The wind carried dust now, not ash.
For the first time in days, the air felt still. Not safe — but still. As Aeon, Guts, and the branded girl emerged from the shrine's depths, the sky overhead began to break apart, revealing slivers of early morning light.
They didn't speak for a long while.
The climb back to the surface felt heavier than descent — not from fatigue, but reflection.
At the summit, Guts sat on a boulder and pulled a flask from his belt. He drank, wiped his mouth, and looked out over the wasted valley below.
"They're starting to follow him again," he muttered.
Aeon stood beside him, arms folded. "Griffith."
"Yeah. I heard it from a peddler yesterday. Whole villages giving him offerings. Kneeling. Saying he's the light."
"Do you believe them?"
Guts laughed, dry and bitter. "I don't need to believe. I've seen what people call light when they're blind."
The branded girl sat in the grass, tracing circles in the dirt with a stick. Her finger twitched as she added curved lines — a shape resembling a child's face, surrounded by flames that didn't burn. Aeon noticed, but said nothing.
Guts watched her too. "She sees things."
"She remembers things," Aeon corrected. "Fragments she shouldn't carry."
Guts stared at Aeon. "Like you."
For a while, the two men sat in silence.
Then Guts spoke again — softer this time. "You ever think about not fighting him?"
"Griffith?" Aeon asked.
"No. The Shadow. All of it."
Aeon nodded slowly. "Yes."
"And?"
"I kept walking."
Guts gave a small, broken smile. "Yeah."
He looked down at his hands, scarred and raw. "I chose to keep going after him. Not because I thought I'd win. Not even because I hated him."
"Why then?"
"Because someone had to carry it. The weight. So others didn't have to."
Aeon looked at him. "You chose vengeance as protection."
"I chose it because the world was already broken. And it gave me something to hold onto that wasn't screaming."
They walked on, and by noon, came to a village — intact, bustling.
Clean roads. Standing homes. Laughter.
At the center square stood a statue, polished and new.
A man with long white hair, arms outstretched in peace.
Griffith.
Children laid flowers at his feet.
Aeon felt it like a thorn in the mind. Not hate. Not jealousy.
Guilt.
A woman walked past them with a smile. "Are you new here? The Falcon's light welcomes all. He saved us."
Guts said nothing.
Aeon only asked, "And what did he save you from?"
"From fear," she said. "From doubt."
She walked on, humming.
That night, outside the village, Guts sat staring at the statue from afar.
"I can't save them," he said. "Not from him. Not if they want him."
Aeon sat beside him. "Then you carry what they cannot."
Guts turned. "And what do you carry?"
Aeon looked toward the stars.
"Everything I once refused to feel."