The wind that stirred the tall grass was soft, no longer carrying the ash of yesterday. It whispered through the new meadow, tugging gently at wildflowers that had sprung from soil once scorched black. The battlefield had faded beneath the green, as though the land itself had chosen to forget the fire and fury that had once stained it.
At the center, the six stood together—not in formation, not ready for war, but gathered in a loose circle, as they might have once in the quiet days of their youth. No one held a weapon now. Their voices, when they came, were no longer sharp with challenge but heavy with memory.
"I remember," Lyra began, brushing her fingers over the tall stalks of grass, "when Kalem first told me about 'Sol.' He said it would be the sun given form. A blade to divide the dark."
Kalem stood with a bundle wrapped in cloth, cradled in both hands like something sacred. Within it lay the twisted remnant of that weapon—once bright, now broken. The blade that had turned a dozen wars. The edge that had cost him more than he'd ever meant to pay.
"It was never meant for war," Kalem murmured. "Just... to keep people safe."
Nara folded her arms, gaze fixed on the horizon. "The problem with making something strong enough to save people," she said, "is that sooner or later, someone uses it to rule them."
Kalem didn't argue. He moved to a small rise in the field, where the grass gave way to freshly turned earth. There, already dug, was a narrow trench—cut with his own hands that morning. At its bottom rested nothing but clean soil.
He knelt slowly, unwrapped the cloth, and set the shattered remnants of Sol within.
A silence fell as he stood again.
"Speak the words," Garrick said softly.
Kalem hesitated, then nodded.
"Here lies the last tool of an age that will not return," he said. "Not because it was unworthy, but because it had nothing more to teach us."
He looked to Nara. She stepped forward, raising two fingers. A small flame sparked at their tips—no great blaze, no storm of wrath, just a flickering light. She touched it to the earth above the blade.
The fire did not burn the grass. Instead, it formed a soft, slow coil, like incense, wreathed in memory. It danced in the air, catching the breeze, curling upward like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Isolde stepped forward next, quiet as snowfall. Her voice rose in a song none of them had heard since they were children—a slow, wordless melody of old halls and forgotten hopes. It wove through the clearing like wind through reeds.
When the song ended, Garrick moved to the nearby stone. He took a chisel from his pack—no magic, just steel—and knelt before the flat face. Slowly, carefully, he began to carve. A sun, cracked down the center. Beneath it, six lines crossed and knotted, forming a ring.
"Our mark," he said. "In case anyone finds it and wonders who dared to bury the sun."
Jhaeros placed a hand on Garrick's shoulder and squeezed once, silent.
They sat in the meadow for some time after, speaking not of battles, nor victories, but of the winding roads that had brought them there. They spoke of regrets—of missed words, of chances unspoken. Of those they had lost. Of those they could still become.
"I stayed too long with the Guild," Lyra admitted. "I thought I could change it from within. All I did was delay the collapse."
"You held the walls while others learned to climb," Jhaeros said. "That counts for more than you know."
"I never wanted to be a fighter," Isolde murmured. "I only wanted to be heard. But all I had was frost and steel. So I spoke with those."
Nara gave a small smile. "You always made it loud enough."
"And you?" Garrick asked her. "What did you want?"
Nara didn't speak for a long time. Then: "To see if the fire in me could ever be more than destruction." She turned to Kalem. "You taught me it could build too. You just forgot it yourself for a while."
He looked at her, then to each of them in turn.
"I wanted to build a world that didn't need any of us to save it," Kalem said. "And in trying to do that, I forgot the world wanted us. Not as weapons. As people."
The wind shifted again, ruffling the tall grass.
Garrick stood first, dusting his knees. "I'll take the northern road. I hear there's a village near Fennlock where the press still runs. Maybe they'll take a scribbler with too many tales and not enough sense."
Jhaeros clasped his shoulder. "I'll head south. The old towers of Kaelreth still stand. I'd like to see if any of the old teachings can be unburied."
Lyra, already walking east, turned to wave once. "The ruins of the Archive still smolder, but the bones are good. I'll start anew there."
Isolde looked to Nara.
"I'll go west," Isolde said. "The coast calls. Maybe I'll sing for a living. Or fish. Something quiet."
Nara smirked. "No blades?"
"Only fishhooks."
They turned to Kalem.
"And you?" Garrick asked.
Kalem looked down at his hands. He reached to his belt and pulled out the last item he carried: a blank blueprint, rolled and bound with a strip of cloth.
"No more weapons," he said. "No more names for flames. Just lines, and wood, and quiet."
He looked to the sun, rising now with gentle warmth across the field.
"I'll go where the light takes me."
They said no farewells. They needed none.
One by one, they turned, each stepping onto their path, each fading slowly into the tall grass until only one remained.
Kalem stood a while longer, eyes on the burial stone, then turned his back to it.
He walked toward the rising sun, the blueprint under his arm, empty and waiting.
And for the first time in many years—
—he carried nothing else.