The infirmary was modest but efficient. A single bed stood against the center wall, surrounded by humming machines powered by glowing crystals embedded in their frames. One of the devices contained a shimmering liquid that flowed steadily through a thin tube into Malik’s forearm. Heaven’s Water. Its faint silver light contrasted with his brown skin.
Crystal lamps cast soft hues across the stone walls, their multicolored glow highlighting the quiet movements of the healers as they worked silently.
Nia sat beside Malik’s bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. At the sound of the door creaking open, she looked up. Byron and Kamari stepped inside. The healers paused, exchanging glances before bowing slightly to Byron and slipping out.
Kamari’s voice cracked as he broke the silence. “Is he… is Malik going to be okay?”
The lead healer stopped at the doorway. “He’s stable, for now,” he said carefully. “But we’ll need to keep a close eye on him. It’s a miracle he’s alive.” With that, the healer followed his team out.
Kamari and Byron approached the bed. Malik lay still, his chest rising and falling faintly. Now drained of its usual warmth, his chocolate-toned skin appeared ghostly under the crystals' light.
Kamari’s fists clenched around the bed frame. Malik had always seemed invincible—a warrior who outshone them all. Seeing him like this, broken and vulnerable, felt wrong. He blinked hard, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. Grief pressed against his chest.
The door opened again, and Leon, Elijah, and Imani entered. The sight of Malik brought them to a halt. Leon moved to Kamari’s side, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. Imani placed a gentle hand on Kamari’s tense back.
Elijah lingered near the door, his expression unreadable as he took in Malik’s condition. After a long pause, he spoke. “Malik’s tough. He’ll pull through. He’s too stubborn not to.”
Kamari nodded faintly, but the knot in his chest remained.
Elijah scanned the room, his brow furrowing as his gaze landed on Nia. “Where’s Jermaine?” he asked.
The room fell silent. The rhythmic beeps of the machine filled the room. Elijah’s eyes locked on Nia, who blinked rapidly, her tears catching the light.
“Elijah,” Byron began, his tone somber, “I’m sorry.”
Elijah turned sharply. “Sorry for what? Where is he?” His voice grew louder, edged with panic. No one responded.
Nia stood, wrapping her arms around him. “He… completed his mission, Eli,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But the Void Rift—it was too much.”
Elijah stiffened in her hold. “No.” He shook his head, stepping back. “No, that’s impossible. He said he’d come back. He promised.” His voice cracked, his breaths quickening as his gaze darted between them. “He promised.”
The truth was written on their faces, and it crushed him. His body trembled as he stepped back toward the door. Then, in a flash of lightning, he was gone.
Kamari broke the silence that followed. “I’ll go after him,” he said quietly, already heading for the door. “I know where he’s going.”
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Kamari soared through the air, his blue flames crackling against the encroaching twilight. The wind roared past, carrying the acrid bite of smoke and ruin. From above, the city stretched out before him. Buildings once proud now jutted like broken ribs from the earth, their shattered skeletons casting jagged shadows. Streets lay split open, their wounds oozing debris, while faint glimmers of fire clung to the wreckage, refusing to die.
The horizon was a collage of sorrow. Smoke curled upward, twisting into ghostly shapes that dissolved into the dimming sky. Even at this distance, the cries of the injured reached him, faint but unrelenting. He spotted them scattered below—figures limping through the carnage, huddled in makeshift shelters, or cradled by healers as tears streaked soot-stained faces. Kamari’s chest tightened with a visceral ache that threatened to anchor him mid-flight. He forced himself to look away.
This wasn't the time to falter. He clenched his fists and willed his flames to propel him faster. Elijah. He had to find Elijah.
The Divine Lake came into view, a serene oasis amidst chaos. He descended, landing softly at its edge. The lake was eerily still, its mirror-like surface reflecting the amber hues of the sky. Mist hung low over the water, a translucent veil that blurred the line between the world above and below. Beyond the lake, the forest loomed, its shadows deepening as twilight waned. Ceiyr’s Peak stood sentinel in the distance, its summit piercing the vast sea of roaming white clouds.
