Chapter 5: Chapter 4-The Color of Guilt

Darkness breathed around her—not the suffocating black of shadowmancy or the velvet press of night, but a silence born of snow and old memory. She stood barefoot in a field dusted white, the sky overhead bruised with twilight. Wind whispered through tall grass frozen mid-sway, and the stars blinked like distant, watching eyes. She wore no cloak, no name, only the crystal in her chest pulsing faintly like a forgotten heartbeat, and in the distance, a figure stood. Towering. Blurred. Draped in cloth and plated metal that shifted like it couldn’t decide between armor and a mourning veil.

The woman’s face was obscured, a smear of light and shadow. But Shade could feel her eyes—warm, fierce, unwavering. She held a round shield to her side, silver-blue and engraved with something ancient. In her other hand, a sword rested tip-down in the frost, its edge bloodless yet gleaming with purpose. Shade tried to move, but the wind pulled at her like hands of memory. Her knees ached with the weight of something not yet recalled.

“You are not meant to kneel,” the voice came. It was not heard so much as felt—a vibration across the bones of the world.

“I don’t understand,” Shade whispered, though her lips never moved.

The figure didn’t respond. She stepped forward, and the ground melted into ink. The snow dissolved. The stars blinked out, one by one. Shade found herself kneeling now, hands trembling, breath short.

The Shieldmaiden lifted her sword and pointed it not at Shade, but behind her. Toward the dark. A shape loomed in the distance. Tall, narrow, carved from stone and shadow. A door, maybe. Or a grave. The sword trembled. So did Shade. Then the figure spoke again, softer this time. Closer. The voice of someone who once tucked her into bed.

“Look for the tree that blooms without sun, the green will guide you home.”

Light exploded behind the Shieldmaiden, and Shade fell backward into the ink. Falling, falling—

***

Shade sat up with a sharp inhale, her breath fogging the dim morning air of the rented room. A single shaft of sunlight cut through the shutters, painting her bare shoulder in gold. The warmth should have comforted her. It didn’t. She pressed a palm against her chest. The crystal beneath her skin beat faintly, like a second heart murmuring beneath bone. It hadn’t stirred in her sleep since she was a child, not like that. Not with a voice. Not with vision. The woman from her dream lingered like the scent of rain after a storm. Her presence stirred something primal, something tangled in the roots of who Shade used to be, before she was Shade. The sword. The words. The grief in that spectral gaze.

Look for the tree that blooms without sun.

What did she mean? Blooming without sun? She never had the sun in her life. Shade swung her legs over the side of the bed, rubbing her face. Her hands shook. She clenched them, willing them still. The dark room—Hollow Vows—used to be the only thing she feared. But that woman’s voice... it felt more dangerous. Like it could undo everything.

Undo her. She washed quickly in the basin, dressed, and cinched her cloak with practiced hands. Motion was clarity. Purpose drowned thought. Until she opened the door. The scent hit her first. Roasted roots and fatty meat. Buttery eggs sizzling. Fresh bread breaking open with warmth and herbs. Her stomach growled loud enough to echo. She blinked. Has she ever eaten breakfast? Not rations or paste or whatever nutrient slurry the guild gave—real breakfast? She padded softly down the stairs and was immediately spotted.

“Oh! Morning!” chirped Leni from behind the counter, standing on a little stool with flour-dusted cheeks and a slice of bread stuffed in one hand. “You’ve got sleepy hair.”

Shade blinked at her. “…I do?”

“Yep,” Leni said cheerfully. “Like a messy crown.”

“Good morning,” Mara said with a knowing smile as she wiped her hands on a cloth.

“Did you sleep well?”

Shade gave a noncommittal shrug. “I need to head out early. I’ll be back before sundown.”

Mara nodded. “You’ve got the token, you’ll be fine. That’ll open more than a few doors if you wave it in the right corners.”

