The sun was already well past its zenith when Koda stirred again, the fire in the hearth now little more than a faint glow tucked into a bed of ash. Maia was still draped across his chest, her breath even, her arm resting across his ribs like she belonged there—which she did.
He didn't want to move.
But there were still things to be done.
They dressed in silence, a different kind than before—this one efficient, practiced, threaded with purpose. The quiet of warriors after peace, slipping armor over the echo of a shared night.
Maia secured her hair back, tightening the leather band at her wrist while Koda buckled the final strap of his black tunic. She turned to him as he finished, giving his silhouette a once-over. He looked as he always did—calm, dark, dangerous.
But now, there was a softness in his eyes only she would know to look for.
Without a word, they left the room together.
The walk through Callestan was brisk, the streets busier now as the afternoon tide reached its height. Patrols moved in ordered rotation, vendors shouted over bubbling pots, and Order clerks passed between ministry towers with stacks of ledgers and scrolls.
It would almost feel like any other city on any other day—if not for the tension curling beneath it all.
Everyone knew.
Everyone could feel it.
The war wasn't over. Only paused.
They arrived at the Order's stronghold shortly after second bell. The guards at the front bowed as they approached, and within moments, they were ushered inside.
Veros waited for them in the inner chamber, standing by one of the high windows that overlooked the southern fields. Two military commanders flanked him, both in high-grade smoke-gray armor—the polished kind worn not for battle, but for presence.
Koda didn't waste time.
"We're entering the scar. In two days, at first light."
Veros turned, the shadows under his eyes deeper than yesterday, but his posture never faltered.
"You're sure it's time?"
Maia answered first. "We've tested its perimeter. We've faced its armies. The next wave will only be worse. We either go now… or wait for it to decide the hour."
Koda nodded. "I won't give it that power."
One of the commanders—a woman with silver streaks through her dark hair—folded her arms.
"Do you expect resistance at the rim?"
"Not much," Koda said. "What it had there is broken. But there will be a presence. A pull. That alone might be enough to break weaker minds."
Veros studied him. "And you believe your team is ready?"
Koda didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"They all agreed to follow you willingly?"
"They chose it."
Veros's gaze lingered, then flicked to Maia.
"And you?"
"I'll follow him into the pit," she said. "But more than that—I'll help bring him back out."
That seemed to satisfy the Order head. He turned toward a side desk and retrieved a thick scroll, unfurling it across the table between them.
It was a topographical breakdown of the scar's structure, stitched together by scouts and incomplete surveys. It was patchwork at best, but it offered shape—depths, ridges, suspected temple structures buried beneath the canyon floor.
"This is what we have," Veros said. "It won't be enough."
"It doesn't need to be," Koda replied. "We'll write the rest ourselves."
The meeting with the Order wrapped by midafternoon. Veros gave them his quiet blessing, the generals offered logistical support, and all that remained was waiting—for time, for clarity, for dawn two days from now.
But Koda and Maia didn't wait in silence.
They stepped out into the streets without armor. No cloaks, no weapons save the blades hidden by habit. Just simple clothes, muted colors, and a rare chance to blend into the rhythm of a city that hadn't yet burned.
For the first time in weeks, they didn't walk like soldiers.
They walked like people.
The first stop was a small garden square tucked between two ministry halls. Its hedges were overgrown, but the benches were warm in the sunlight, and the fountain in the center still trickled lazily from its cracked mouth. Children darted between the planters, their laughter high and unfiltered. Maia sat first, stretching her legs, her face tipped toward the sun.
Koda watched her a moment before joining her on the bench.
"They don't know what's coming," he said softly.
"No," Maia said. "But they don't need to."
He followed her gaze. A girl no older than eight was drawing runes in the dirt with a stick, only half-correct, her face scrunched in concentration. "They'll have time to learn," Maia added.
"Because of what we do next."
Koda reached down and picked up a fallen flower near his boot. Pale, imperfect, missing two petals. He offered it to her without a word.
She tucked it behind her ear.
They stayed like that for nearly an hour. No one approached. No one needed to. The city kept breathing, and for that moment, they did too.
Later, they wandered through the market district. The stalls were lively, voices haggling and laughing, the smell of fresh bread and roasted nuts filling the air. Koda bought them honeyed figs from a vendor with a crooked smile and a missing tooth. Maia laughed when he nearly dropped one trying to hand it to her, catching it midair with a flick of magic.
"You'd make a terrible juggler," she teased.
"I make a decent shield," he said around a bite.
She smiled wider. "That you do."
As dusk approached, they found a quiet inn on the eastern rise of the city. It wasn't high-end. No silk, no wine. Just a sturdy table by the window and a view of the outer wall catching the last of the light. They ordered a stew. Shared bread. Drank a dark, bitter tea laced with orange peel.
They didn't talk about the scar. Not once.
They talked about the books Maia wanted to read. The orchard they still planned to plant. Whether Koda would actually learn to cook once peace came, or just keep trying to barter for figs.
They laughed more than they had in months.
And when they finally walked back through the lamplit streets toward the quarters near the spire, they did so hand in hand.
That night, when they undressed, it wasn't with hunger, but with comfort. They climbed into bed as one, the room dim and warm, the weight of the day gentle on their skin. No words were needed.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, drawing her close.
Maia pressed her back to his chest, her fingers resting lightly over his.
The world could wait a little longer.
Tonight was still theirs.
The second day came and went without fanfare.
The sun rose beyond the city's black stone walls, casting long beams through the narrow windows of Koda's quarters. Outside, the city moved with quiet discipline—troops rotated patrols, runners delivered sealed messages, and the Order finalized their watch schedules.
But none of it reached the small room tucked high in the southern wing.
Koda and Maia never left.
There was nothing left to plan. No strategies to refine. Their armor had already been laid out the night before. Their blades had already been sharpened.
Instead, they stayed beneath the linen sheets, tangled in the warmth of each other's presence. They spoke little. Sometimes they didn't speak at all. Words weren't needed—not when every glance, every touch, every shared breath said everything.
They watched the light shift across the floor. Dozed when they felt like it. Ate what had been quietly delivered to the outer chamber. Maia read for a while, stretched out beside him, her head on his chest. Koda lay with his arm around her, his eyes closed but never fully asleep, listening to the cadence of her voice even after she stopped reading.
There was no fear in the silence between them.
Just understanding.
This was their peace.
Not an illusion born of Greed's whispers, but one they had chosen for themselves, here and now.
A promise of something to return