Elijah sat alone on a weathered bench, his silhouette outlined against the glistening water. Blue lightning crackled faintly across his skin, a restless echo of his suppressed anguish. His posture was deceptively calm, but Kamari recognized the stillness for what it was—a dam on the verge of breaking.
Kamari approached cautiously, the crunch of his footsteps on dirt softened by the damp air. He hesitated for a moment before sitting beside Elijah. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken words.
Finally, Kamari broke the quiet. “Eli…”
“Don’t.” Elijah’s response was sharp, his eyes fixed on the lake. His knuckles whitened as his fingers dug into the bench.
Kamari flinched but persisted. “I just wanted to—”
“I said don’t,” Elijah interrupted, softer this time. His shoulders sagged as he exhaled. “I’m fine, Red.”
Kamari studied him, unsure whether to push any further.
“This was his favorite spot,” Elijah said suddenly, his voice quieter, his eyes distant. “Well, a close second. Pyru’s took the top spot—obviously.” A wry chuckle escaped him. “We’d sit here, watching the sunsets. He always had some terrible joke ready. They were... awful. So bad you couldn’t help but laugh.”
His voice trembled, and Kamari glanced at him, noticing his jaw clenched.
Elijah shook his head. “I just want to enjoy the sunset,” he said, almost to himself.
Kamari nodded, respecting the quiet. Together, they sat, the lake before them casting a muted reflection of the fiery sky. The mist swirled gently as if carrying the whispers of those lost. After a while, Elijah leaned his head against Kamari’s shoulder. The crackling energy around him softened to a faint hum, fading like the light.
Neither spoke again as the sun slipped below the horizon. It was enough to sit together, bound by shared grief and the moment's fleeting beauty.
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In the days that followed, Ceiala became a city suspended between mourning and renewal. The streets bore fresh scars—crumbling walls, shattered cobblestones, and ash-cloaked ruins that whispered of what had been lost. Yet amidst the devastation, the sounds of rebirth rose steadily: the sharp clang of hammers meeting stone, the groan of wood hauled into place, and voices barking instructions over the rhythmic din of tools.
The Ta’rai arrived like sculptors of a broken world, their mastery over the Golem Force transforming ruin into restoration. Stone and metal bent to their will as they raised walls from the rubble, reshaped twisted iron into reinforced beams, and fused fractured cobblestones into smooth paths. Towering golems of earth and stone moved with deliberate grace, their massive forms carrying debris or delicately setting materials in place. Villagers paused in their tasks, watching in awe as destruction gave way to creation.
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Yet amid the rebuilding, the city’s grief ran deep. Jermaine’s sacrifice rippled through Ceiala, touching every heart. Light blue became the color of mourning, echoing the lightning he had wielded with unparalleled ferocity. Ribbons of soft blue adorned railings and doorframes, while strips of cloth were tied around the wrists of both young and old. The wealthy wore finely crafted pins shaped like lightning bolts, their polished edges catching the dim, overcast light.
Even those with nothing found ways to honor their fallen hero. A blacksmith handed out scraps of discarded iron, which villagers hammered into crude lightning symbols. Children, too young for such tools, carved bolts into clay or scratched them onto wood, their tiny hands streaked with paint made from crushed berries and chalk. For them, the act was more than remembrance—it was connection. Their laughter, tinged with sadness, wove admiration and loss into something their hearts could hold.
Tributes sprang up across the city. Lightning bolts were etched into cobblestones and fence posts. In the heart of the market square, artists worked tirelessly on a grand mural. Jermaine loomed large in paint and stone, his hands alight with crackling blue energy. Children gathered to watch the mural take shape, their wide eyes reflecting the hero’s larger-than-life presence.