Shade turned slightly, already angling toward the door—but a sharp growl from her stomach stopped her mid-step. The sound echoed embarrassingly loudly in the cozy, morning-lit inn.

“You can’t go out like that!” Leni declared, pointing her fork like a little general. “That’s a hunger-growl. That means food.”

“I’m fine,” Shade muttered, half-turning away.

“Nope,” Leni insisted, hopping down from her stool with flour still smudged across her nose. She marched up, grabbed Shade’s gloved hand, and gave it a tug. “It’s a rule. Breakfast before quests. Or errands. Or spy missions.”

Mara chuckled softly behind them. “Better listen to her. I’ve seen her stage a one-girl rebellion over skipped meals.”

“I believe her,” Shade said dryly, though she let the child tug her gently toward a sunlit table near the window.

The scent of warm food coiled around her like a memory that wasn’t hers. It wasn’t just pleasant—it was comforting. Her throat tightened for a reason she couldn’t name. Mara soon returned with a hearty plate. Eggs peppered with bright green herbs. A rich meat hash browned to crisp edges. Bread with a shimmer of cream cheese and a dollop of dark plum preserve.

Leni climbed into the seat across from her, eyes bright. “That’s the Greyclaw mix. Mom makes it special when the breeze smells like cedar in the morning.”

Shade hesitated, unsure if she could eat in front of someone. In front of anyone. Most meals she remembered were in corners, alone. Silent. Mechanical. But her stomach didn’t care. The first bite was cautious. The second was involuntary. By the third, her shoulders had begun to lower from where they always seemed to sit, tensed near her ears. She didn’t speak. Just chewed slowly, listening to Leni chatter about the bakery boy who always burned his fingers and the funny shapes she saw in last night’s moonlight. She didn’t know if this was what peace tasted like. But for the first time in years, she wasn’t rushing through a meal like it might be her last. And for the first time… She felt full. As Shade pushed the empty plate slightly away, Leni leaned forward, grinning widely with a crumb still stuck to her cheek.

“Now you’re prepared,” the girl said with an air of certainty, folding her arms like a wise old sage. “No one should fight on an empty stomach. That’s what Mom says. It makes your sword wobbly.”

Shade blinked, then—almost imperceptibly—smiled. A small, strange warmth nestled in her chest.

“Wise words,” she said softly, standing and ruffling the girl’s hair before she could think better of it. “I’ll be back later.”

“You better,” Leni said, all mock sternness. “Or I’m sending the kitchen goose to find you.”

“Terrifying.”

She stepped out of the inn, the bell above the door chiming gently in farewell. The street met her with a quiet breeze and the noise of Faeyren beginning to wake. Market stalls clattered open, the clop of hooves echoed against cobblestones, and above it all, sunlight filtered through the maze of rooftops. Shade paused as the warmth touched her face.

And for the first time in years—maybe since her tool carving, or maybe since before the dark room—she realized she could see the hues around her. The amber morning glow, the verdant ivy curling on the archways, the deep indigo sky lifting overhead. Color. The Hollow Vows had taught her in silence, in grayscale. But here, on the stone threshold of the Dragon Tear Inn, something had shifted. She could feel it. She walked forward. Not quickly. Not yet a hunt. Just forward. And the sun followed her all the way.

***

Shade moved through Faeyren’s waking streets like a shadow not yet ready to vanish. The city pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm—vendors hoisting awnings, children weaving between carts, voices rising in foreign accents and bartering tones. It was too much sound, too much life, too much color. Yet she didn’t flee from it. Not today. As she passed a small garden stall tucked beside an alleyway, she stopped without knowing why. A single clay pot rested at the edge, its contents stark against the warm hues of morning. The flowers within were slender, petal-thin, delicate. Silk-white. Not bleached by sun nor dyed by hand—pure from root to bloom. She reached out, not touching, just close enough for the memory to strike.

Hair like snow. Eyes full of sorrow. Arms reaching through the dream.

The white-haired woman—blurred but constant—lingered just behind her eyes. Shade swallowed.

