Chapter 121

I closed the gate behind me and made my way into the bailey.

Lilae stood near the wall surrounding the Weeping Gallows, staring intently. The crimson leaves just barely crested the stone, their color catching the morning light like rubies.

She didn’t move when I approached - didn’t even seem to notice me. Whatever the tree was whispering had her completely entranced.

I knelt behind her and slipped my arms around her shoulders.

“What are they saying?” I asked quietly.

She blinked, like waking from a dream - disoriented and surprised to find me there.

“They say… they can show me where you came from,” she said. “They can show me your world.”

I exhaled slowly. “You know that’s not true, right?”

She nodded.

“And you know my world is very dangerous.”

Another nod.

“And even if there was a way,” I continued gently, “there’s no coming back. No magic. You wouldn’t see Vaer, or Ashie, or Serah, or Elise again.” I paused. “Or me.”

She nodded again, smaller this time.

“Your great-great-grandda came from there,” I said. “And we don’t know what happened to him. Maybe he didn’t go back to his world. But we do know he never returned here.”

I turned her toward me, lifting her chin just enough to meet her eyes. “And if he cared about Grams even half as much as I care about you?” I said softly. “He would’ve found his way back. No matter what it took.”

I held her gaze, letting that settle. “This is your home,” I told her. “This is where you belong. With all of us.” I pulled her into a tight hug.

She wrapped her arms around me and held on.

For a moment, I didn’t let go. Then I made myself release her, the familiar weight settling back into my chest. “So,” I said, forcing a lighter tone, “where were you headed before you got distracted?”

* * *

Dawn was creeping in by the time I neared completion. I’d been awake for more than three days, buried in my workshop, hands and mind moving long after my body should have given out. It was a gift of my divinity that sleep was more of an option than a necessity.

Iolite stood nearby, silent and unmoving, watching me with the patience only stone could manage.

I’d taken breaks - brief ones. Checked in on the family. Made sure no one thought I’d died down here. **** down a meal or two. But mostly I’d stayed. Working. Finishing what I’d started.

The staff lay across the bench. Ash wood, wrapped in dark leather, capped in engraved starmetal that caught the low light and held it.

Beside it sat my armored shirt. Mirri had made it for my birthday nearly five years ago, and it had carried me through more near-**** experiences than I cared to count. At a glance, it still looked like stylish clothing - well-made, well-fitted. But beneath the leather and fabric were plates.

Originally wood, I’d replace them with mithril. Stronger. Lighter. Better.

The embroidery she’d stitched along the collar, sleeves, and hem had been reinforced - not altered, just… awakened. Each thread now served as the foundation of a magical matrix, layered carefully over her work without erasing it.

My cloak rested beside it. New leather, dark and heavy, falling nearly to my ankles, hooded and built for travel. But inside - inside was Lilae’s work.

The same lining she’d made years ago. A riot of color stitched from mismatched scraps, a kaleidoscope of fabric that somehow worked anyway. Dozens of small pockets hidden throughout, each one holding tools, trinkets, things I might need.

I’d kept all of it. Sewn it into the new cloak without changing a thing.

On the back, I’d carved twenty symbols.

At the center - my foundations. Cupped hands holding a flame for Mirri. An axe crossed with a tusk for Ashlara. A scale beneath a crown for Serah. A circle edged in precise geometry for Elise.

Around them, the others. A standing stone for Torvek. Waves for Issa. A sharp-petaled flower for Brinja. An arrow for Elarion. An open door for Mak. A handprint with leaves for Lilae. A small ship under sail for Tib.

And the bloodchildren - their symbols didn’t sit apart. They wove together. Separate, but inseparable. A knot for Vel. A fractured, precise pattern for Thae. A devouring spiral for Moss. An unblinking eye for Clo. A shattered blade for Tansy. A shield for Nim.

Beneath it all, a spiraling tree for Grams.

Each symbol was more than decoration. Like the engravings on the staff and the stitching in the shirt, they formed the framework of something larger - a layered network of magic and Faith, interlocked and interdependent.

I wasn’t enchanting three items. I was building one thing - three pieces, bound together into a whole.

Just like them. Just like us.

