The quiet of the room was the first thing that felt real.
After mist and screaming steel, after the shrieks of the dead and the voice of an unholy greed clawing at his mind — the silence was almost painful in its stillness.
Koda sat on the edge of the bed, armor half-peeled from his body. His shoulders were bare now, streaked with dried blood and cracked bruises. His left side had been hastily bandaged earlier, and the cloth was soaked through.
His breath came evenly, but shallow. His hands were still. Not relaxed — never relaxed — but no longer trembling.
Behind him, the door clicked shut.
Maia stepped into the room, her hands already moving with quiet purpose.
She had changed — armor gone, replaced with loose linen, pale gray. Her hair was damp, tucked behind her ears, her skin washed clean of blood and soot. But her eyes… her eyes were heavier than they had ever been.
She crossed the room without a word, kneeling beside the bed and reaching for the pack she'd set down earlier.
Koda watched her in the reflection of the window.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
"Take off the rest," Maia said softly, not looking at him.
Koda complied, grimacing as he shifted. The obsidian chestplate was heavier now, its enchantments dim, its surface marred with ash, grime, and the etched burns of necrotic flame.
His tunic peeled away next, damp and clinging to his skin where blood had dried and crusted in dark sheets.
Maia's fingers touched his side before she spoke again.
"I need to cut the wrap."
"Do it."
She drew a small blade, the edge glowing faintly with her magic, and sliced through the cloth with practiced ease.
The wound beneath was angry, red around the edges, where the soulblade had cut through armor and scraped bone. But even as she pulled the last of the bandage free, the skin was already knitting together — slowly, visibly.
Maia let out a small breath, brushing her hand across the injury.
A warm light sparked under her touch.
"You're healing faster than you should," she murmured.
He nodded. "Unbroken Vow helps. So do you."
She didn't answer, just leaned in closer.
Her magic pulsed through him — a steady thrum, not just of energy, but of intention.
Not a spell. Not a command.
A promise.
Koda exhaled, letting the tension fall from his shoulders by degrees. Each place she touched him burned clean. The pain softened — dulled — but didn't vanish.
He didn't want it to.
It reminded him that he was still alive.
Still whole.
Still here.
When she reached his back, she didn't speak at first.
But her hands were slower.
Gentler.
He had taken two lashes of pure darkfire between the shoulder blades. The skin there was torn in uneven patches, charred at the edges, not deep enough to kill but deep enough to scar.
Unless she stopped it.
And she could have.
Easily.
"Leave those," Koda said softly.
Maia froze.
He turned slightly, meeting her eyes over his shoulder.
"They should stay."
Maia's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"So I don't forget."
Her hands lowered, resting lightly at his spine.
"I don't think you could forget," she whispered.
"Maybe not," he said. "But this makes sure."
She leaned forward then, resting her forehead between his shoulder blades.
He didn't move.
"You almost didn't come back," she said.
"I did."
"You almost didn't."
Her voice trembled now. "Koda, if you hadn't—"
"I did."
The silence stretched again.
Longer.
Deeper.
She didn't cry.
He didn't apologize.
They simply stayed that way, together in a stillness carved out of the war outside.
When she finally pulled away, she sat beside him on the bed.
"I could heal the rest," she said softly.
"I know."
"But I'm not going to."
He turned to look at her.
She met his gaze.
"Because you're not done hurting," she said. "And I can't fix what pain is still holding you together."
Koda reached out then, his hand closing over hers.
Their fingers laced without force.
He pulled her closer — not hungrily, not desperately.
Just close.
Like gravity.
She lay with him, side by side on the bed, her head resting just beneath his shoulder, one arm across his stomach. His hand found its place against the small of her back.
Their breaths synced.
Their heartbeats slowed.
No words.
No illusions.
Just warmth.
And weight.
They slept that way for a few hours.
Not deeply — the kind of sleep survivors earned.
But it was enough.
When Koda opened his eyes again, the light outside the window had shifted.
Late afternoon.
Still enough time to move.
He didn't stir immediately.
Just watched the ceiling, listened to the faint noise of the city rebuilding around them.
People were working. Hammering. Hauling. Cooking.
Living.
Maia stirred beside him. Her voice was a whisper.
"You're not staying, are you?"
"No."
She sat up, brushing hair from her eyes.
Koda rose after her, moving slowly, stretching each muscle like it was waking from its own separate dream.
They dressed again, this time not in armor, but clean clothes provided by the Order — simple and dark. Formal, in a way. But mobile.
He adjusted his cloak, checked the weight of his twin blades still on the stand beside the door.
Maia laced her gloves carefully, wrapping her hair back with a strip of cloth before turning to face him.
"You think they'll follow you?"
He looked at her.
And didn't answer right away.
Then, simply: "I think they'll want the truth."
She nodded once, stepping to the door and opening it.
The corridor beyond was dim, but warm.
