30. The Return
The Return
The moment the portal spat him out, Kailorien drew breath through his teeth.
Blood.
Fresh. Too much.
He stood at the edge of the street, runes flaring to life—Krathar surging across his shoulders, Perthro vibrating like a warning drum in his ribs.
He drew his blade. A stillness settled over him that came before slaughter.
Four Reskala lay strewn across the cobbles.
Slashed open. Skewered. One of them—a younger recruit—was missing his face.
His stomach clenched.
He stepped forward, fast. Searching the buildings, the darkened alley mouths, the angles of rooftops. He found the Glider corpses, too. A wing that looked like it had been cleaved. Only a massive weapon could have accomplished it, and just the thought of that being anywhere near her.
His voice cracked the night, raw and thunderous.
“Auryn!”
Nothing.
No—movement. From the shadowed side of a ruined entryway.
She emerged like something risen from a battlefield hallucination.
Covered in blood—grey. Not hers, but enough to set every one of his runes screaming.
Her white and gold dress hung in tatters, her silver wire diadem askew.
A thick rope-like bruise was blooming around her calves, burns covering her skin in bright red splotches.
Her hair was soaked with sweat and blood.
Tangled. Her eyes—Void, her eyes—were wild with shock.
His chest split open.
“Auryn—”
She ran.
No hesitation, no words. Just ran straight into him, her breath escaping her in a streaming litany of his name—Kail…Kail…Kail…
He caught her like falling glass. One arm swept under her thighs, the other wrapped behind her shoulders, crushing her to him. She was shaking. Bleeding. Trying to speak—words falling from her lips in a broken rush.
“There were children—they’re dying, the Pale Madness is so much worse than we thought.
The Temples are overflowing. Death everywhere.
They’re tearing their skin off, Kail—and the children—oh Void help me—and some healers don’t stop them—they let them jump—let them burn themselves—I just wanted to help—but then—then they came, the Gliders, they killed my guards—”
Her voice cracked. Her whole body convulsed in his arms.
“I tried—I tried to shield them—but they were too fast, and I couldn’t cast in time, and there was so much blood—”
“Auryn.” His voice shook. “Stop. Breathe.”
“The Council isn’t—doing—not doing anything —”
She couldn’t stop. She hiccupped, gasping through clenched teeth.
Her head buried itself in the hollow of his neck, fingers digging into the straps of his armor so hard that one of her nails tore from the quick.
Her strength failed. Her limbs went limp.
She sobbed without tears, her voice gone, her breath shallow.
He held her tighter. Pressed his lips to her temple. Closed his eyes against the rage seething under his skin.
A step.
From the alley.
His eyes snapped open.
Zarrek.
Nearly sixty years had passed since Stonewake, yet the grizzled warrior looked hardly changed.
More grey in his stubble. A few extra scars and lines telling of a life not lived in comfort.
But, otherwise, the same brother he’d lost. To pride or fate, he still didn’t know.
The bastard stood there, stone grey Glider blood on his battleaxe, his runes still fading from recent combat.
No fear. No shame. Just a stillness. Watching.
Watching them.
Kailorien didn’t speak.
Not yet.
He only tightened his grip on Auryn. Lifted her higher, like he could hide her from the world. Like the sheer presence of his body could shield her from everything—madness, the Council, memory.
Especially memory.
Especially the Pale Madness.
He’d seen it himself. Knew what it was, what she did in those healing chambers. How she mopped up blood, held their hands, and prayed to a Destroyer that would never listen.
He looked down, adjusting his hold. Her eyes had closed, her cheek pressed against the curve of his chest plate. Not asleep. Not unconscious. Just…withdrawn. Folded inward like an animal hiding from thunder.
He pressed his lips to her hair.
“You’re safe,” he whispered. “I’m here, starlight. I’m not letting go. Whatever you saw, whatever is happening, we will face it together. Tomorrow, the day after, whenever you’re ready.”
Only then did he lift his head.
Only then did he allow his gaze to shift to the man still standing at the edge of shadow, blood drying on his jaw.
“Zarrek,” he rasped.
The name chafed like ash on his tongue. A taste he’d locked away in both sensation and memory. But, no matter how many times Kailorien looked away and looked back, the man didn’t vanish. He stepped closer into the humming Polis-light, the blood on his skin gleaming dark and real.
“You’re dead,” Kailorien said, not as accusation, not as question. Just fact.
“Close enough,” Zarrek shrugged.
A long beat passed between them. Only Auryn’s uneven breath stirred the space.
“Why didn’t you come back sooner?”
Zarrek looked away, toward the slaughtered Reskala, toward the half-collapsed alleyway.
“I’m still not back. Just passing through.”
Another pause. Kailorien’s throat bobbed. “She mourned you. We both did.”
“I know,” Zarrek said, subdued. His hand flexed once around the haft of his battleaxe, then stilled. “She told me.”
“You staying this time?”
Zarrek shrugged. “Wasn’t planning to. But she ran into me. And then—” His gaze flicked to the blood-streaked street. “Well, now I’m starting to think twice.”
“About helping?”
“About leaving you two alone with your heroic tendencies.”
A dry huff left Kailorien. No humor in it. Just weariness.
“Still can’t resist playing the martyr, can you?” Kailorien asked.
“Better than you can resist hoarding the sky.”
That almost earned a smile. Almost.
Kailorien looked down at the woman in his arms. Her eyes were closed, brow furrowed, but her fingers still dug into his armor like she expected someone to try to drag her away from him at any moment.
“You saved her life.”
Zarrek met his eyes then. Unflinching.
“Seemed like the right thing to do.”
Silence. Sharp and fragile.
“Thank you,” Kailorien said.
A breath. A heartbeat. A stillness between them.
“You’re welcome,” Zarrek answered.
He shifted his grip on his battleaxe. His gaze drifted to the alley where the Gliders had fallen, where the blood dried in long, winding trails toward the gutter.
“They weren’t just scouting,” he said. “They were bounty hunting. D’you catch a look at their armor?”
Kailorien’s jaw flexed. “Marked. Tallies.”
Zarrek nodded once. “Last I heard, the Matriarch wants her head. Solutus isn’t much better. Rebellion is buzzing with traders giving away what she ate for breakfast and where she’ll be holding prayers next. Either way, she’s in deep water.”
Silence.
Kailorien adjusted Auryn’s weight in his arms. She didn’t stir, but her hand clenched tighter against his chest plate—fingers curling like she’d heard every word. Like her body knew the shape of danger.
“I need to get her out of here,” Kailorien muttered.
Zarrek didn’t argue.
But he didn’t walk away either.
Kailorien looked at him again—searching. Pleading.
“You coming with us?”
Zarrek exhaled slowly through his nose. “Lattices wanted me dead, remember?”
“Not you. Just your men. You were filed as missing in action. I could have you reinstated, if I pulled the right strings.”
Zarrek’s golden eyes lingered on Auryn.
“Not what I planned,” he said. “Like I told her, I was just passing through. But if she’s going to keep doing what she’s doing…” He let the words trail off. Then, quieter, “Someone needs to walk behind her. Not in front. Not beside. Behind. Quiet. Armed. Eager to shed blood if need be.”
A pause.
“She’ll never ask for it. You know that.”
Kailorien’s throat bobbed. “I know.”
Another beat passed, like a shared memory unspoken.
“I’ll be close,” Zarrek promised.
Then he turned, melting back into the alley, the faint pulse of his runes vanishing into the dark.