Even Tansy.

No matter how far apart we’d drifted, no matter how badly we’d clashed - she was still my daughter. That didn’t change. It wouldn’t change.

The final circuit settled into place. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Then all three pieces hummed. The constructs stabilized, aligned, and locked together, their resonance falling into perfect harmony. Faith and magic braided into something singular.

Each piece could stand on its own. But together? They were something else entirely.

They required both Faith and magic to use. As far as I knew, that limited them to… us. My family.

Maybe Brand could have wielded them, once. The god-eater had always been an exception. There might be others out there I didn’t know about.

But I knew this much - if any of them needed these, they could take them.

The staff altered **** itself. A downward strike could launch you skyward in an instant. A swing could send an enemy flying like they’d been hit by something far larger than wood and metal.

The armor turned blades as if they were nothing. Arrows deflected like they’d struck wind instead of flesh. It wouldn’t stop everything - blunt **** still mattered - but cuts and stabs? Those were no longer the threat they’d been.

The cloak bent the elements. Fire, ice, lightning - magic itself curved around the wearer, refusing to touch them. It would even hold, for a time, against the Interstitium.

The pockets had been reinforced to stretch space. Each could hold far more than what should have been possible.

And if that wasn’t enough - it could become wings. Real ones that would carry you through the air like a dragon.

As a set, they were bound through my demesne. I could call any piece to me from anywhere. Distance didn’t matter.

They were indestructible.

And each was an extension of me - a conduit I could reach through. Cast magic. Exert Will. Sense the world. Even a hundred miles away, they were still mine. Still me.

They were unique. Powerful.

“I’ll call them Unity,” I said.

Iolite hummed in agreement and appreciation.

* * *

“The High Witan is barely holding together,” I said, not looking up. “You killed seven of the twelve.”

Nyssira glared at me.

“They claimed they didn’t interfere. Said they left the world to mortals.” I dipped the pen, continued writing. “But every one of them had plans. Schemes. They just buried them deeper than the God-Kings did.”

Ink scratched across the page. “They were just as greedy. Just as ambitious. Just better at pretending otherwise.”

I glanced up, meeting her eyes for a moment before returning to my work. “The God-Kings fared a little better,” I went on. “You only ate two out of ten. But Pyraeth’s weakened, Nahl still hasn’t reformed, and Zelmyra’s dead - courtesy of the Myrddin.”

I let out a slow breath. “That’s half their number, gone or crippled.” The room felt quieter after that. Heavier.

“Then there are the independents,” I said. “Vaelis. Yveth.”

My hand stilled. I frowned as the last name left my mouth.

Yveth had never lied to me. I’d trusted her. She’d been a friend. A mentor. Someone I would have died for without hesitation.

And Nyssira had taken her. Consumed her. Destroyed everything that made her… her. Took her power and left nothing else behind.

I **** myself to start writing again.

Across the room, the constellations that made up Nyssira’s face shifted - subtle, but unmistakable. A smile. She knew how much Yveth’s **** hurt me.

She also knew not to take her form anymore. She’d worn Yveth’s face before. Three times.

The first time, I’d nearly killed her. The second, I’d come closer. The third - the third I’d almost stopped caring what it would cost.

She’d laughed. I think part of her would have welcomed it. Dying to break the world - to break me - wasn’t a loss in her mind.

But I’d stopped. Every time. Pulled back before the damage became irreversible.

That didn’t mean I hadn’t hurt her. She knew I could. Knew I might again. But she also knew I’d stop myself. So all she’d really gain now was my suffering. And there were easier ways for her to get that.

I swallowed, forcing my thoughts forward.

“And whatever that is you’ve got writhing around inside you,” I finished, voice flat. I set the pen down for a moment, then breathed a quiet breath.

“So good job on nearly destabilizing the world.” I picked the pen back up. “You would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for us meddling kids.”

The words were light. The tone wasn’t.

Ink resumed its steady scratch. “So,” I added after a moment, “who did I miss?” I didn’t look up this time. “Who else is in there?”

Silence answered me.

When I finally glanced over, the stars and nebulae that formed her face were still drifting - still arranged in that same quiet, knowing smile.