“Moonlace,” the vendor said nearby, noticing her interest. “Rare this time of year. Most think it only grows near graveyards.”

She said nothing. But her gaze lingered, pinned to the petals as if trying to fold the vision back into them. Moonlace. She filed the name away. A sharp scent of citrus and steel drifted from a nearby smithy, dragging her forward again. Faeyren’s layout sprawled like a maze of memory and motion, its air heavy with stories pressed into stone. She passed a young elf playing a lute on a corner, and two dwarves laughing over a cracked mug of morning brew. The world was loud. She wasn’t used to hearing it. Another turn. A woman selling glimmerleaf bark. A child with horns balancing a basket on her tail. Everything layered, vibrant. Everything was flowing as if alive. She’d been trained to ignore beauty. To move through the world unseen, untouched. But that silk-white flower... and the memory it carried… That was different.

She tightened the cloak around her shoulders and let the breeze carry her forward. Somewhere ahead, the apothecary waited. But Faeyren, in its relentless life, was carving away pieces of the shell around her. And something deep within—older than fear, quieter than death—was starting to breathe. The square was already thrumming with noise when Shade stepped into it. Sunlight streamed down between ivory towers and stone arcades, casting golden bars across the cobbles. Market stalls stretched like open mouths, shouting color and scent into the air—roasting nuts, fresh fruit, spiced fish, a cart of tinkling windchimes clinking softly in the breeze. She moved through it with quiet steps, her hood shadowing her face, though few paid her more than a glance. Faeyren was used to strangers, especially quiet ones.

Then she heard the name.

“—Varrek. No mistaking it now. Gellric made the report himself.”

She slowed.

A pair of workers stood near a fountain—one a half-orc with sleeves rolled, the other a tall woman in trader’s garb, their voices low but distinct.

“Think the bastard finally got what was coming?” the woman asked, sipping from a tin cup.

“More like someone didn’t care for his leash too tight. You hear what Gellric said? Found him split clean open, and no one saw who did it.”

A pause.

“They’ll know soon,” the half-orc said with a grin. “Word’s already buzzing that the ghost girl in black’s tied to it somehow. The one Gellric vouched for. Can’t hide long in a city like this, not with eyes like Faeyren’s.”

Shade didn’t flinch. But she adjusted her stride and kept walking. Quicker now. She wasn’t surprised that Gellric had reported the kill—his word was gold, and it was the only way to keep her sanctioned here under his guild’s name. But people were already talking. Already curiously wondering. She slipped through the crowd like smoke curling around a stone. People looked at her now with curiosity, not fear. But curiosity could turn to suspicion faster than a knife could find a throat. And if they connected the dots… It wouldn’t just be her name in the rumors. The inn. Leni. Mara. She clenched her jaw and turned another corner toward the western side of the city, where the old alchemy lanes sloped down into twisted alleys and herbal storefronts. She needed answers. Remedies. Anything to balance the storm she’d stepped into. And she needed to get to the apothecary before the whispers caught up to her.

Already, the square was shifting—like water reacting to a dropped stone. She felt it in the way conversations paused as she passed too near, in how glances lingered just a breath too long. Her hood shaded her face, but not her presence. A shadow moving without haste, too silent for a city that never stopped talking. News of Varrek’s end had begun to spread. Gellric had filed the incident formally, naming the fallen as part of the Galvira bandits—a known group with bounties on their heads. No one wept for Varrek. But people whispered. They whispered because someone had taken him down alone. And that someone had vanished into the crowd like smoke. Speculation danced on the air—Hunters Guild prodigy? A bounty mage? A rogue operative from Containe? Theories bloomed like weeds in the minds of those with too much time and too little certainty. She crossed into the lower market lanes where the stone underfoot turned rougher, mismatched with time and foot traffic. Herbal scents clung to the air here—smoke, crushed leaves, bitter root teas steeping on corner fires. An older part of Faeyren. Less polished, more honest.

