Cale moved through the city with purpose, slipping between crowds and weaving past carts as the sun dipped low on the horizon. The early night had come by the time he reached the Sunwalk Gate, the towering archway that marked the threshold between the Outer Districts and the Middle Ring of the city—The Crescentring.

  The gate stood tall and regal, carved from sun-kissed stone that shimmered gold at dawn and dusk. Intricate reliefs of phoenixes and rising suns adorned its columns, symbolizing renewal, trade, and the heartbeat of civilization. Merchants and couriers bustled beneath it, their voices blending into a chorus of commerce and ambition. Beyond the gate lay The Crescentring—the city’s vibrant core, home to sprawling trade markets, artisan guilds, bustling workshops, and the central guildhalls that pulsed like arteries through the capital.

  Cale and Moon had passed through this gate earlier today to visit the old seamstress who had tailored the triplets’ clothes and adjusted Moon’s robes with gentle, knowing hands.

  Now, alone in the fading light, Cale searched the crowd. Not with his eyes—but with something deeper.

  He found Ardan not by face, but by his soul—a brilliant flame that burned like a torch amidst flickering fireflies.

  Cale moved toward him with careful, measured steps, keeping his presence inconspicuous. Ardan noticed him and casually turned, slipping into a side alley without a word. Cale followed.

  "How are the rescued people?" Cale asked softly once they were away from prying eyes.

  "I took good care of them," Ardan replied, folding his arms. "They’re resting in a rented mansion near the west quarter. Guards patrol the perimeter—just in case Vaelric’s friends come looking for answers. I hired the best people I could find."

  "Thank you," Cale said sincerely.

  He reached into his robes and pulled out a rolled parchment. With a practiced hand, he unrolled it and held it up for Ardan to see.

  "This is a map of the tunnels sprawling beneath the city," Cale explained, pointing to symbols marked in charcoal and red ink. "Here—these marks show traps or possible ambush sites. And this..." he pressed his finger to one particular symbol, circled in iron-gray ink, "is where Vaelric’s old hideout was."

  He handed the map to Ardan.

  Ardan took the parchment, then clasped Cale’s hand in silent acknowledgment before turning and disappearing down the alley.

  Cale took a different route, heading toward home.

  As he walked, he stopped by a nearly closed stall lit by the dying amber of the sun. He purchased dried meat and legumes, thinking about the girls. He planned to cook something warm for them—quiet evening meal.

  Then, without warning, a strong gust of wind swept through the narrow street. A nearby fruit vendor cried out as his wooden stall was toppled over, apples and oranges rolling across the cobblestones.

  Without hesitation, Cale rushed forward. He knelt down and began gathering fruit, setting it back into baskets. A few others joined him—an old woman, a boy no older than ten. Together, they righted the stall and picked up what they could.

  The vendor, breathless and wide-eyed, looked at Cale and placed a hand over his heart. "Thank you, lad. Truly. Take these."

  He handed Cale a small basket filled with ripe fruit—apples, pears, and a few soft plums.

  Cale gave a small smile. "Thanks."

  As he turned back down the street, arms full of supplies, he felt something stir in his chest. Not a vision, not a memory—just the quiet, steady warmth of having helped someone.

  Cale stepped through the front door of Meli’s house, a faint smile on his face, arms full of fruit and ingredients. The warmth of the early night clung to his coat, and he felt lighter than he had in days. He had planned to surprise them.

  But the moment he stepped inside, his smile faltered.

  The sound hit him first.

  Crying.

  High, sharp, panicked sobs.

  The triplets were huddled on the floor around Moon, clutching at her shirt, their small faces streaked with tears. Moon sat motionless, her hands limp in her lap and her lips pressed tightly together.

  Meli sat nearby, silent, staring into the fire. Her eyes were bloodshot, face pale and drawn. She didn’t even look up when he entered.

  Something was wrong.

  Something was very wrong.

  Cale’s eyes scanned the room. The basket of blankets was overturned. The soft little cloth doll was lying on the floor.

  And the baby boy—the one that terrified woman had shoved into Moon’s arms—was gone.

  The house was too quiet.

