The chapel ruins were silent, blanketed in the hush of night. A breeze slipped through shattered stained glass, stirring the dust on the altar where Cassian stood, his eyes closed, breathing in the ancient stone and lingering incense.
It had been days since the ambush. Days since blood ran through the gutters of the Lower Ring. And still, the memory of it pulsed behind his eyes — the clash of blades, the betrayal, the fire. But tonight, for once, there was no blood in the air.
Just her.
"You're brooding again."
Cassian turned.
She leaned against the archway, arms crossed, a faint smile playing on her lips. Elena. Sharp-eyed, unflinching, dressed in a dark cloak she had stolen off a drunken noble the night before. Her auburn hair glinted in the moonlight, falling loose past her shoulders.
"You move too quietly," Cassian muttered.
"You're too easily distracted."
She stepped forward, the floor creaking faintly beneath her boots. He noticed the new bruise on her knuckle. A fresh cut across her collarbone. She was always fighting. Always in motion. And yet, she had stayed.
Stayed when the others had scattered.
"Are we still going to the Spine tomorrow?" she asked, voice low. "You know it's suicide."
"Only if we're careless," Cassian replied, eyes shifting back to the crumbling altar. "The Vaults beneath the mountain hold relics from the First Reign. Spells. Weapons. Maybe even a Sovereign Anchor."
Elena studied him. "You don't have to do this alone, you know."
Cassian didn't respond.
He had spent lifetimes alone.
"You have me now," she added gently.
That struck deeper than he expected. He looked at her again — truly looked — and for a moment, the cold wall around his heart cracked.
"You could have run," he said quietly. "Back at the warehouse. You had your chance."
"And leave you bleeding in the dirt like a stray dog? Please."
She smiled again. It wasn't mocking. It was real. Warm.
And for once, Cassian let himself feel something besides fire and vengeance.
He stepped toward her slowly. His voice was rough when he spoke again.
"I'm not good at this."
Elena raised an eyebrow. "At what? Talking to girls?"
"At trusting anyone."
A beat.
Then, softly, she said, "You don't have to be good at it. You just have to try."
And in the broken chapel beneath the stars, surrounded by forgotten gods and shattered promises, Cassian leaned in — and for the first time since his rebirth, he kissed her.
It wasn't fiery or desperate. It was quiet. Careful.
But real.
She rested her forehead against his when they broke apart. "Don't die tomorrow."
He nodded. "Not planning to."
They stood like that for a long moment. Two survivors. Two weapons sharpened by the world.
Then came footsteps.
Cassian broke away, face hardening as Markus entered — bruised, winded, carrying a parchment with the royal seal broken.
"You'll want to see this," he said, eyes grim.
Cassian took the scroll and unrolled it.
As he read, the warmth from earlier faded. Replaced by fire.
A royal decree.
The Third Prince had declared martial law in the Inner Ring. Every orphan, servant, and unregistered commoner was to be arrested on suspicion of conspiracy. Trials would be abolished. Executions fast-tracked.
And his name — Cassian Vale — was now at the top of the Empire's most wanted list.
"So much for subtlety," Elena muttered.
Markus added, "There's more. They're bringing in the Hounds."
Cassian's jaw clenched.
The Hounds weren't soldiers. They were enforcers. Fanatics trained in mental arts and blood binding. Loyal only to the crown. And once set loose, they didn't stop.
"We move at dawn," Cassian said, folding the scroll.
"To the Spine?" Markus asked.
Cassian shook his head.
"To the Forge District. If we're going to face the Empire's monsters…" His eyes flicked to the blade hanging on the altar — forged from broken chains. "…we'll need monsters of our own."
The Forge District was alive with noise and flame even as the rest of the capital slept. Sparks rained from open furnaces. Metal sang beneath hammers. And in the bowels of the underworld, Cassian stood before the last blacksmith who had once crafted blades for kings.
Master Harun.
He was half-blind, his face a map of old burns, his voice gravel wrapped in smoke.
"I swore never to forge for royals again," Harun growled as Cassian laid down the scroll.
"I'm not a royal," Cassian said. "I'm the end of them."
Harun looked up sharply.
Elena stood at Cassian's side, cloak drawn tight, eyes scanning the shadows. Markus guarded the door.
"And you want a weapon?" Harun asked.
Cassian nodded. "No. I want a symbol."
He reached into his coat and laid down the pieces — the shattered insignia of the Third Prince, the rusted dagger that once slit the warden's throat, and a fragment of the chain that had bound his neck beneath the executioner's tower.
Harun's expression changed.
"Make it sing," Cassian whispered. "Make it scream."
The old blacksmith grinned.
"Aye. Now that's a request I can honor."
That night, beneath the rattling pipes and glowing embers, Cassian sat beside Elena again.
The heat of the forge cast her face in gold.
She was silent for a while, then finally said, "Do you really think we can win?"
Cassian stared into the flame. "I don't know."
Elena leaned against him, her head on his shoulder.
"I think you do," she said. "You just don't like admitting you hope."
He smiled faintly.
Hope.
It was dangerous. Fragile. But maybe… maybe it was the one weapon he had left that the Empire couldn't predict.
A knock sounded at the door.
Markus leaned in. "They're here."
Cassian stood. Took one last look at Elena.
"Time to test if embers can still burn a kingdom."
And with that, he stepped into the night.