay safe. And don't let anyone tell you that guns are just tools for destruction. You taught me better than that.
Yours, even in death,
Roy
P.S. - If Arden survived and you're angry at him, don't be. The kid's going places. Help him get there. And tell him his shadow techniques need work. He telegraphs too much.
P.P.S. - I hid a bottle of that expensive northern whiskey in the supply closet behind the cleaning supplies. Third shelf, left side. It's yours now. Drink it and remember me fondly. Or drink it and curse me for being a coward. Either works.
Riza finished reading.
Stood there holding the letter.
Tears streaming down her face.
A vein visibly throbbing in her temple from sheer irritation.
But smiling.
Actually smiling through the grief.
"You IDIOT," she said aloud to the empty room. "You absolute MORON. Twenty years. TWENTY YEARS we served together and you wait until you're DEAD to tell me?"
She laughed.
A broken, wet sound.
"Of course I loved you back, you smug bastard. Everyone knew. EVERYONE. We weren't as subtle as we thought."
She carefully folded the letter.
Held it against her chest.
"I loved you too," she whispered. "I loved you and I was too much of a coward to say it either. Too afraid of breaking regulations. Too afraid of losing what we had."
Her professional composure cracked completely.
She sank into Roy's chair.
Let herself cry.
Really cry, for the first time since hearing of his death.
Not the silent, controlled tears she'd allowed before.
But full, body-shaking sobs.
For the man she'd loved.
For the future they'd never have.
For twenty years of unspoken feelings and missed opportunities.
After what felt like hours, she finally stopped.
Wiped her eyes roughly.
Reread the letter one more time.
"Third shelf, left side," she murmured. "You even told me where you hid your contraband. Always thinking ahead."
She stood.
Straightened her uniform with practiced movements.
Tucked the letter carefully into her breast pocket.
Right over her heart.
"I'll honor your memory properly," she said to the empty room. "I'll help Arden. I'll keep fighting. I'll be the soldier you believed I could be."
She paused at the door.
Looked back one last time.
"But you're still an idiot for dying. And if there's an afterlife and I see you there, the first thing I'm doing is shooting you for making me wait twenty years for a confession."
Her voice cracked on the last words.
"I loved you too, Roy Voss. I loved you too."
She left the room.
Closing the door behind her.
Professional bearing restored.
But carrying his letter over her heart.
And his love in her soul.
Forever.
-----
Arden stood at the window of his room.
Watching Riza cross the courtyard below.
Her bearing perfect.
No sign of grief to anyone who didn't know where to look.
But he could see it in the way she held herself.
The slight stiffness that spoke of barely-controlled emotion.
She's breaking inside. Just like I am.
The door opened.
Elara entered cautiously.
"Michel told me you yelled at him."
"He let them die," Arden said flatly. "On purpose. As an experiment."
"I know. I heard." Elara sat on the bed. "He's... different. Transcendents see things differently than we do."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No. It doesn't."
They sat in silence.
"What do we do now?" Elara asked finally.
"We honor them," Arden said quietly. "We become strong enough that their deaths meant something. Strong enough that we never have to watch someone sacrifice themselves again."
"And Michel?"
"I don't know. He's still my teacher. Still the person training me. But..." Arden's hands clenched. "I'll never forget what he said. That Roy was 'interesting' but the others were 'expendable.'"
"Will you keep learning from him?"
"I have to. He's the only fifth-stage Transcendent who'll teach me. The only one who can show me how to complete my domain." Arden's voice was bitter. "But I won't forgive him. Won't forget. And when I'm strong enough..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
Didn't need to.
Below in the courtyard, soldiers gathered around the monument.
Roy's name carved at the top.
[THE FLAME THAT BURNED A GOD]
And Riza stood among them.
Silent.
Bearing witness to grief she couldn't fully express.
Carrying a letter over her heart.
And a love that would never die.
"We'll be worthy of their sacrifice," Arden said quietly. "All of them. Roy. The one hundred and forty-seven. Everyone who died for this victory."
"Yes," Elara agreed. "We will."
Even if it meant learning from a monster who saw people as chess pieces.
Even if it meant carrying grief that would never fully heal.
Even if it meant becoming strong enough to challenge the very teacher who'd let good people die.
They would be worthy.
They had to be.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.