CHAPTER 109: CHAPTER 108 - WHAT REMAINS

Dawn came slowly.

It was the first real morning the land had known in years—no false suns conjured by wards, no layered veils of sky. Just light, pale and gold, cutting across the hills in thin sheets. It touched the broken stones of the sanctum’s remains, warmed the cracks of a world beginning to breathe again.

Caliste stood at the edge of a bluff overlooking the valley.

His cloak hung still. The wind was soft.

Ash still floated through the air in thin ribbons, trailing from the direction of the fallen sanctum like memory refusing to settle. The earth there had cracked into spirals, stone rings that glowed faintly as if reluctant to let go of the power they’d once held.

He watched the light spread—slow, careful, almost afraid of what it might reveal.

Behind him, the ground was dotted with footprints. The survivors had left without words. Tallis had given him a long look before stepping away, clutching a scroll she’d pulled from the rubble—something old, forgotten, maybe forbidden.

Caliste hadn’t asked what it was.

He hadn’t needed to.

The sun climbed higher. Its rays spilled across his shoulders. For a moment, he felt the heat of it through the layers of his clothes. Real heat. Not magical. Not borrowed. Honest.

And still, he didn’t move.

Because for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he didn’t know where to go.

He had always walked with purpose—toward vengeance, toward memory, toward the hollow place that had once been Alek.

But now Alek was gone.

And what remained was silence.

No war drums. No oath. No prophecy burning behind his ribs.

Just breath.

And a blade at his side that no longer hummed with rage.

He unsheathed it, holding it gently in both hands.

Its edge gleamed clean—no blood, no scorch. The gold along the spine pulsed once, then dimmed. It had finished what it was made for.

Now, like him, it waited.

He looked down at the valley below.

Fields of ruin. Forests trying to regrow. A river cut through the middle—narrow and slow, but moving. Always moving.

He would follow it.

Not to find something.

But to see.

The sword slid back into its sheath with a whisper.

He turned from the bluff.

And began to walk.

Each step slow.

Each step deliberate.

Not heavy.

Not light.

Just free.

He followed the river.

It was a winding thing, more memory than map—cutting across hills scarred by old battles, weaving between tree stumps blackened by controlled burns, and flowing under the broken arch of what had once been a bridge. The stone was cracked, but still standing. Just enough to cross, if one was careful.

Caliste didn’t cross.

He walked alongside it.

The water moved slowly, as if reluctant to forget all it had carried—ashes, whispers, maybe even a name or two. Every so often, it passed over a ripple of silver—buried metal from forgotten weapons, reflecting sky instead of blood.

By noon, the wind had picked up. Real wind. Not conjured. It tugged gently at his cloak and carried the faint scent of woodsmoke—fresh, not burning.

Life.

Somewhere ahead, people still lived.

He paused beneath the shade of a narrow tree—barely tall enough to offer cover, but stubborn in its survival. At its roots, wildflowers had begun to bloom. Yellow, violet, pale blue.

He crouched, ran his fingers over the petals.

They bent, but didn’t break.

He thought of Fleur, suddenly. Her laughter. Her warmth. The curve of her shoulder against his chest during stolen moments in the Academy gardens.

Did she know?

Had word traveled?

He wasn’t sure he wanted it to.

She had always believed in the story—the myth of Alek. The hero. The unifier. And he hadn’t broken that myth with logic or history.

He’d shattered it with blood.

What would she see now, if she saw him?

The same man?

Or something colder?

He stood again, brushing dust from his gloves. The thought stayed, but quieter now. A voice tucked behind the rest.

He kept moving.

The path sloped downward as the river widened. A grove appeared up ahead—small, ringed with trees, and at its center: smoke.

A fire.

Tamed.

And people.

He stepped through the final line of brush and into the clearing.

Four figures gathered near the flame. None wore armor. One held a child. Another was sharpening an old farming blade—not a weapon of war, but of need. They turned when they heard him.

Not in fear.

In caution.

They didn’t recognize him.

That was good.

Caliste lowered his hood.

And offered the simplest thing he had left.

A nod.

And silence.

The woman with the blade narrowed her eyes. "You alone?"

He nodded.

"You come from the valley?"

Another nod.

Her gaze lingered. Then softened—just slightly. She pointed to the flame.

"There’s water, if you’re tired. And food, if you’ve got coin or stories."

Caliste moved toward the fire.

"I have one," he said at last.

And sat.

The blade at his side stayed quiet.

For now.

***

The fire crackled softly, a low murmur that seemed to echo inside the grove with almost reverent rhythm. It wasn’t large—just enough to warm a meal, boil water, keep away the night’s damp chill. And yet to Caliste, it felt more sacred than the sanctum ever had.