Faint torchlight flickered along the stone walls, casting shadows toward the spiral stairs that would lead them down.
The team was waiting.
And the war would not wait long.
The seven of them gathered in one of the Order's reserved briefing rooms — a long stone table, no banners, just torchlight and the quiet weight of shared memory.
Koda stood at the head, hands braced on the table. He looked over each of them, letting silence settle a moment before speaking.
"I called you here," he said quietly, "because I owe you all a choice. You've given everything I could've asked for — more than that. You stood with me through things that should've broken us."
His eyes passed over Eno, who leaned back in his seat, silent as ever.
Seta beside him, arms folded, jaw set but her eyes… softer than usual.
Renn, her bow across her back again now, posture relaxed but watchful.
And Elise — calm, unreadable, but very much here.
"You've done enough," Koda said. "More than enough. And it's time you get to go home."
The words hit like a hammer, even though they'd all expected them.
Seta was the first to speak, arms still crossed. "You sure?"
"Yes," Koda said. "This next part isn't your fight. You gave what you needed to. You gave what you chose to. I'll never forget that."
Renn leaned forward. "We'll still help defend the city. I'll stay long enough to support the rotations, keep training the newer archers."
"I know," Koda said, smiling faintly. "And they'll be lucky to have you."
Eno didn't speak.
He just stood, stepped forward — and clasped Koda's arm. Firm. A soldier's respect.
No words needed.
Seta stepped up behind him. "You're going to make it back, yeah?"
"I plan to."
She rolled her eyes. "Not what I asked."
"I will," Koda said. "I promise."
Finally, Elise approached.
She gave him a long, unreadable look. Then reached out and pressed a small carved charm into his hand — black wood etched with faint sigils.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Luck," she said. "The old kind."
"…Does it work?"
She gave a faint smirk. "Would I still be alive if it didn't?"
They left together not long after, heading toward the southern barracks. Their departure would be quiet, unceremonious — just the way they preferred it.
Koda watched them go with a weight in his chest, not sadness exactly… but gravity.
He hadn't lost them.
But their chapter was closing.
It was just the three of them now.
Koda.
Maia.
Terron.
And the future.
Later that evening, they sat in a quiet alcove of the Order's dining hall. A single low-hung lamp cast a warm glow across their table. A simple meal — vegetables, fire-roasted meat, bread still warm.
For the first time in weeks, no one wore armor.
No one looked over their shoulder.
No one bled.
"So," Terron said around a mouthful of bread, "when do we go back into hell?"
Koda raised a brow. "After we find people insane enough to follow us into it."
Maia chuckled softly, sipping her tea. "Preferably people insane and competent."
They sat back, letting the quiet settle over them. The food filled the empty space of hunger and the silence wrapped itself around them like a blanket.
Finally, Koda broke the lull.
"We'll need to send a request to the Order tomorrow," he said. "We don't need random volunteers. We need specifically selected candidates. People with… integrity."
Terron raised an eyebrow. "You're looking for saints?"
"I'm looking for people who won't be tempted. Greed is going to pull at every weakness. We need moral spine."
"Great," Terron muttered. "So no one fun."
Koda smirked. Maia leaned forward, tapping her fingers against the table.
"We need balance," she said. "Think of what we're missing."
Koda nodded. "We need three."
"First," Maia said, "a control mage. Someone to manage mobs. Stun. Confuse. Disorient."
"Preferably a Librarian," Koda agreed. "They're usually trained for control roles. And most of them don't chase flashy power."
"Second," Terron said, pointing his bread like a weapon, "we need a tank. Someone who can hold the middle with me if we get swarmed. Anchor line behind me, protect Maia and the casters."
"A wall," Koda confirmed. "Someone who won't break, even when Greed starts whispering."
"Third?" Maia asked.
Koda nodded. "Firepower. A proper offensive caster. We'll be deep in hostile territory. I can thin small groups. Terron can hold. But we'll need burning capacity."
"Preferably actual fire," Terron muttered. "It worked well last time."
Maia grinned. "Subtle as ever."
Koda leaned back. For a moment, it almost felt like old times. Like a war wasn't looming. Like they weren't about to dive headfirst into a god-fragment's hell realm.
But the ease wasn't fake.
They'd earned it.
"I'll ask Veros to compile a list," Koda said. "Minimum level twenty. Order members who've done time in the outer churches — less likely to be tempted by ambition."
Maia nodded. "The Forge and Librarian branches especially. Less political. More focused."
"We'll interview them over the next few days," Koda added. "Then train together. Sync as much as we can before we descend."
Terron leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head.
"So," he said. "We're looking for a control freak, a walking wall, and a fire-starter. All with spotless ethics and no taste for glory."
He grinned. "Should be easy."
They laughed — all three of them.
Not loud.
Not for long.
But real.
For a brief, flickering moment, they weren't soldiers or saints or slayers.
They were just people.
Sitting together.
Planning for hell.