Just like that.
Nothing left but the echo of her own heartbeat.
And Serah, kneeling in the middle of the shrine, alone again—no longer imprisoned. No longer protected. And no longer sure… of anything.
She didn't move.
Her knees were pressed into the cold stone, her hands resting limply against her thighs, but it felt as though her body had forgotten how to obey her, as if motion itself had become something distant, theoretical.
The last thing she remembered was his smile.
Faint. Almost fragile. Not the kind meant to reassure—the kind meant to accept.
It was that smile that froze her in place, as though he had seen everything she had done, everything she had chosen, and had forgiven her anyway.
That broke her far more than anger ever could have.
She knew what she had done.
She hadn't been ignorant. She hadn't been tricked. She hadn't misunderstood the weight of her choice. The seal had existed for a reason, and she had felt it the moment she reached for it—the resistance, the warning woven into its very presence.
And she had released it anyway.
For herself. For her own escape. For the simple, selfish desire to not be trapped anymore.
A price she had been willing to pay.
Just not this one.
Her fingers curled slowly against the stone beneath her, nails scraping as her chest tightened. The shrine remained silent—no condemnation, no absolution. It did not react to her regret. It did not care.
"Gramps…" Her voice cracked as it left her throat, thin and unsteady. "Please… I—"
The words fell apart before they could become a sentence.
"Gramps… Gramps…"
Nothing answered.
Her breath hitched, once, twice, and then her vision blurred as tears welled, spilling over despite her effort to hold them back. She bowed her head, shoulders trembling as something ugly and familiar settled deep in her chest.
She had always been like this.
Even when she was alive.
She thought of all the times she had pushed people away—not with cruelty, but with indifference. With excuses. With the quiet confidence that she could always handle things on her own. That she didn't need help. That she didn't owe anyone softness.
She had hurt people who cared about her simply by refusing to care back.
And now she had done it again.
In death, of all places.
She had walked into a world she didn't understand and acted as though it revolved around her survival, as though rules existed to be bent because she was clever enough, strong enough, special enough.
The realization settled like poison.
What makes you think you deserve to save anyone… when you couldn't even save yourself?
Her breath grew shallow as the thought repeated itself, over and over, each time cutting deeper.
Something stirred around her.
At first it was barely noticeable—a distortion at the edge of her awareness. Then thin, wavering threads began to form in the air, dark and indistinct, like smoke that refused to disperse. They moved slowly, responding to her breathing, to the rhythm of her pulse.
When her chest tightened, they thickened.
When guilt surged, they trembled.
Serah lifted her head just enough to see them.
They didn't touch her. They didn't attack.
They simply waited.
As if listening.
As if she were feeding them something without realizing it.
Her gaze dropped back to the stone floor, her teeth clenched as Dante's smile surfaced again in her mind—not as a memory now, but as an accusation disguised as mercy.
He had been there since the beginning.
Watching. Guiding. Standing between her and dangers she hadn't even known existed. The closest thing she had to warmth in a place that offered none.
And now he was gone.
Erased.
Because of her.
◆ Scene Cut: Madame's Estate ◆
Far away, in a quiet library bathed in the glow of a crackling fireplace, Madame sat facing the flames.
Rows of old books lined the walls behind her, their spines catching the light, their knowledge useless in this moment. The fire danced steadily, its warmth filling the room, yet she did not move closer to it.
Rosaline stood a short distance behind her, frozen mid-step.
She had come running, breathless, the words already forming in her mouth—but the moment she saw Madame's stillness, she knew.
No announcement was needed. No confirmation required.
Madame did not turn. She did not speak. She simply remained seated, her silhouette framed by firelight, her back to the world.
And Rosaline, for the first time, did not dare break the silence.
Because whatever expression Madame wore now…
…was not meant to be witnessed.