The woman who had spoken—lean, with streaks of grey in her tied-back hair—nodded toward a squat pot balanced over the flames.

"Stew’s half roots and river crab," she said. "Don’t expect taste. But it’ll sit well."

Caliste accepted the bowl with a quiet nod, his fingers brushing against the heat-worn wood. It was rough, splintering at the lip. He let the warmth settle in his hands before bringing it to his lips.

It was as she said.

No taste.

But grounding.

The child stared at him from across the fire. Big eyes. No fear, only curiosity. His hand clutched the edge of a worn cloth doll that had seen more seasons than he had.

"What’s your name?" the child asked.

The woman shushed him gently, but Caliste lifted a hand.

"It’s alright," he murmured. Then, after a pause that stretched just long enough: "Caliste."

The name felt strange on his tongue again. Foreign, even now. It belonged to the man who had emerged from fire and steel, but not the one who sat cross-legged by the hearth of strangers.

"Were there monsters in the valley?" the child continued.

"Yes," Caliste said softly. "But not the kind with fangs."

He didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t need to.

The woman caught the weight in his voice and said nothing more.

The sun filtered down through the trees in scattered beams. Someone passed him a heel of bread. He broke it in half without thinking and gave one piece back.

The one sharpening her farming blade gave him a sideways look. "We’ll be moving south, come morning. Away from the old scars. You?"

Caliste didn’t answer right away. His eyes followed a curl of smoke rising from the fire, twisting skyward.

"I’ll walk," he said. "Till I find something worth stopping for."

The older man by the wagon—bald, scarred along the jaw—nodded once, satisfied. "Fair answer."

The grove fell quiet again, filled only by the soft shifting of leaves and the breath of the flame. Caliste leaned back slightly, resting his weight against the base of a tree.

For the first time in what felt like centuries, he let himself do something he hadn’t dared in lifetimes.

He closed his eyes.

And slept.

When Caliste awoke, the fire had dimmed to glowing embers.

It hadn’t gone out—someone had tended it. Carefully. With respect. The air was cooler now, laced with early dusk, the edge of evening creeping over the grove in long shadows. Birds had quieted. The river nearby whispered in soft, lulling notes.

For a moment, he stayed still.

Breathing.

Listening.

Feeling.

It had been so long since sleep had claimed him without resistance. His dreams had been quiet. No flames. No names. Just the soft rustle of wind through trees. Somewhere in those dreams, a face had lingered—but not Alek’s. Not Fleur’s. Just a child, faceless, running barefoot across tall grass.

He sat up slowly.

The ache in his shoulders reminded him he was still mortal. Still healing.

The others were still in the clearing. The woman with the blade had taken first watch, sitting near the edge of the grove with her back to a tree and her weapon resting across her knees. The older man was snoring near the cart. The child was curled beneath a blanket, one small foot sticking out.

The woman looked at him as he moved.

Said nothing.

But she didn’t look away.

Caliste nodded once.

Respect, quiet and mutual, passed between them.

He rose and walked to the river’s edge.

The water was cold when he cupped it in his hands and splashed it across his face. It stung in a clean way—like truth. He watched the ripples spread outward, carried by current into places he couldn’t see. That was what peace looked like. Not stillness.

Movement that no longer feared resistance.

A twig snapped behind him.

He turned, hand near his sword—but it was the woman.

She didn’t flinch.

"I was wondering when you’d wake."

"I wasn’t sure I would."

She stepped beside him, arms crossed. "You talk like a man who’s finished something."

He didn’t reply.

She glanced at him sideways. "But you don’t look like one."

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. Just heavy.

"Name’s Mora," she said finally. "Used to run a farm near Redspring before the smoke came."

"Caliste."

"I know."

That surprised him.

She saw it.

"I saw your blade."

He said nothing.

Mora crouched near the river and ran a hand through the grass. "People’ll come looking, you know. That much power vanishing at once—someone always notices. You might’ve ended his rule, but that doesn’t mean they’ll all cheer."

Caliste stared at the sky.

It was bruising into night.

"Let them come," he murmured.

She smiled faintly. "You don’t scare easy."

"I don’t have the energy to anymore."

She looked at him again—longer this time. Like someone measuring more than height or weight. Then she stood.

"You’re welcome to travel south with us. We pass no judgment."

"Thank you," he said, and meant it.

"But I’ve got a feeling you’re not the staying kind."

He looked out at the river again.

"No," he said. "Not yet."

Mora turned to leave, then paused.

"If you ever find a place worth stopping for—write it down."

"I will."

She left.

Caliste stood alone again.

But the loneliness no longer burned.

It felt like open sky.