Interlude 2.
Edgar. 27 years BA.
The snow clung to Rovalia’s narrow streets, muting the world into a silence that felt both reverent and suffocating. Edgar Millers adjusted his coat, its heavy fabric gleaming faintly under the blue-white glow of Vigil Dawn candles flickering in every window. The world celebrated the beginning of the new Savior's vigil - Sasha's vigil - the festival of gratitude, reverence, condolence - and relief.
Relief was the last thing Edgar felt these days.
The cold bit sharply with each breath, but Edgar welcomed it. Rovalia smelled of wood smoke, frost, and the faint tang of iron from the nearby mines—a scent that settled deep in his lungs, grounding him.
He stopped in front of the Irvings’ modest house, a weathered but resilient structure whose faded yellow paint testified to years of enduring northern winters.
He hesitated.
Not from fear; Chaos had stripped the last remnants of that from him eons ago. But this was different. Edgar had delivered speeches to billions, faced the world's collective reverence, and borne the weight of its gratitude. Yet standing before this door, knowing what he would bring to the family inside, felt heavy. He had seen their faces in the ACC dossiers—Ekaterina, Robert, Ilya, Maria, little Kostya. But dossiers couldn’t prepare him for the weight of breaking their lives.
Edgar knocked.
Inside, muffled voices fell silent. There was the scrape of a chair and footsteps. The door opened to reveal Ilya, taller and sturdier than Edgar had imagined. His features bore the unmistakable echo of Sasha's, but his expression lacked her warmth.
“Holy Sav..., stars,” Ilya whispered, his voice hollow. “...Edgar.”
Behind him, Ekaterina appeared, clutching a towel in her hands. Her grey eyes—Sasha’s eyes—widened as recognition dawned. Her breath hitched audibly, and she swayed, gripping the doorframe for support. “No,” she murmured, her voice cracking. “No, no, no.”
“May I come in?” Edgar asked, his voice steady but quiet. He wasn’t really asking.
Robert stepped into view, his broad frame filling the hallway. His face darkened, lines of confusion and dread carving deeper into his features. “Who’s—” His words faltered as his gaze locked on Edgar. The disbelief in his eyes quickly gave way to something far heavier.
For a moment, no one moved. Ekaterina’s knuckles whitened around the towel.
“Please,” Edgar said gently. “We need to talk.”
The living room was warm, almost stifling, the air thick with the scent of roasted potatoes and wood smoke. Edgar realized with surprise that the Irvings still used firewood for heating. Framed photos lined the walls—Sasha’s face was in nearly all of them, radiant and unguarded in ways Edgar had never seen. The sight hit him harder than he anticipated.
Maria entered, carrying Kostya on her hip. The boy clutched a plush toy, his wide eyes darting to Edgar with curiosity. Maria held him closer, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm as she registered who stood in the living room.
Robert gestured stiffly toward a chair. “Sit,” he said, his voice tight. "Please."
Edgar lowered himself into the seat, his hands resting lightly on his knees. He let the silence stretch, giving them time to process his presence. Their gazes flickered between him and each other, the weight of unspoken understanding thick in the room.
Finally, Ekaterina spoke, her voice trembling. “It’s Sasha, isn’t it?”
Edgar nodded. “Yes.”
Her knees buckled, and she sank into a chair, her hand clutching her chest. “She’s just a child,” she whispered. “She’s only eighteen.” Eighteen. You sent a child to—” Her voice broke, and she pressed her hands to her face.
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“She was,” Edgar said softly. The past tense felt like a betrayal, but it was the truth.
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He explained carefully and deliberately how Sasha had been identified as the only suitable candidate. Her soul’s rare energy was the world’s last chance to keep the Door sealed.
“We searched for years,” he said. “Every possible candidate across every corner of the globe. Sasha was the only one. She understood it. She was... extraordinary” - his voice trembled.
Ekaterina was crying now, her tears falling freely. Robert’s fists clenched. “She’s suffering,” he said, his voice low and furious. “Because the world couldn’t find anyone else? Because you failed?”
“She’s not just suffering,” Ilya spat, his voice raw with anger. “She’s dying. Over and over, isn’t she? That’s what Chaos does.”
Edgar didn’t flinch. “Yes.” And worse, he thought.
