The tender cry Northern heard from within the Complex—what began as a soft whimper but soon swelled—only added weight to the sadness pressing on his chest.
Right now, all he wanted was to launch himself into the air and vanish into the sky. But Bairan's words echoed relentlessly in his mind.
Paragon Raizel… he was the one man in both this world and the one before who had truly become a mentor to him. Maybe it was because he was older, or maybe it was because he was special in ways few men ever were. Raizel had a kindness that resonated—not just on the surface, but in the depths of Northern's soul.
He was the kind of man Northern wouldn't have minded becoming. A force of nature. A powerhouse who could live with the weight of his choices. A man for whom dozens of rifts had to be torn open, who needed to be trapped, and smothered with Behemoths just to make him bleed—let alone die.
Burning Storm never would've fallen if he hadn't fought in Lithia. And even then, he had fought alone—long before Northern arrived.
He was a formidable man. A legend. And a marvel.
It broke Northern to be here… to be standing in the wake of it all, hearing the cries of his newborn.
His heart clenched, lungs tight as if cords had wrapped around them. But no tears came. He wished they would. He begged silently for them to fall—but his eyes stayed dry, arid as the dunes of Davon. His face, a mask without expression.
With a long breath, he gently lifted the body, his movements quiet and deliberate, then slowly ascended. He hovered toward the edge of the ruined balcony, landing with a soft thud as his boots met the fractured ground. Glass crunched beneath his soles, shards crushed effortlessly under the weight of his steps.
He entered the chamber.
Silence blanketed the room. All heads turned as Northern walked in—carrying someone in his arms.
Lirae, her face drawn and pale, rested against a nest of plush bedding. She leaned up slowly, eyes weary, spirit heavier. Four old men gathered around her, pausing at once as they caught sight of Northern.
Only the cry of the indifferent baby broke the silence—a soft, careless song against the stillness.
Northern cast a glance at the shattered table nearby. Then, gently, he laid Burning Storm down on it. His movements carried reverence, like a priest tending to a relic. He stepped back, turned to face his wife, and bowed deeply—his torso folding into a perfect ninety-degree arc.
He hesitated.
Teeth clenched so tight they could've cracked stone. His sorrow didn't rise in sobs, didn't pour from his eyes—but it pulsed in every breath, every tremor in his shoulders, every tightened muscle in his face.
"I… couldn't… protect him."
His voice broke, as did something inside him.
Northern bit down again, jaw rigid, as if trying to cage the grief clawing through his chest.
He remained bowed, still and silent, waiting for a response.
Despite the exhaustion etched into her features, Lirae rose slowly, one hand cradling the wailing infant. The elders around her exchanged uneasy glances, concern flashing across their aged faces—but none moved to stop her.
Veiled Light knelt nearby, unmoving. He had been the one to deliver the child, and so remained there, head low, trembling. His eyes—wide, unblinking—were locked onto the lifeless body resting on the table. His shoulders quivered as if holding back something too vast for words.
Lirae stepped forward.
Each motion was laced with visible pain, her limbs sluggish yet unwavering. She stopped before Northern, who still held his bow with reverence. Then, with a shaking hand, she reached forward and pulled back the fabric.
The trembling in her fingers deepened.
As the scorched remnants of her husband's body were revealed, her own frame jolted—like a tree struck by sudden frost. Her knees buckled slightly. The weight of grief almost dropped her to the floor, yet she held fast, even with her child in her arms.
The room had changed.
The elders had all risen now, save for Veiled Light. Their expressions were grim, lined with grief, regret, and a quiet, helpless fury.
Lirae slowly shifted her gaze down to Northern.
Her voice emerged—soft and trembling, yet resolute. A delicate blade sheathed in sorrow.
"And you are?"
Northern hesitated, the breath in his lungs catching for just a moment.
"His disciple… We met in Lithia… We came here together, but I was weakened after our last battle there. I couldn't—"
"You don't need to explain yourself to me, boy."
Her voice, though soft, cut through the air like silk over steel. Calm. Compassionate. Certain.
Northern stopped speaking, jaw clenched again, lips pressed into a tight line.
"I know my husband."
Her eyes were distant, voice barely above a whisper now.
"I know him well. I know how he always bragged… about one day finding someone worthy—someone he could finally pass on everything to."
She swallowed, the emotion tightening in her throat.
"If you say you're his disciple, then I know how much he must have treasured you. Because he's waited ten long years to find one."
She inhaled shakily—then exhaled, her breath trembling with the weight of restraint.
"So, your statement was wrong, boy."
She reached out and gently rested a hand on Northern's shoulder.
"In what world does a disciple protect their master? What I want to know is—was he able to protect you? And the others? How were his final moments? Did he have regrets…? No…"
She murmured, her voice faltering with sorrow-laced fondness.
"Knowing that fool, he probably had plenty. I wonder if he ate before he died… he'd definitely have regretted not tasting my Rigatoni spice special one last time. And he surely would've…"
Her words slowed. Her voice cracked.
She paused, shoulders trembling, holding the pain in her throat like a scream she refused to let escape.
Then she looked up at Northern again, forcing out a trembling smile, the kind that tore deeper than tears.
"Boy," she whispered, "raise your head."
Northern hesitated—but finally obeyed, lifting his gaze.
Lirae stood before him, radiant in her exhaustion. Her beauty hadn't dimmed, even as her face wore the stains of exhaustion and grief. Sweat clung to her brow, tears traced clean lines down her cheeks, but she still smiled—and that, more than anything, broke his heart.
She was trying to stay strong. But her strength was tearing apart, and she didn't even seem to notice.
Then, gently, she extended her arms and offered the newborn to him.
Northern's brow furrowed, his breath trembling as he stared at the tiny bundle in her arms.
She said softly:
"You know, I vowed that Burning Storm would be the first to hold his child. And name them. He always had the oddest names for everything… but I wanted this one to matter. I wanted him to look into our baby's eyes and name them himself."
She looked at Northern again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What do you say? Would you do that for me… in his place?"
Northern stepped back slightly, hands shaking.
"That is…"
But she smiled again, gently. Brokenly.
"It's fine. You were the last to see him. I don't know why… but something about you carries his presence, like a shadow that lingers even after the flame has gone out. Please… hold her."
He still hesitated.
His hands, made for battle, felt too clumsy, too dangerous to cradle something so small, so delicate. He'd never held a child before. What if he hurt her? What if his grip was too strong?
Still, slowly, cautiously, he reached forward—and accepted the child.
He held her beneath his gaze, barely breathing.
Something lodged itself in his throat—hard and unmoving, like stone. Every beat of his heart struck against it, splintering him from the inside out.
A single tear broke loose and rolled down his cheek.
The child blinked up at him with brilliant emerald eyes.
Eyes unmistakably like her father's.
"It's a girl," Lirae said, her voice lighter now, laced with a fragile joy. "What do you think? Does she look like him?"
Northern studied her closely, another tear slipping free.
"She does… She's… beautiful."
Lirae gave a quiet, wistful laugh.
"What name… do you think suits someone like her?"
Northern said nothing for a moment.
He was afraid—for himself, for her, for what the world might demand of this child.
But when he looked into her eyes, he saw a storm—not violent, not wild, but silent and gathering. A tempest waiting for its moment. A force that would one day shake the world.
A gentle smile broke out of his lips as he thought of a beautiful name.
He glanced at Burning Storm's burnt body and looked back at his smiling and giggling daughter.
"Burn from ash… Nureya."