She slowed only once. A merchant’s cart had overturned ahead, spilling woven scarves and jars of colored powder across the cobbles. A child darted after a bouncing apple, her laughter bright as a bell. No one screamed. No guards came running. Just small chaos, the kind cities birthed each hour. Shade watched for a moment longer than necessary. The girl’s giggle echoed strangely in her ears. Not because it reminded her of Leni, but because it didn’t feel like the kind of sound that belonged in her world.

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You're becoming aware, something whispered inside her. Of the things they tried to take.

She turned and moved on. No more hesitating. The apothecary was tucked close somewhere behind the gnarled tree that bent over the lane like it had bowed to time and refused to rise. The shop beyond it was nameless. Hidden unless you knew where to look, and she did. Or rather, something inside her did. The crystal pulsed faintly beneath her skin—not with pain, but with recognition.

***

She moved past the gnarled tree and stepped through the unmarked door beneath its shadowed boughs. A single chime rang—deep, low, and strange. Not from above like a bell, but somewhere behind the walls. Like something within the house acknowledged her presence. It was dim inside. Not dark—never quite dark—but layered in old warmth and older magic. The walls were uneven stone, covered in ivy and curled parchment, some written in runes too old to name. The air was thick with the perfume of earth and crushed herbs—moss, myrrh, burning mint. No one greeted her immediately, nor did Shade call out. She simply stood there, letting the room breathe her in as she did the same. There were shelves—hundreds of them—crowded with jars of bone dust, petals, coiled roots, dried berries, curled claws, bits of antler, and delicate vials filled with pale golden or deep black fluids that seemed to swirl with their own weight. Then she felt the presence. Not footsteps, not breath—but gravity. From the back of the shop, past a half-curtained archway, a voice emerged like slow thunder wrapped in silk.

“You’ve walked with death long enough, little wolf,” it said, ageless and knowing. “Time you looked in the water and asked what still lives.”

The Apothecary didn’t step into the light. She didn’t need to. Her presence rolled forward like the tide, ancient and heavy. She didn’t offer her name. Only motioned for Shade to follow with one ink-stained hand curling like a beckon. Shade obeyed, silent, as if anything louder would shatter the moment. The chamber beyond was circular, ringed with unlit candles and lined with skins bearing inked diagrams of human anatomy overlaid with ley lines and moon phases. At its center sat a pedestal bowl, carved from mirrorstone. Within it, the water shimmered unnaturally, still and radiant, like it remembered light from a better age.

“Look,” the woman said simply.

Shade stepped forward, pulse tightening in her neck. She leaned in. The water cleared to nothing but her reflection, now framed in shadow and silver. She stared. Not at the scars. Not at the eyes that never softened. But the stillness beneath them. A stillness shaped by knives, silence, and stolen choices.

The apothecary moved. Silent as settling dust. She set three glass vials before the bow, each resting in a cradle of braided reeds. One shimmered with pale green, the next with molten amber, the last with a deep violet so dark it drank the light.

“Three regrets,” the old woman said. “Two cannot be made undone, The third remains to be seen.”

Shade didn’t look away from the bowl.

The apothecary gestured faintly to the first vial. “This—” The green one pulsed like a living thing. “—for what was taken without your consent. A body bent beneath fire and command. You drank when told to, wore skin stitched from survival. It is owed to you, this healing. Not a reward. A reckoning.”

She did not touch the vial.

The second one, the amber one, cast its glow upward, catching in Shade’s cheekbones like firelight. The apothecary's voice took on a tone that almost sounded like pity.

“This is the memory you left in the stone. Not by choice. Not by force. But by need. The moment you forgot the doll...You forgot warmth. You forgot the weight of arms meant to protect. That warmth is not lost. Only... buried.”

Shade’s throat tightened. The apothecary finally turned her clouded gaze to the last vial. The violet potion. It didn’t glow. It devoured.