He let their anger in. He deserved it, every bit of it. Yet, he would've made the same choice again.
Maria’s soft sob broke the silence. Kostya wriggled in her arms, sensing her distress but unable to understand.
Ilya turned on Edgar, his voice cracking. “And you let it happen? You’re supposed to be the hero! Why didn’t you—”
“I couldn’t,” Edgar said firmly, cutting him off. “If there had been another way, I would have taken it.” He paused, his voice tightening. “If I could trade places with her, I would.”
Would he? The old, familiar doubt echoed in his mind. He wanted to believe he would, but he was grateful he would never know—and hated himself for it.
Ilya froze, his fists trembling at his sides, his shoulders heaving with barely contained grief.
Maria’s grip on Kostya tightened, her face pale. “Why didn’t she tell us?
You people didn’t allow her, did you?” Ilya snapped.
Robert’s voice was bitter as he added, slower, “We’re her family. We should’ve been there for her.”
“She chose not to,” Edgar said gently. “She wanted to protect you. Saying goodbye—explaining what was coming—would have been unbearable. For her and for you.” He reached into his coat, pulling out a small arch-tech device. “She recorded messages for each of you.”
Ekaterina reached for it, her hands trembling so much that Robert had to steady her. She clutched it to her chest, her sobs muffled against the fabric of her sweater.
-------
Dinner was served in heavy silence. Edgar wanted to refuse, but something in Ekaterina's eyes told him she needed this moment of normalcy. The stew was simple but warm, paired with thick slices of rye bread. Edgar ate quietly, his movements careful and measured, conscious of every glance cast his way. The spoon was too shallow, not really fitting the soup so hearty. Still, the food's warmth grounded him more than he expected. Robert watched him closely, apprehension and sorrow warring in his eyes.
“This probably isn’t what you’re used to,” Robert said gruffly.
“No,” Edgar admitted, setting his spoon down. “It’s better.”
The sincerity of his answer seemed to disarm Robert, who glanced away, his expression conflicted.
Kostya smiled at Edgar, wide and innocent, between his mother's attempt to feed him. Edgar was reminded of his grand-nephews who had all grown up now. He smiled back. The boy inherited the family's magical talent; he could feel it. He made a mental note to ensure he would receive an education. Sasha would've wanted it.
As the meal wore on, Edgar shared glimpses of Sasha’s final months—her awe and talent at finally learning magic, her struggles with anything combat-related, the petting zoo on her birthday, her first time seeing the sea, her laughter with the cadets. He passed around his favorite photo of her, with that enormous alpaca, her smile wide and almost carefree. Ekaterina squeezed the photo tightly and let out a broken laugh, tears streaming down her face.
“She found joy where she could,” Edgar said softly. “She wanted you to know that.”
-------
Before leaving, Edgar addressed the crucial matter. “Her identity as the Savior must remain a secret. At least until she decides otherwise.”
Ekaterina’s gaze sharpened. “She’ll decide? After?”
Edgar nodded. “When she’s ready.” If she ever is, he didn’t add.
“When she returns,” Edgar continued, “she'll be... shattered. She won’t remember you, or herself, or anything but Chaos. He will strip everything away. But we’ve preserved some memories, fragments that might help her hold on—memories of you, of her love so that you would anchor her back to life.”
He explained how they would protect the family, ensuring their safety and support. Although the promises felt hollow, insulting even, Edgar pressed on. He didn't really care how they felt about it; he wouldn’t let Martha’s tragedy repeat.
“Your suffering won’t help her,” he said bluntly. “But you living—and thriving—being here for her when she returns—will.”
As Edgar stood to leave, the family gathered by the door, their grief a palpable weight.
“Thank you,” Ekaterina said, her voice trembling but sincere, her eyes—Sasha’s eyes—locking with his. “For being there. For her.”
“It was my honor,” Edgar replied softly.
He looked back at Sasha's family, committing each face to memory. He knew that the Irvings didn't forgive him—maybe they never would—but they understood. That fragile understanding would be enough to carry them through the years to come. It was the only thing that mattered.
As he stepped out into the cold, the flicker of Vigil Dawn candles followed him, their light steady against the darkness until his frame disappeared into the night.