  "What... what happened?" he asked, voice hollow.

  Moon looked up at him. Her face was pale with shock and only more tears fell.

  One of the triplets—Lina—rushed to him and hug him, tight, followed by sob. Trough sobs she finally told him where the baby boy was.. "He’s gone ... the baby’s gone."

  Cale’s hands went numb. The basket fell from his arms, fruit spilling across the wooden floor.

  Meli turned toward him, her voice barely above a whisper, rough and tired. "His fever spiked. We rushed him to Ulbart the moment it turned. But it was too late. He died on that table."

  Silence.

  Moon broke into sobs, her body shaking as she clung to the girls. The triplets cried louder, their small voices rising in heart-wrenching chorus.

  Cale stood frozen, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and pain.

  That small, fragile life—so new, so innocent—was gone. Not even a name to carry him beyond the grave.

  Cale stepped forward slowly, like a man wading into an icy river. He dropped to his knees beside them and pulled them all into his arms. Moon. The girls. Their grief.

  He didn’t speak. There were no words that could unmake death.

  Only silence, the fire’s crackle, and the shared ache of loss.

  He held them as they wept and stared into the flames.

  No laughter. No babbling. Just emptiness where life had once stirred.

  He was supposed to protect them. All of them. What good was power if it couldn’t hold onto something so small?

  That night, after the house had gone still and the fire’s glow had faded to embers, Cale lay in uneasy rest. But his soul refused to be still.

  A vision seized him—not like the soft echoes of the past that crept through dreams, but like a blade driven straight into his heart.

  He was no longer a boy. He was no longer flesh and blood.

  He was fury forged in steel—a titan of living metal, shaped from darkened iron and glowing veins of molten silver. His footsteps thundered through the metallic halls of the Pyrosol Crown, each stride deforming the floor beneath him.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He ran—his desperation making the walls tremble with every step.

  At the end of the corridor, twin golden doors loomed.

  He didn’t stop. His armored form tore through them like parchment.

  The chamber inside was bathed in sacred light—and absolute silence.

  And it was broken.

  On a raised altar at the heart of the chamber, she lay.

  The Oracle.

  Her body rested gently, as if merely sleeping—but the stillness was too complete.

  Her dress shimmered as though spun from crystal, casting rainbow light across the marble floor. Each thread refracted the lingering magic, scattering fractured beams across the chamber’s metallic walls. Her hair flowed like waves of moonlit water, pale blue and radiant, fanned around her like a halo.

  But no light touched her cheeks.

  No breath stirred her chest.

  There was no scent of incense. Only metal and silence.

  She was gone.

  A sound escaped him—something between a roar and a sob. He stumbled forward, knees crashing against the stone, clawed hands trembling as they reached for her.

  He touched her face.

  Cold.

  His voice cracked as he whispered her name again and again, as if the repetition might unravel death’s grip.

  He had failed.

  The one he had sworn to protect—the one who once smiled at him with such pure love—was lost.

  His soul cracked.

  Grief tore through him, a cry rising from his chest that shook the chamber like a quake.

  Metal peeled and cracked across his arms, the sheer force of his rage deforming his frame.

  Sadness twisted into fury.

  “I will destroy them,” he thundered. “Whoever did this—their souls will suffer under my wrath!”

  The words echoed endlessly.

  The walls had no answer.

  Only silence. And her stillness.

  Then, the vision shattered.

  Cale awoke with a gasp, tears streaming down his face.

  The room was dark.

  But his hands still trembled with the weight of memory—the love and the loss.

  His hand reached toward Moon’s, fingers trembling slightly.

  "Naeloria," Cale whispered. "They will never hurt you again."

  Moon’s eyes slowly opened, wide and silver like twin moons on still water. They looked at him—through him—as though remembering something older than her own lifetime.

  For a brief moment, her image shimmered. Superimposed. A second face, ethereal, layered over her own. Familiar.

  It made Cale’s chest ache. His head throbbed with the weight of memory not fully formed.

  "I know," Moon said. Her voice was like flowing water, soft and musical.

  He blinked.

  She was asleep again. Her breathing steady, her lashes resting against her cheeks.

