Four hours later…

Free of darkness, the Nameless Girl lay fast asleep, wrapped snugly beneath the thick folds of a clean woollen blanket.

Claire let out a quiet sigh of relief, sinking back into the plush embrace of an armchair. Watching the Nameless Girl slumber so peacefully lifted a heavy weight from her shoulders. It brought a small smile to her lips, especially when she recalled, in passing, the many tormented nights the girl had endured on the brink of death.

Iris had performed a miracle. Thanks to her, the Nameless Girl would live to see another day. That alone made the arduous journey across the mainland and the Silent Sea worth every hardship – even if it had inflicted a ruinous toll on a body already devastated by disease.

Many months would pass before the Nameless Girl would awaken, her consciousness slowly unfurling like the first light of dawn after a long, unrelenting night. Claire took bittersweet comfort in this knowledge – knowing the girl would live, even if she herself would not be there to witness it. Her time was running short… and after expending so much of what little strength remained, it had only grown shorter.

But it was all worth it to save an innocent life. Besides, for one such as herself – existence and adversity were, more often than not, one and the same. And with her journey’s end, here in the Chantry of Eternal Light… there was nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable.

And wait, she did.

Even so, the waiting gnawed at her. It was a quiet, relentless feeling, settling into her bones like an ache that never truly faded. But at the very least, she was home now. Home, such as it was – like it had once been, in another life. Ironic, perhaps, that years ago, she had wanted nothing more than to leave this place behind.

Yet, she had returned at the end of her days – even if not for herself. The Oracle and her Prophecy had not forced her hand nor duty bound her steps. She had returned for the girl’s sake, by her own volition. And perhaps as well, in some quiet, unspoken way…

Her gaze drifted to Iris, seated in the armchair beside her. She was stiff-backed and unmoving. Her golden eyes were fixed dead ahead, staring at nothing in particular. Her breath came slow and steady, and Claire did not miss the faint beads of sweat that clung to her skin.

Dispelling the curse had demanded much Mana, yet Claire could tell it had barely been an effort for Iris. At best, it was a minor exertion, like jogging around the Chantry courtyard in summer before fall. It was endearing… even oddly comforting, knowing that in all their years apart, she had only grown stronger in her mastery of the Healer’s sacred art.

And Claire was proud of her. After all, Iris had once been her Healer.

Suddenly, a pang settled in her chest – a feeling she struggled to name. She bowed her head, trying to look away… but her eyes refused to obey. It had been too long. Far too long.

And Iris… she was as breathtakingly beautiful as she had ever been. It was as if time itself had refused to touch her. Unlike herself, her mortal flesh was wracked with disease – one of the reasons she had left the Chantry and the Order of Selene all those years ago, among others.

She shoved the thought aside as Iris spoke, her voice soft yet unwavering.

“I received your letter from Ser Urok. The Orc Shaman of Castle Ferrous,” she said quietly, a hint of awkwardness threading her voice. “By your benevolence, he is one of us now. And he is grateful for what you have done for him.”

Claire exhaled through her nose, a touch of amusement flitting across her wretched features. “I’m glad to hear that. He needed this chance to start anew, to be free of the Cursed Legion. Is he… settling in well with the others?”

“Yes. He has taken up an apprenticeship in the library. In time, he will inherit the title of Librarian – the current one is growing old, and she believes he will do well.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“I see! That’s good. I’m glad…”

Silence settled between them, stretching taut like a thread on the verge of snapping. Claire shifted in her seat, clearing her throat. If Iris resented her still for what had been said and done, her expression wasn’t showing it.

“How about Elena?” she asked after a moment’s hesitation. “How is she?”

“The Mage Queen is as she has always been,” Iris replied curtly, her tone cool and distant, though a trace of something – disapproval, perhaps – lurked beneath the surface. “She visited the Chantry three years ago and asked after you… but not since.”

Claire hummed. “I see. She and I didn’t part on the best of terms either.”

Iris nodded, something unreadable flickering across her face. “Lady de L’Enfer has her own way of expressing her feelings. She cares about you.”

