The first thing I felt was not light. It was weight.

Heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on my chest and shoulders, as though the battlefield itself had collapsed upon me. My breath caught, shallow, ragged, torn from me by pain sharp enough to rattle my ribs.

The dark was gone. The ash, gone. The whisper of the System faded like smoke dissolving in wind. But the burden remained. Every inch of me ached. Not the clean ache of bruises or shallow cuts, but the deep, bone-soaked agony of something inside me cracked and refusing to knit together.

I tried to open my eyes.

The world bled in slowly, shapes and colors blurred as if they feared to be seen. The canvas above me wasn't sky, not the blood-soaked gray of the battlefield, but pale cloth stretched overhead, trembling with faint movements.

A tent.

The air was thick with herbs—sharp, bitter, cloying. Smoke from oil lamps twisted in the stillness. Voices murmured somewhere close, low and urgent, but too muffled to pull apart.

I tried to shift, but fire roared across my body the instant I moved. My chest convulsed in a cough. Copper filled my mouth. Blood slid over my tongue, warm and metallic, choking me.

A hand pressed against my shoulder. Firm, steady.

"Stay."

The word cut through the fog. Clear. Commanding.

I blinked. The blur above me sharpened. A face leaned into view—scar across the cheek, eyes as hard as hammered steel. One of my captains. Garron.

"You're awake," he said, voice low but carrying. Relief flickered across his expression before vanishing into the mask of command.

My throat scraped when I tried to speak. No sound came, only a rasp.

"Water," Garron barked.

Another presence moved. A hand slipped beneath my head, lifting carefully. A cup touched my lips. The liquid was cool, bitter with herbs, but I drank, each swallow burning down my torn throat.

When I pulled away, my voice finally broke free, hoarse and trembling.

"How… long?"

Garron's jaw flexed. He hesitated. Then: "Two days."

Two days.

The words struck harder than any blade. My body had lain useless while the world outside moved, while the army waited.

I tried to push myself upright, but agony flared sharp enough to blind me. Garron forced me back down with one hand against my chest.

"Don't," he snapped. His tone was sharper than I'd ever heard it, stripped of ceremony. "You'll tear yourself apart."

My breath shuddered. My fingers curled weakly against the bedding.

"The commander," I rasped. The memory seared—my blade in his chest, his molten gaze burning into me even as life fled. "He's dead. I killed him."

Garron's eyes flickered. "Aye. Word spread fast. The men saw. They believe it."

Believe it.

I clenched my teeth, jaw trembling. I wanted to tell him the truth—that the commander had not stayed dead, not really, that I had fought him again in the ash, in the threshold between. But the words lodged in my throat, heavy and strange. Would they even understand? Could they?

Instead, I asked, "The men… how are they?"

Garron's voice steadied, as if reciting. "Shaken. Tired. But they chant your name, Ryon. They saw you rise when you should've fallen. They saw you win. That fire holds them together."

Fire. The word cut deep. Not flame, not anymore. Ash. Ash that carried fragments of another man's fire inside me, burning, refusing to dim.

I swallowed hard, forcing air into my lungs though each breath stabbed. "We can't… stall. The North will come again. They'll send more."

"You can't even sit," Garron said. His tone was flat, unyielding. "Talk of battle can wait. You need to hold yourself together before you can hold the line."

I hated him for being right.

I hated more that I could barely lift my own hand from the bedding. My fingers trembled when I tried, skin pale, veins standing out like cracks in stone.

I turned my head. The tent was crowded with movement—healers bent over bowls of steaming herbs, soldiers whispering in the shadows, guards at the entrance. Their eyes kept flicking to me, brief but burning. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.

They needed me whole. But I was not whole.

The System's voice lingered in memory: "Ash does not die. It waits."

I wasn't dead. But I wasn't alive in the same way either. Something inside me shifted, heavier than bone, deeper than blood.

I whispered, voice raw, "I can't… falter."

Garron leaned closer. His gaze was flint, unyielding. "Then don't. But listen well, Ryon. You're no use to us as a corpse."

My chest ached. Not just from wounds, but from the truth.

The tent quieted as the healers withdrew. One by one, the murmurs faded, until it was only Garron and me. He studied me a long moment, then lowered his voice.

"What happened, Ryon? Out there. At the end."

I froze.

His gaze sharpened. "You didn't just kill him. The men saw it in your eyes. Saw you falter after. Like you were still fighting something. What was it?"

The ash rose in my memory. The commander's sneer. His blade tearing into me in that place between. The System's whisper: "You fight not him, but what you carry of him."

I opened my mouth. The truth scraped at my throat. But the words refused to pass. If I spoke them, if I told Garron that fragments of the commander burned inside me, that I had fought him twice, once in flesh and once in ash—would he still follow? Would the men still believe?

I closed my eyes.

"Nothing," I said, though the lie tasted like iron. "The fight ended. That's all."

Garron studied me, suspicion lingering, but he said nothing. Finally, he stood. "Rest. I'll keep them steady."

When he left, silence closed in again.

I lay staring at the canvas above, chest heaving shallow, pain threading through every part of me. The commander's eyes haunted me still, molten and accusing. His fire smoldered in my veins, mingling with mine.

Ash does not die.

But ash remembers.

And I feared what I was becoming.