“And this,” she whispered, almost too softly to hear, “this is the moment still stalking your path. A choice not yet made. A thread not yet cut.”

Her hand hovered over it but did not touch.

“With my aid, you may yet step around it.”

Shade blinked. “What is it?”

The old woman smiled.

“Ask not the web where it ends, when your foot is still above the strand.”

A silence pressed between them.

Then she added, a whisper like falling ash, “One more heart can be spared. If your own still knows how to beat.”

Shade didn’t move. The light shifted in the room—not from any flame, but from the breathless hush that clung to every hanging bundle of herbs, every jar crowding the shelves. Even the mirrorwater had gone still, no longer reflecting her face. Just dark and ripples. Her hand twitched. She didn’t reach for the vials. The apothecary spoke again, not unkindly.

“The first is needed,” she said. “Without it, your body will fall before your name ever rises.”

Shade’s eyes fell to the green vial. It pulsed faintly. It smelled of iron and wild mint and something that reminded her of blood and winter rain. Of the dark room. Of the fire that never touched her skin but burned beneath it all the same.

“It will hurt,” the Apothecary added. “What is broken must be broken further, to mend true. But you were carved to endure, weren’t you?”

Shade didn’t answer. Her gaze shifted to the amber vial—the one of memory.

“It, too, must be taken,” the Seer murmured. “For the past you buried will grow teeth in the dark if left unfed. You must remember what was warm, so the cold cannot claim you whole.”

Shade clenched her jaw. The Apothecary gently tapped the final vial with one long nail. The violet one.

“This,” she said, “is not for now. This must sleep.”

Shade finally looked up.

“Where?”

The apothecary’s cloudy eyes focused more clearly than they should have been able to.

“Hide it where only your heart can lead another. Where your fear and your hope once met.”

She turned slightly, voice thinning to smoke.

“And if no one finds it,” she added, “perhaps that means you never lost them to begin with.”

Shade swallowed. She did not take the vials. Not yet. But she was listening now. Her fingers curled around the green vial. It pulsed against her skin—hotter now, like it sensed what she was about to do. She uncorked it slowly. The scent hit her first: bitter, sweet, wrong. Like rotting flowers folded in honey.

“Drink it here,” the apothecary said, not a request. “This room will catch what your body casts off.”

Shade didn’t ask what that meant. She drank. It was fire and ice and iron shards. Her throat seized. Her chest buckled. And for a breathless second, her vision bloomed white with pain. Then black. Then— Relief.

The tension in her limbs shattered like glass under heat. Her skin sizzled, then cooled. Her back straightened without effort. Her muscles, bruised and strained from the last few days, stitched themselves into something stronger. Scars—old ones—melted from her skin like wax. And beneath the healed flesh, carved black runes emerged. Crawling up her arms. Over her back. Across her ribs like barbed wire. Shade flinched. The pain was gone, but her heartbeat stumbled. The apothecary said nothing. She only lifted one hand, whispering soft words like folded leaves in the wind. The air shimmered, and the runes disappeared—buried again under illusion. Shade could feel them still. But the world would not.

“Thank you,” she murmured, voice hollow.

The second vial. Amber. Her hand shook, just a little, when she opened it. This one was scentless. But when it touched her tongue, she tasted ash. And dust. And warmth. Something stirred behind her eyes. She saw the doll again. The tunnels. The hands that took her. The cold that never left. And the warmth that had been replaced. She choked down the rest.

The apothecary spoke softly. “Memory is a blade. Dull or sharp, it cuts.”

Shade looked at the final vial. The violet one.

“Drink not now,” the apothecary said again, brushing past her with that same otherworldly grace. “Hide it where your heart once waited. One day, when the light blinds you and you see the tree bloom without sun, you will be thirsty.”

Shade held it close for a moment. Then slipped it into her coat, against her chest. The apothecary didn’t watch her. She was already moving, already somewhere else in the room. Yet her words followed:

“You carry three regrets,” she said, voice faraway. “Two made. One still yours to shape.”