  He stared up at the ceiling, heart unsteady.

  “Who am I?” he asked himself.

  Morning came.

  Cale made his way to Ulbart’s clinic.

  Outside the building, a few people lingered—about a dozen. They coughed into cloths, rubbed at their temples, or cradled children in their arms. Most were pale. Gaunt. Dark rings beneath their eyes betrayed sleepless nights and spreading dread.

  He waited.

  The air smelled of sweat, copper, and damp cloth.

  More people are getting sick, Cale thought grimly.

  It took a long while before he could get inside. The waiting room buzzed with low voices and strained breathing.

  When Cale finally entered, Ulbart was moving rapidly between two patients. One was trembling violently, the other sweating through her clothes. The healer worked like a man possessed—administering potions, adjusting rune-etched tools that pulsed softly with magic, scribbling down symptoms on a stained ledger.

  Eventually, Ulbart turned toward him, eyes bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion.

  "You don’t look sick," he said, not unkindly.

  "What happened to the baby?" Cale asked, voice flat and distant. There was no time for formality.

  Ulbart hesitated. He rubbed a hand down his face, the weight of the death heavy on his shoulders.

  "I’m very sorry for what happened to him... that I couldn’t save him," Ulbart said, jaw tense.

  Cale’s stomach twisted. Seeing the healer—usually composed and focused—reduced to this state made it all the more real.

  "Where is his body?"

  Ulbart didn’t answer immediately. His silence said enough. Then—

  "I informed the guards," he murmured. "They took him as per regulation. Bodies of those who die of sickness... are to be burned."

  The room felt colder.

  Cale remembered the baby’s small hand gripping Moon’s sleeve—a tiny, silent plea for safety. Now, that life was gone. Nothing left but smoke and ash.

  He didn’t say more. He nodded once and stepped outside.

  As he exited, he caught the eye of the next man in line and gestured for him to go in. Then Cale just stood there, the weight in his chest anchoring him to the ground.

  Back at Meli’s house, the atmosphere was heavy.

  Cale sat quietly on a small wooden chair, running a hand through his black hair as he searched for the right words.

  "I spoke to Ulbart," he said softly. "He told me he handed the body over to the guards..."

  He paused, his gaze drifting to the triplets who sat together on the floor, their eyes rimmed red.

  "To burn it," he finished, barely more than a whisper.

  Senn’s face tightened. "Why would they need to do that?"

  "Ulbart said... it’s the rule," Cale answered. "Those who die of sickness are to be burned. It’s how the city handles it."

  "What horseshit rule," Senn hissed, her voice cracking with fury.

  "Senn!" Lira barked, shocked.

  Senn scoffed and looked away.

  "Senn doesn’t handle sadness well," Veyra said quietly, glancing at her sister.

  "No, I don’t," Senn replied. There was no fight in her tone—just pain.

  Veyra didn’t respond. She only looked down.

  Cale watched them in silence.

  They needed something—anything—to remind them that life still held warmth.

  He cleared his throat gently. "There’s a marathon scheduled today... starts around midday, I think. It’s supposed to go through the upper square. Do you want to go see it? Might be something worth watching."

  The girls looked at him, then at each other.

  Lira nodded first, slow and hesitant.

  Senn gave a half-shrug but didn’t protest.

  Veyra nodded too.

  Then their gazes turned toward Meli, who had remained quiet until now.

  She spoke with a voice both worn and resolute.

  "The best way to honor those we’ve lost... is to choose life while we still have it," Meli said, her eyes unfocused, staring at something distant.

  "I saw too many friends die in that cursed dungeon. I carried their names, their stories. And if I had let grief root itself too deep in me... I would’ve given up long before I lost my leg."

  She took a long, shuddering breath.

  "We carry them forward not by mourning forever, but by walking forward—breathing, laughing, living—for them."

  Cale looked at her then, respect in his eyes.

  And the girls—still broken, still healing—seemed a little less frozen in their pain.

  Outside, the bells rang in the distant plaza.

  The day was moving forward.

  So would they.