Pyru’s Tavern, Jermaine’s sanctuary of laughter and camaraderie, had weathered the attack with some damage but now stood firm. The Ta’rai’s touch had repaired its sagging roof and reinforced its walls, ensuring it remained a place of solace. Behind the bar, a new portrait of Jermaine hung proudly. His grin radiated confidence. His hands were wrapped in lightning as if ready to strike. Beneath it, a plaque read: To the Thunder God—our protector and friend.
Each night, the tavern resounded with thunder toasts. Patrons raised their mugs high, shouting in unison, “To the Thunder God—may his strength guide us!” Lavern, the owner, served those who couldn’t afford drinks. He insisted, his voice thick with emotion, “Jermaine wouldn’t want anyone left out.” Farmers and soldiers alike drank in his name.
At dusk, the people gathered among the ruins, their hands clapping in rhythmic bursts that mimicked rolling thunder. Even the stoic Ta’rai joined in, their massive hands adding deep, resonant echoes. The sound rippled through the city, reverberating against its battered walls like a heartbeat slowly finding strength.
For Kamari and Byron, the days passed in quiet vigil by Malik’s bedside. The infirmary had become a second home, its sterile stillness broken only by Malik's labored breaths—a fragile rhythm that reminded them he was still holding on. Kamari spoke to him daily, recounting missions and updates on the city’s recovery. Byron, ever steady, stayed nearby, his silent presence a grounding force. Neither refused to leave him to face such a difficult time alone.
Nia’s grieved differently. She buried herself in missions, hunting Infernals with ruthless determination. Her Enre arrows never missed their mark, cutting through darkness as though aiming to pierce her pain. By nightfall, she returned bloodied and exhausted, but she never paused to rest. The battle became her anchor, each hunt a way to outrun the weight of Jermaine’s absence.
The Seraphim pressed onward with their campaign, carrying Jermaine’s legacy into every battle. Lightning bolt emblems were added to their sleek armor, a quiet but unifying tribute to the Thunder God, who had given everything for the Realm. Across Krugona, his name was spoken with reverence, a rallying cry against the encroaching darkness.
Elijah, however, withdrew completely. He locked himself away, unreachable even to Kamari. Every knock at his door, every softly spoken attempt to draw him out, met silence. The sounds of rebuilding outside and the whispered tributes to Jermaine were too much.
And so the days blurred—mourning and renewal, silence and tribute. As Ceiala rose from its ashes, Jermaine’s memory bound the city’s people together.
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Then came the memorial.
The sun sank low, its golden rays skimming the horizon and bathing the Divine Lake in hues of molten amber. The water shimmered like liquid glass, catching the first glimmers of starlight and lanterns' soft, flickering glow surrounding its edge. The crowd stretched far and wide, a tapestry of sorrow woven from every corner of the Realm. Farmers and merchants stood shoulder to shoulder with warriors and Avatars, their shared grief transcending rank and station. They had journeyed across treacherous seas and unforgiving lands, drawn here to honor Jermaine—the Thunder God, the protector who had given everything.
The air was heavy, almost reverent, as if the Realm itself mourned alongside them. A muted hush blanketed the gathering, broken only by the faint rustling of cloaks and the delicate crackle of lantern flames. Children clung to their parents’ hands, their tear-filled eyes wide and searching. An elderly woman sat on her stool, her trembling fingers tracing a small lightning bolt etched into the fabric of her shawl. A young warrior stood at the forefront, his polished armor adorned with a handmade blue ribbon. The crowd's murmurs faded as the last light of the sun disappeared, leaving only the stars and the lanterns to illuminate the lake.
A towering figure stood at the water's edge, hidden beneath a massive tarp. Its silhouette was imposing even in the dim light, hinting at the tribute beneath. A squad of warriors moved toward it in a slow, solemn march, their every step measured, their faces studied in restrained emotion. Byron led them, his gaze sweeping across the crowd before landing briefly on Kamari.