“I’m unworthy of her grace. But nonetheless grateful. I…”

Another pause. Another thread stretched thin. Claire bit her lip, fighting the words clawing at the back of her throat. She wanted to say something – to Iris Escaflowne, the woman who had once been her everything – but she hesitated. Because…

No! That was not her way. She was Claire Silverlight – former Executor of the Order of Selene. If she had something to say, she would damn well say it. Especially when it was now or never.

“Iris! I just wanted to say…” she blurted out, her voice too loud, too abrupt. “Thank you.”

Iris blinked. “For?”

“For saving her life,” Claire answered softly, gesturing to the sleeping girl. “If it weren’t for your help… I feared the worst.”

Iris’ gaze remained impassive. “It was the right thing to do. Nothing more.”

“I was worried you’d refuse to help. After… what happened.”

“I am a Healer. It is what I do.”

Claire’s lips parted, then curved into a smile, genuine and warm. “Yes! Of course. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I’m sorry. Oh, but where are my manners!? How have you been, Iris?”

Iris’ golden eyes met hers, unreadable yet sharp. “I have been better. And you?”

Claire chuckled. “Me too.”

Iris hesitated, then murmured. “I feared for your safety. I prayed for you.”

Claire’s breath hitched. “You… prayed for me?”

Iris allowed herself a small, wry smile. “Knowing what you are capable of, I should have prayed for your enemies instead. They need my prayers more than you ever will.”

Claire grinned. “If they should be so lucky to worthy! Really though, I’m honoured that…”

A sharp cough cut her short. The taste of iron flooded her mouth, thick and bitter, coating her tongue like rusted metal left too long in the rain.

“Claire!”

Iris was on her in an instant, kneeling beside her with hands pressed to her shoulders. Radiant light flickered between her fingers – a golden, warm, divine Heal.

But Claire felt nothing. Not pain. Not the soothing embrace of the Order’s magic.

Nothing.

She lowered her head, her expression unreadable, though a shadow passed over her features. To be beyond pain, beyond the solace of healing – it was both her gift and her doom. It was an affliction of the flesh, a double-edged power that had carried her through countless battles since she left the Order of Selene, that made her fearless in pivotal moments where others faltered. And yet, it was also the very thing that would one day claim her.

But she had made her peace with that long ago. In battle, it had served her well enough. Without hesitation or mercy, she had met monsters and villains alike with the same unrelenting force, dishing out suffering she could never feel. It was for this, and this alone, that her enemies, even some of her allies, saw her as Death Incarnate. To them, like death itself… she was inevitable.

Iris’ expression darkened. “This is worse than before.”

“Indeed. It has been a while since we last met, huh?” Claire said with a laugh, her voice weak and fleeting. “It’s… good to be back.”

“Yes. It is good to see you again, circumstances notwithstanding…” Iris answered, her hands trembling ever so slightly. “I… I regret how things turned out.”

Claire averted her gaze. The walls of the Ecclesiarch’s office were bare now, stripped of the memories they once shared. All but one.

It was a single photograph framed in white gold. It was a moment frozen in time – the day of their coronation when they became Ecclesiarch and Executor, standing side by side. The frame was cracked. The image, torn but pieced back together.

Claire swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Do you still hate me, Iris?”

Iris did not answer immediately. When she did, after a moment’s contemplation, her voice was quieter than a whisper. “No. Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I am tired of hating,” Iris said, her voice quieter now, almost fragile. “There was a time when I wanted to believe what I told you that day – that you did not matter to me.”

She paused, something raw flickering in her golden eyes – a glimpse of the storm beneath her calm exterior. Her gaze dropped for the briefest moment before she met Claire’s eyes once more. “And for that… I have regrets.”

"Iris..."

Claire’s vision blurred. She had not cried in years – had thought herself incapable of it – another part of her lost to the slow, merciless decay of her body. But here and now… the tears came anyway, slipping past the barriers she had long since built, warm against her cold, ruined skin.

“Iris, I…”

Gently, tentatively, Iris reached forward, fingers brushing the tarnished silver of Claire’s mask.

“May I?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “If you would allow it.”