Their return to the mountain was a quiet sprint against a ticking clock audible only, to them. The Rustwell's frantic vitality waned in their rear, overtaken by the silence of the barren land. Sierra steered their reclaimed, off-road vehicle with focus devouring the fractured terrain.
Morgan ended the quiet his tone lacking its sarcastic wit. "Shes not merely challenging you. Shes setting the rules. A public drama. If she takes over that stronghold she establishes her 'new order' as. She defeats you there or you yield she attains her goal. In any case she triumphs."
"I understand," Cassiathon echoed, gazing down at his hands. The Weavers words—anchors—seared into his thoughts. Hopes Respite served as an anchor. A group of survivors holding onto existence like the folks in his mountain much like Tania, like Celeste. Allowing it to collapse would mean betraying the ideal he sought to protect. It would unravel the fabric of himself.
". If you proceed " Sierra said, keeping her gaze fixed on the perilous trail "you're stepping into a well-prepared battleground. Raziel will be present. Valentina too. Possibly even the Queen herself. It's self-sacrifice for the sake of others."
"It's a decision " Cassiathon stated, at last raising his gaze. The inner conflict remained,. It had narrowed down to one grim decisive moment. "My father showed me the gravity of conclusions. My mother showed me to battle, for survival. The Queen compels me to decide which teaching will shape me. If I opt for the mountain I am choosing the conclusion of Hopes Respite. If I select the Plains I decide to battle for existence even if it means my conclusion.
Morgan exhaled sharply in frustration. "There's another choice. We evacuate the enclave. Get them out quietly before the cutoff."
"The Queen will station sentinels all around " Cassiathon declared, the conviction icy in his stomach. "If we attempt a large-scale escape she'll react instantly. It would be a massacre. Success depends on her focus her full strength, being directed at a single target. Me."
He had transformed into a concept, within the Weavers chamber. Now he needed to turn into a strategy.
They reached the mountain shrouded in darkness. The refuge stood as a stronghold of alertness. Tania greeted them at the entrance her expression marked by creases that the information had already etched.
"You observed " she stated, not asking.
"We noticed," Cassiathon responded, holding her close. Her warmth was a tether, a strand, in his fabric he refused to break.
In the strategy room the Angel of Death awaited their arrival. He had also witnessed the broadcast. His face betrayed no emotion. The atmosphere surrounding him was thick with sorrow as ancient, as the mountains.
"You are not allowed to go " declared the Angel.
"I must."
It's a destruction. She will tear you apart not in body but, in mind. She will turn all your strengths into weapons aimed at you until you collapse. Then she will claim what remains.
". If I remain?" Cassiathon confronted his father. "Then what is the teaching? That your son, instructed in the responsibility of dying decided to allow hundreds to perish in order to save himself? What does that say about me? What does it say about you for instructing me?"
This was the occasion he had openly questioned his fathers reasoning. The Angel remained unshaken yet a deep sorrow grew within his eyes.
"You are discovering the price of rebellion " the Angel murmured gently. "It is never borne by the rebellious."
"I am going " Cassiathon declared, his tone resolute. "Not to triumph. To decide. To demonstrate that the bond, the strain the law that defines me… opts to safeguard life even if it means sacrificing itself."
A hush lingered. Tania moved closer resting a hand on her husbands arm and gazing at their son. "In that case you won't go by yourself."
"No " Cassiathon responded, the term biting. "This is the snare. Her aim is to lure out my defenders. My pillars. If you go you turn into marks to shatter me quicker. Remain here. Strengthen yourself. Become the core I strive to come back, to."
He glanced at Morgan at Sierra at Celeste who had come in softly her expression pale yet determined. "Everyone here. Remain. Maintain this position. Should I go down… you turn into the bond. The next unyielding barrier."
It was an instruction, from a commander. A royal edict. Uttered by a youth who had recently discovered he was a loom.
The Angel of Death observed his son. He did not perceive the youth nor the furious armament but the rising ruler of a lost mission. He offered a deliberate nod.
"Then you shall proceed with my blessing.. Bearing a fragment of my power." He reached out his hand. Hovering above his palm a small dark orb formed. It was not energy. A symbol. A delicate flawless representation of a conclusion. "If the decision turns into an ending… let it be yours to grant, not hers to seize. This will guarantee that."
Cassiathon took the sphere. It was cold and heavy, like a black hole distilled to a marble. A final gift of agency from the master of finality.