  Moon walked beside Cale, her hand drifting close to his, brushing against it from time to time as her gaze wandered curiously across the plaza.

  The triplets walked ahead, moving as a tight-knit trio, their wide eyes bouncing from color to color, sound to sound, each corner of the plaza offering something new. Their laughter, though still fragile, felt like the first warm breeze after a bitter winter.

  The square was alive.

  A small festival had taken hold—street vendors called out in rhythmic chants, food carts sizzled with strange meats and fragrant spices, and performers in glittering costumes spun fire and sound through the air. Everyone wore masks—bright, absurd, seductive, terrifying. Colors clashed beautifully—feathers, beads, paint, and silk. The scent of roasted nuts and spiced wine filled the air.

  A girl—or perhaps a woman—spun into view, her face hidden behind a blazing phoenix mask. She danced like fire incarnate, swirling long flaming ribbons through the air with a dancer’s grace. Her red hair was tied back, blazing like her fire, and for the briefest moment, her bright green eyes locked with his.

  "Mirelle," Cale whispered.

  A flood of memory rose—Mirelle’s laughter, Davion’s quiet bravery, Tristan’s sharp defiance. Friends. Companions. People who had left deep marks on his soul.

  So much had happened. Too much.

  Where are they now? he wondered. The question clung to him like smoke.

  Moon looked up at him, sensing something.

  "That performer reminds me of a friend," Cale explained, voice soft.

  Moon gave a small nod and followed his gaze, then looked away respectfully, giving him space.

  They wandered for a while. The triplets found a merchant handing out small caramel-dipped apples and returned proudly with one each. Lira held hers like a treasure, Veyra was already licking hers with silent delight, and Senn made a face, pretending not to care even as she nibbled.

  Cale let himself laugh. Really laugh.

  For a moment the grief—it fell away.

  Veyra tugged at Cale’s sleeve, pointing excitedly at a puppet show in the distance. Lira was laughing—really laughing—for the first time since the baby had died. Even Senn cracked a half-smile before covering it with a scowl.

  Then he heard it.

  A violin.

  Slow, weeping notes floated through the plaza, carrying a weight that made the air itself still. The melody was paired with a voice—weathered, melodic, tinged with sorrow and reverence.

  Cale turned toward the sound, pulled by something deeper than memory.

  There he was.

  Pio.

  The old man’s frame was thin, his spine slightly stooped. His grey hair was thinning and wispy in the breeze. His eyes—milky, blind—gazed into the nothingness ahead. But he smiled as he played, his bow gliding across the strings like a lover’s hand, coaxing sorrow and joy from the instrument with equal grace.

  The crowd stood spellbound. Cale joined them, remaining at the edge, silent.

  Pio was a legend, once master to Erel Vann—the man whose soul Cale had freed from its torment.

  He must’ve come for the festival, Cale thought.

  The music built to a final note, then slowly faded like a candle’s last flicker. The crowd erupted in applause, loud and warm. Pio bowed with flourish, his grin playful and theatrical.

  Even though he couldn’t see, Cale could tell he felt the appreciation in the vibrations, in the heat of the moment.

  As the crowd dispersed, Cale moved closer.

  "Master Pio," he said, voice steady but low.

  The old man tilted his head, turning toward him. "Hello, young man," he said. "Your voice is unfamiliar to me. Have we met before?"

  Cale hesitated, then answered, "No, but I met one of your students. Erel Vann."

  At the name, a shadow passed over Pio’s smile. His shoulders sagged. One hand gently touched the edge of his glassy eye.

  "Yes... Erel," he said softly. "He was a good man. Stubborn as a hammer’s echo, but full of music. I hope he found peace, wherever he is now."

  Cale opened his mouth—but the words caught.

  How do you explain that you saw his soul? That you witnessed his suffering—and freed him from it?

  He said nothing. Just placed a hand gently on Pio’s shoulder.

  The old bard’s blind eyes lifted, and for a moment, Cale thought he almost sensed the truth.

  Pio smiled—faintly, sadly. "You have a kind presence, young man. That’s rare these days. Keep walking the song you carry. It’ll take you where you need to go."

  Cale nodded, throat tight.