The morning began with a strange silence.
The seagulls did not cry. The fishermen did not sing. The sea, outside, was too calm – as if it were waiting for something. I woke with the weight of the sword in my hand. Mira still slept, her curly hair spread on the pillow, her breathing calm.
I went down the stairs. The inn was empty. The landlady, Elara, was washing glasses at the counter, her back to me.
"The boy woke early," she said without turning.
"I never sleep much."
"Those who have nightmares sleep little."
"I don't have nightmares."
"Then you have bad memories."
I did not answer. I went out to the pier.
---
Fenísia sat at the end of the pier, her legs dangling over the water. The wind blew her hair, the waves beat against the wooden stakes. She did not turn when I sat beside her.
"Your father," I began.
"Don't speak of my father."
"Your mother."
"Not her either."
"Then what?"
"Nothing." She looked at the horizon. "Or everything."
We fell silent. The sea shone.
"Zirinos," she said after a while.
"Yes?"
"What will you do when Trussum appears?"
"Kill him."
"And if you can't?"
"Then I die."
"And Mira?"
"Mira stays with you."
She turned her head. Her green eyes, large, fixed on mine.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it's true."
"Do you think I will take care of her?"
"I do."
"Do you think it's right?"
"I do."
She looked away. Her hands, resting on the pier, gripped the wood.
"I don't know how to take care of anyone."
"You'll learn."
"Like you?"
"Like me."
---
The attack came at noon.
The Contraranures emerged from the forest like shadows – black robes, bone masks, curved knives. There were not many. Thirty, maybe forty. But they came in silence, orderly, their yellow eyes shining.
"They disobeyed Ierály," said Fenísia beside me.
"They disobeyed."
"Why?"
"Because they are afraid of me."
"Afraid?"
"Afraid that I will become a hero. Afraid that I will kill Trussum. Afraid that I will end the cult."
"And will you?"
"I will."
I pushed her back.
"Take Mira to the inn. Close the door. Don't come out."
"Zirinos…"
"Go!"
She went.
---
I fought alone.
The Contraranures were many, but they were not strong. Their knives barely scratched me. My sword cut their arms, their legs, their necks. Blood flowed, formed puddles on the dirt floor.
One hit my shoulder. Another, my leg. Another, my chest.
I did not stop.
When the last fell – the twentieth, the thirtieth, the fortieth – I was on my knees, breathing hard, my sword stuck in the ground.
"Zirinos!" Fenísia shouted from the inn window. "Are you all right?"
"I am," I lied.
I stood. My body ached. Blood ran down my face, my arms, my chest.
"It's done," I said. "The Contraranures…"
"Not all," said a voice behind me.
I turned.
A man. Black hood, bone mask. A knife in his hand, raised, ready to strike.
I had no time to dodge.
The knife struck Fenísia square in the chest.
She had thrown herself in front of me.
---
"No," I whispered.
She fell. Blood ran from her mouth, her eyes, her open chest. Her green eyes, the ones that shone in the sun, were clouded.
"Fenísia!" I shouted. "Why?"
"I don't know," she replied, her voice weak. "I didn't think."
The hooded man fled. I did not pursue him.
I knelt beside her. My trembling hands tried to stop the blood.
"Don't do that," she said. "It's not worth it anymore."
"It is."
"No." She touched my face. Her cold hand was heavy. "Mira… take care of Mira."
"I will."
"And my mother… tell her I miss her."
"I will."
"And my father…"
"He died in peace. Without pain. You believed it."
"I believed it."
Her eyes closed.
Her chest stopped rising and falling.
Fenísia died there, in my arms, with the sun shining and the sea crashing against the rocks.
---
I did not cry.
Crying was for the weak. For those who lost. For those who regretted. I did not lose. I did not regret. I only felt an emptiness where before there had been something I could not name.
Mira appeared in the inn doorway.
"Zirinos?" she called, her voice small. "Fenísia…"
"Fenísia is gone."
"Where to?"
"Far away."
"Will she come back?"
"No."
Mira approached slowly. She looked at the body. At the blood. At the closed eyes.
"She liked you," she said.
"I know."
"Did you like her?"
"I did."
Mira sat beside me on the blood‑soaked ground.
"Then why didn't you save her?"
"I couldn't."
"You can do everything."
"No. I can't."
She leaned her head on my shoulder. Her small hands clutched my tunic.
"I'm sad," she said.
"I know."
"Are you too?"
"Too."
We fell silent. The sea crashed against the rocks. The sun shone.
---
The burial was at the end of the afternoon.
We dug the grave behind the inn, where the rare flowers bloomed in August. Mira helped cover the earth. I stood, my sword stuck in the ground, my gold‑and‑blood hair shining in the setting sun.
"Fenísia liked Fortichia grains," said Mira when the grave was closed. "Professor Lara said they only grow in Decatry."
"I know."
"She wanted to go there."
"I know."
"Zirinos… can we plant one?"
I looked in my pocket. I still had the grains Ana had given me months ago, in the carriage on the way to the academy. I had kept them. I did not know why.
I planted one beside the grave.
"Will it grow?" asked Mira.
"Perhaps."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we'll remember her anyway."
Mira squeezed my hand.
"I like you, Zirinos," she said.
"I know."
---
The portal opened at dusk.
A rift in reality, in the middle of the battlefield where the bodies of the Contraranures still smouldered. Blue edges, intense glow, a low sound, like a heartbeat far away.
Mira clung to me.
"What is that?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Is it dangerous?"
"Perhaps."
A woman stepped out of the rift.
Short grey hair. Tired face, deep eyes. Golden armour, stained with blood that was not her own. A sword in her hand, raised, ready to strike.
She looked at me. The gold‑and‑blood hair. The sword in my hand. The girl beside me.
She said nothing.
She just lowered her sword.
The portal closed behind her.
The sea crashed against the rocks. The sun shone.
Mira squeezed my hand.
"Zirinos?" she called, her voice small.
"Yes?"
"Who is she?"
"I don't know."
"Is she coming with us?"
"It seems so."
The woman in golden armour did not move. She just watched. Her tired face, her deep eyes, her lowered sword.
"Shall we go?" asked Mira.
"Let's go," I replied.
The wind blew cold.
Night was falling.