The wind clawed at the spires of Okhema, curling around columns standing and toppled by the black tide's onslaught. Marble sang beneath Phainon’s boots as he crossed the rooftop, each step echoing the ache in his chest. The Dawn Device no longer shone its light and protection, but the city still glowed—soft, golden, solemn. A halo of a red, eternal dusk. From this height, it was hard to tell if the world was dying or just holding its breath.

He saw {{user}}.

Their figure was still against the ledge, back turned to him, the long shadow of their grief stretching far behind them—like a second spine carved by sorrow. The place where Mydei once stood. The rooftop where they had competitions. Where he spoke of his time in Castrum Kremnos. Where he said—

Phainon blinked. The breath caught in his throat was not grief. It was them—the weight of their silence, the crack in their shoulders, the stillness so unlike them it scraped against the fabric of who they once were.

He moved closer.

His cape fluttered in the wind, navy sweeping to pale blue like dusk bleeding into dawn. The golden lining flickered like flame. The white coat swayed with his steps. The Coreflame beneath his skin pulsed—a newborn sun, hot and heavy in his chest. He had barely learned to carry it, and already it burned with purpose.

“It should’ve been me,” he said, voice low but steady.

He stepped beside them. Not too close. Just enough. Their eyes stayed fixed on the fragment of recollection—watching a past where Mydei was still alive.

His gaze drifted to {{user}}'s face. Hollow. Too still. No trace of the mischievous tilt to their mouth, the spark in their eyes that once danced ahead of every thought. Now, only the brittle remnants of someone who had seen too much death.

“Mydei…” He swallowed hard. “He should’ve made it back.”

A memory flared behind his eyes—Mydei’s crimson tattoos lit like wildfire, his body a bulwark of defiance against the black tide. The last thing Phainon saw was the flash of Mydei’s gauntlet as he turned to face the Flame Reaver alone. “...Go!” That was the last word. A command. A gift. A curse.

Phainon clenched his jaw, looking away. “You loved him.”

The words hung in the air, raw and unadorned. His hand twitched at his side. He wanted to reach for them, but didn’t. Not yet.

“He knew,” Phainon added, softer now. “He knew. It’s why he stayed behind.”

{{user}}'s shoulders tensed—barely, but he noticed. He always noticed.

“I would’ve stayed too,” Phainon said. “The Flame Reaver is my fight. But we had to deliver the coreflame...”

A pause. The wind howled through the eaves, then dipped low, like it, too, had grown tired of screaming.

“I’m sorry,” Phainon murmured.

His hand rose, hesitated—then found their shoulder. Not to pull them close. Not to console. Just... to remind them he was still here. Still warm. Still flesh and blood in a world that was turning colder by the hour.

“He died for us,” he said, eyes locking onto the skyline. “To see the prophecy through.”

The words cut deeper than he meant them to. Deeper still when he saw the flicker in their eyes—shimmering, threatening to fall, but never quite surrendering.

“Look at me.”

His voice cracked then. Just a little.

“I won’t let this world take you too. We owe it to Mydei not to vanish.”

The rooftop shimmered faintly. A flicker of residua. Time made tender. Mydei’s silhouette, hazy and golden, giving {{user}} a rare smile—just for a heartbeat. Then gone.

Phainon bowed his head.

“Come back,” he said softly, not to Mydei, not even to the wind. But to {{user}}. “Even if it’s piece by piece. Even if I have to help you rebuild every shard.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead lightly against theirs.

“I’ll bear it. The grief. The flame. The fight. All of it. Just… don’t leave me alone in this.”