“Elijah?” he asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.
Kamari shook his head. “He couldn’t,” Kamari said, his voice barely a whisper.
Byron nodded, his jaw tightening. He turned to Nia. She stood rigid, her eyes hollow but resolute. He brushed his hand against hers—a silent gesture of solidarity. She gave a faint nod and turned back toward the lake, her calm composure a thin mask hiding the storm raging within.
As Byron ascended the platform near the water, the crowd fell into a profound silence. His broad frame stood silhouetted against the starlit sky, his presence commanding yet humble. He let the silence stretch, his gaze moving across the sea of faces—each etched with loss, each a reflection of the man they had all come to honor. When he finally spoke, his deep voice carried over the gathering.
“I met Jermaine when he was just a boy,” Byron began. “He was bold, brash, and stubborn as hell. But there was a spark in him even then—a light so fierce it couldn’t be ignored. He didn’t just want to be strong; he wanted to use that strength for others. He wanted to be a shield, a protector.”
Byron paused, his hand resting briefly on the edge of the platform. He seemed to draw strength from the crowd, from the shared grief that bound them together. “Jermaine was more than a warrior. He was a beacon. He turned fear into courage, darkness into hope. He made us believe that the dawn would always come no matter how bleak the night.”
The breeze stirred, rippling the lake’s surface as Byron’s voice grew heavier, more emotional. “Jermaine died as he lived—protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves. He faced the storm, not because he had to, but because he chose to. He gave everything so we might stand here today, alive and free. And though he is gone, his spirit remains with us. His legacy is written in the lives he saved, the strength he inspired, and the light he left behind.”
Byron’s voice faltered briefly, but he caught himself, his hands gripping the edges of the platform. When he spoke again, his tone was softer. “It’s up to us now. To carry that light forward. To honor him not just in words, but in how we live—in how we protect one another. Jermaine may be gone, but he will never be forgotten. As long as we remember—as long as we fight for what he stood for—he will live on.”
A hush fell over the crowd as Byron stepped back, his words settling over them like a blanket. Tears streamed freely down faces, their quiet sobs blending with the gentle lapping of the lake’s waters.
Then, the warriors pulled back the tarp and gasps rippled through the crowd as the statue of Jermaine was revealed. He stood tall, his arm outstretched as if summoning a storm. Lightning bolts spiraled around his form, etched into the smooth stone with such detail they seemed ready to spark to life. The lanterns glowed upon the statue, making it seem almost alive.
A young boy near the front tugged on his mother’s sleeve, his tear-streaked face breaking into a small, awed smile. “It's him,” he whispered.
The warriors surrounding the statue raised their fists to their chests in unison. The crowd followed suit, their gestures a silent promise to honor the Thunder God’s memory.
Nia was the first to step forward, her movements slow and deliberate. She knelt at the base of the statue, a single blue flower trembling in her hand. Her usually fierce expression crumbled as she placed the flower gently against the stone, her fingers lingering there as if seeking comfort in the cool surface. When she finally rose, her shoulders shook, though her face remained set with quiet determination.
Others followed, one by one, laying flowers at the statue’s base until it was surrounded by a sea of color—blue for mourning, white for hope, red for sacrifice. A farmer paused to murmur a prayer, his hands rough and trembling as he placed a bundle of wildflowers at Jermaine’s feet. An elder wiped her eyes with a shaking hand before stepping back, her whispered words lost to the wind.
Kamari approached last. He didn’t speak, didn’t even hesitate. He simply wrapped his arms around Nia, holding her tightly as her grief spilled over. She sobbed against his shoulder, her tears soaking into his shirt, but he held her as if anchoring them both.
As the stars above reflected upon the tranquil waters of the Divine Lake, the people of Ceiala stood together, bound by their shared loss and strengthened by Jermaine’s legacy. The Thunder God’s light would guide them still, a beacon in the darkness as they rebuilt the Realm he had died to save.