A pause.

“And when the knife returns to the dark room, only one of those will save you.”

Shade’s breath caught—but she said nothing. The Apothecary gestured once more.

“Go.”

And Shade turned to leave, unaware that behind her, the mirrorwater pulsed once, then went still. Shade moved toward the door, feeling the weight of the strange revelations still settling in her chest. The air outside seemed distant, as if she were stepping between worlds. Just before she reached the threshold, a gentle voice called out behind her.

“Wait a moment, please.”

She turned to see a young half-elf standing hesitantly in the corner, clutching a stack of dusty books awkwardly against his chest. His pale, pointed ears peeked from under unruly chestnut hair, and his wide green eyes held a mixture of nervous curiosity and quiet hope.

“I… um, I just wanted to say—sorry if Grandma seemed a bit… unusual today.” His cheeks flushed slightly as he shuffled forward. “She’s, well… she’s been smoking some hash to ease her mind, I think. It helps with the visions and riddles, but it makes her rather… eccentric.”

Shade blinked, caught off guard by the blunt honesty.

The apprentice cleared his throat, adjusting his round spectacles. “I’m Eryx. I assist her, mostly with research and organizing. I’ve noticed that folks often leave here burdened, but you look like you’ve gained something… or at least maybe a bit of relief?”

Shade’s eyes narrowed just a touch but softened at his earnestness. A brief, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.

“I’ll be back,” she said quietly.

Eryx’s smile widened with relief, and he gave a small bow.

“Good. I’ll look forward to it.”

With that, Shade stepped out into the light, the weight of the apothecary’s riddles and potions still swirling behind her — but for the first time, not entirely alone.

***

The Mage Society towered above most of Faeyren’s skyline — a fusion of ancient stone and shimmering arcane crystal. Softly glowing runes pulsed in its walls, shifting with the rhythm of day and tide, giving the entire structure a breath-like cadence. Shade walked beneath its high archway entrance, feeling the soft buzz of magical wards brushing against her skin like static. It was a subtle warning: You are being watched. The interior was colder than the city outside, not from temperature but tone — sterile, efficient, humming with quiet power. Ranks of robed mages bustled through wide halls lined with glass cases and enchanted diagrams that floated mid-air. Whispered lectures, experimental murmurs, and the rustle of paper carried through the air like incense. Shade made her way to the front desk, where a thin man in silver-trimmed robes glanced up over a ledger. His eyes, ringed with age and mana-fatigue, took her measure in one long sweep.

“Name?”

“Shade.” The word left her lips instinctively. Not her birth name. Not anymore.

“Affiliation?”

“Independent.”

“Specialization?”

“Lightning,” she said. A moment of stillness. “I use it internally—for movement.”

His pen paused. “That’s rare. You’ll need to demonstrate.” He gestured toward a circular testing chamber, ten feet wide, ringed by faintly glowing wards.

Shade stepped inside. She closed her eyes for a moment, focusing not on dama, but on memory. Her body moved, flickering — one step to the left, and then a blur to the right. Lightning sparked faintly along her arms, a controlled discharge. The energy hissed against the warded floor, but didn’t scorch it. It was enough.

The clerk scribbled, impressed. “Functional combat enhancement. Not much range, but potent in close quarters.”

“Exactly,” Shade replied.

He stamped a small silver seal on a parchment and slid it across the desk toward her. “Temporary license issued. If you’re planning to operate within Faeyren’s walls, it must be renewed monthly. Guild recommendation improves rank.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said with a nod, pocketing the parchment.

As she exited the chamber, the weight of the tower faded behind her, replaced by the golden stretch of the late afternoon sun. The once-vibrant city had softened — its edges blurred with the onset of dusk. Lanterns were beginning to flicker to life, and vendors were folding their stalls, voices rich with end-of-day banter. Shade glanced up at the sky, a mix of violet and gold. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been out. Her stomach growled, loud and insistent. For once, she didn’t ignore it. Dinner. A strange thought curled through her chest — she was looking forward to it.

