Jim, Shæz, and big Gulutel had passed through the frozen lands of Steza, following wherever the star pendant led. Shæz held it close, reading its subtle signs, guiding their path. The bear had been left behind—too weak to go further—and now they walked in silence.
But silence didn't mean peace.
Whatever thread once held the three together had frayed, maybe even snapped.
Jim could feel Gulutel's gaze like cold steel. Distrust. Doubt. That quiet, grinding resentment. The man hadn't liked him from the start—and now, after everything with Zela, the guilt only made it worse.
Shæz, on the other hand, had begun to close herself off completely. Too many unanswered questions. Too much loss. She had trusted Jim once—but now? Now he felt like a stranger. A stranger she regretted carrying out of the burning Zela.
And Gulutel—he was grieving too. Grieving what he'd done. He had left a Denefremim to die in Steza. No matter the reason, no matter the choice… that didn't sit right. Not even with him.
They walked, three figures drawn together by fate—but bound now by tension, regret, and a road that didn't care how broken they were.
Walking in silence, together but not united.
On the other side,
Hennekas soared through the gray skies on his Oxed, Ziz, the wind slicing past him like shards of glass. He was flying to somewhere high, somewhere hidden—a lonely mountain far from the remnants of Zela. The city had fallen. And with it, something in him broke too.
He had chosen to fly alone.
Not because he feared the enemy. But because he feared being seen—by his men, by Senedro —as anything other than the unshakable leader they needed. But beneath the armor and legend, Hennekas was still a creature. And creatures, when broken, need silence to scream.
He landed on the cold ledge, the mountain peak greeting him with cruel winds and empty skies. Ziz let out a quiet growl, sensing his master's sorrow, then folded its wings and lowered its head respectfully.
Hennekas stepped off.
The moment his boots touched the stone, his knees gave in. He collapsed forward—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of grief.
He had lost battles before. Lost friends. Lost soldiers. But this… this was different.
Jeleam.
His past. His brother in arms. His soul mirror.
And it wasn't just death—it was betrayal. He had struck the blow himself. Not of his will, but of war's madness. Of twisted fates. Jeleam had fallen by his very sword, and that reality replayed endlessly in Hennekas' mind.
He clenched his fists until blood met the snow. His breathing grew ragged, torn between rage and sorrow.
Memories swirled in the thin air—training in the fields of Fennar, laughing under the twin moons, bleeding for the same cause. They had survived everything… until now.
"I was supposed to protect you," he whispered.
The mountain did not answer.
Only the wind, carrying his words into the clouds, like a prayer too late.
And there, on that sacred peak, the mighty spirit of Hennekas—hero of the High Flame, keeper of the sword of Arven—let the tears fall.
For even heroes grieve.
Hennekas had been raised for more than this—trained from a boy to fight for truth, for light, for what was just, even when justice was hard to see.
But now, alone on the mountain, broken in spirit, he questioned everything.
He stood tall again, wind lashing at his cloak, eyes lifted toward the blank heavens. His voice, cracked but powerful, cut through the silence.
"Heavens," he called, "guide me—if I am still on the path meant for me. For I am confused. I have slain a lot of brothers. Senedro is burning. I do not know if I still fight for what is right. I need… a sign."
The air stilled. The cold itself seemed to pause.
Then—movement. A shimmer in the wind, like ripples on still water. The air began to twist, spiraling before him. And in it—a face.
Flickering. Faint. Not fully formed. But unmistakable.
It was Jim.
Or… part of him. Half his face. Half his soul. But enough.
Hennekas gasped. That was the sign. That was the answer.
He was still on track.
He turned sharply, summoned Ziz with a sharp whistle. The Oxed flapped its wings and came down from the cliffside.
Without hesitation, Hennekas climbed on.
"Back to Senedro," he said.
And the Oxed soared above jagged cliffs. His eyes burned not from cold—but from memory. From prophecy.
He hummed the old tune, the one carved into every warrior's mind since the old age.
A stranger's face
Fall of the good city
Wars on Senedro...
He whispered the words like a prayer, or maybe a curse. The lines had once seemed far-off, mythical. Now? They bled into reality.
This was the time. The right season. The scepter of the end was soon to be released. With it, Hennekas would gain more than power—he would bring balance to the universe. Restore what had long been broken. And finally, finally… his master would smile upon him.
He had seen the face in the air.
Now it was time to hunt.
Meanwhile, far below—
Jim felt the chill not just in the wind, but in the silence between the three of them. He noticed Shæz's distance. Gulutel's cold eyes. The way no one walked too close. It wasn't just the blizzard.
He knew now—this couldn't continue.
"Shæz. Gulutel," Jim called out, voice steady. "I know there are things you need to hear. Truths I should've said earlier."
They both turned. Eyes narrowed. Waiting.
"First… I'm not a Denefremim."
Gulutel's jaw clenched. He hated liars. But this time, he held his sword—and his peace.
Shæz stared. "Then what are you?" she asked. "A Setrum?"
Jim shook his head.
"No. I'm a mortal."
"What?!" Both voices rose in shock.
Jim gave a half-smile. "Yeah. Mortal. I'm a night warrior."
The wind howled between them. And for a second—it felt like everything shifted.
Truth, finally spoken.
Jim didn't say another word.
He just reached back, pulled out the sword—and boom.
The air changed.
Light erupted from his chest like a supercharged heartbeat. His eyes lit up electric blue, hair whipping back like he'd just stepped into a music video. Night Rider mode: activated.
Gulutel took a step back, his usually grumpy expression flickering into something like... awe. Even Shæz's eyes widened, the grief in them softening for the first time in what felt like forever.
This wasn't just a guy anymore. This—this was hope.
Hope with glowing eyes and a glowing sword and a slightly annoying but very real charm.
Shæz blinked, the pieces falling into place like puzzle snaps. "So that's what was sleeping in you," she whispered. "No wonder everything went sideways when you showed up."
Gulutel grunted. "Still don't trust him."
"But you believe in the sword," she shot back.
He didn't answer.
Because truth was—yeah. He did.
A Night Rider hadn't been seen in Senedro for ages. Myths. Legends. Fairy tales told in war camps and over dying campfires. But now, here he was. Not a Denefremim. Not a Setrum. Just some mortal guy with way too much heart—and apparently, enough power to light up the dark.
Shæz let out a breath.
They had a Night Rider.
They had a shot.
"Okay," she said, cracking a smile for the first time in forever. "Let's find Geza, let's avenge for Zela."
Jim grinned, sword humming like it was ready for round two.
"Now you're talking."