***

The Dragon Tear Inn came into view just as the sky began to melt into dusk, soft amber light spilling over cobblestones. Shade's steps slowed, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to returning—how the idea of dinner, of home, tugged at her. Inside, the usual clatter and chatter greeted her. The hearth was roaring, and the savory scent of roasting meats and flaky pastry hung thick in the air. But something was off. Leni wasn’t humming. Shade approached the counter where Mara was wiping her hands on her apron. The woman looked up, smiling at first, then faltering.

“Evenin’, dear. Greyclaw Meat Pie again?”

Shade nodded. “Yeah. Guess I’m getting used to it.”

Mara tilted her head with a knowing smirk. “You sure you’re not from there? You’ve already had two slices this week.”

Shade’s eyes dropped slightly. “I’m… not sure where I’m from,” she admitted quietly. “But it feels familiar. Like I should be.”

Mara’s expression softened, warm and mothering. “Well, if this pie’s helping you find your way home, I’ll keep baking 'em.” She turned back toward the kitchen. “One Greyclaw coming right up.”

When she returned a few minutes later with the steaming pie in hand, Shade reached out instinctively—but Mara didn’t let go.

“Wait,” she said gently. “Could I ask a favor?”

Shade blinked. “Sure.”

Mara sighed. “Leni’s upstairs. In your room. We just got word—her uncle passed. Darrek. Commander out at Bastion’s Keep.”

Something twinged in Shade’s chest.

“She hasn’t come out since she heard. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t even talk to me.” Mara looked down at the pie. “But then I thought… maybe she needs an emergency pie. Like the one she brought you.”

Shade understood immediately. Without a word, she took the whole pie carefully in her arms and made her way upstairs. The door to her room was slightly ajar. Inside, Leni sat curled against the pillow Shade had used the night before, eyes red, nose tucked into her knees. Shade stepped in softly, the pie warm in her hands.

“I brought you something,” she said gently.

Leni looked up, blinking. Her lip trembled. “Is that—?”

“Emergency pie,” Shade said, her voice quieter than usual. “For sad people.”

Leni let out a tiny sound—half a laugh, half a sob. Shade came to sit on the floor beside the bed, just like Leni had done that first night. She set the pie down between them. They didn’t say much else. The grief was real, heavy. But the pie helped. It wasn’t just food. It was a gesture. A memory returned. A promise, however small, that neither of them had to face the sadness alone. Leni dozed off curled beside her, fingers still lightly dusted with crumbs. The pie sat mostly untouched now, cooling slowly between them. Shade remained upright, back against the wall, eyes fixed on nothing. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn’t want to close her eyes. She wouldn't sleep tonight. She couldn’t. The weight in her chest wasn’t fear, or pain, or even the familiar pull of the nightmares. It was something new. Guilt. It sat inside her like a blade buried hilt-deep—silent, but unignorable. No blood. No wound she could see. But the ache was there. Deep. She hadn’t known Darrek was Leni’s uncle. Hadn’t cared who he was when she slit his throat in the Bastion fog. He’d been a name on a mission. A body between her and the door. But now… A soft sniffle broke the silence. Then another. Leni, shifting under the blanket, face pinched with quiet grief even in sleep. Shade hesitated only a moment, then slid down off the wall and onto the bed. She lay beside her, arm carefully circling the little girl’s trembling frame. Leni turned instinctively into the embrace, small hands curling into Shade’s shirt, breath hitching in half-formed sobs. She didn’t wake—but she wept. Shade held her close, a foreign ache blooming behind her ribs. She had never been anyone’s protector. Only a blade. Only the shadow. But tonight, she held something fragile. Something warm. Something real. And in doing so, she felt like she was breaking. She didn’t sleep. She only held Leni while the tears came soft and slow, like rain against stone. The pie went cold on the table. And guilt curled tighter in her chest than any blade ever had.