Bevi faced the knifing cold wind, standing before a tide of rats, his heart a still lake.

They saw him, felt the dense power in him, and aimed like arrows, rushing in a black wave.

“Here it comes…” He sighed, the breath a pale mist drifting into winter.

He’d lost count of his sighs today, yet this one felt like the last leaf before the fall.

After Lucimia left, he brooded on how to refill the missing power and herd the swarm into the Royal Capital, like guiding a flood through gates.

Truth was, he had only two blades in his sleeve, not the three he told Lucimia.

Even if Rexi helped with the second plan and Lucimia led the way, the crack in their shield stayed; Nirael’s strength would dip and their odds sink, unless Lucimia fought.

But Lucimia refused, and no better path showed itself; the single road left was a candle offered to the dark—self-sacrifice.

It was the only way he saw to pour power into Nirael’s fading lamp.

Thankfully, Lucimia wasn’t truly cruel; after Devouring the needed intel, she spared his gift, leaving his sap to flow, his one life worth many.

With the deficit patched, another knot tightened: how to steer the rats, like tugging stormclouds into a chosen valley.

He thought it through and chose a Bloodkin trick—blood, a crimson thread to lead the maze.

He would release all his blood; any rat that tasted it would stamp a red seal on its tongue’s menu.

Rexi would run for the Royal Capital with his blood; those that had tasted it would chase like kites on a scarlet string.

There were too many to mark them all, but a cast net in that sea could still catch a shoal.

At least a portion would reach the Capital; that was the frayed end of his rope.

To spread his blood wide, Bevi braided his veins into a Magic Array, roots feeding a crimson mandala.

“Come, let me offer what little I can.” His gaze hardened; he opened his arms, and mana ripples widened like rings on a pond.

The prepared Magic Array rose from the soil, floated skyward, a blood-red moon blanketing part of the black river.

“Blood Rain,” Bevi whispered, a seed of a prayer cast into storm.

The sigil flared; a rain of blood fell, not heavy, only a mist, drifting down like fine threads.

The drizzle spread like a veil, covering more of the swarm; a torrent would drain him dry and drown less ground.

No human could feed a sky like that; he used Bloodkin secrets, grinding his years into wine, making blood as he burned life.

Wretchedness flooded him; his skin bled whiter, lips turned blue-violet, skin clammy, sweat cold, pulse racing, breath thin—a candle guttering in a draft.

He didn’t stop; he leaned harder, pushing the whetstone uphill.

Soon he was bled empty; youth withered to age; his body, a husk, toppled like a dry leaf.

Before death sealed him, the blood-slick rats swarmed, gnawing flesh and soul, drinking the power his own gift had brewed, like piranhas in a red stream.

Lucimia sat atop the clocktower and watched it all: his calm stance, his iron push to sustain the Blood Rain, and the swarm Devouring him, the bell inside her counting every beat.

A tremor stirred in her chest; she held her silence, a cold hush settling like frost.

Memories surged like lanterns along a night road; everyone she’d met was noble, each bearing the will to burn themselves for others.

In the Town of Tranquility, Yuna let Lucimia Devour her to end Elyssus, a candle offered to snuff a storm.

In Jaha Town, the Plague Followers—the tavern keeper and the rest—chose to self-detonate; on the merchant ship, Hart sacrificed himself to stop the Purification Church’s Inquisitor, a bridge burned for a fleeing caravan.

In Wasan Village, A-Biao, different yet stubborn, resisted the Dark Deity in his own way, a lone stone diverting a river.

Then there was Desty in the valley, who trusted her without condition, placing life and soul like a hilt into her hand.

And now, Bevi—another star falling into the dark.

He chose to die unseen. No one knew this Bloodkin existed, or what he did; without Lucimia’s eyes, it would be a prayer lost in the wind.

And Nirael, ready to perish with Ment, risking corruption, two meteors set to collide.

Olivya too, pruning even her own line—sacrificing herself, her companions, her descendants down to the root.

What about her? Conflict throbbed like a bruise; she had the power, yet didn’t move. She wasn’t good, not evil either; at first, back in the Town of Tranquility, she avoided harm and avoided self-immolation, yet still did small kindnesses, walking the ridge between two fields.

Now even simple good gathered dust, like an unused blade on a shelf.

No—she wasn’t wrong. Not doing harm meant she wasn’t wrong. But the hinge in her heart wouldn’t swing.

She looked at Bevi, chewed to bone, and bitterness pooled like brine.

If she’d led the way, would he have lived, at least spared the worst of it, at a fog-thick crossroads?

No. Even then, the hole in the wall remained. This felt like a card he’d readied long ago, only not placed first.

Yet one truth stood like a duller edge: if she’d led, his end might have hurt less.

And if she’d gone, she would never have known; by staying, moonlight had shown the footprints.

She kept her tongue; silence pooled like ink under the eaves.

Anger rose, sudden as a gust slamming a loose shutter. Were these self-burners fools? Who remembers them? Offerings rot on an untended shrine; even if the Dark Deity falls, the living may forget, some may spit.

Was it worth it, with scales tipping in smoke?

There was so much joy left—roads like sunlit ribbons—like those adventurers, or that academy valedictorian Desty mentioned. Why not skip being a Holy Knight, skip fighting Dark Deities, and live well?

Heat flared, then cooled; her gaze settled on those bones, trampled like ash.

A moment ago he spoke; now he was a kicked-about pile, a wick cut mid-syllable.

“It’s… worthy of respect… and so damn foolish,” she murmured, voice thin as thread.

She turned from the swarm, closing a window on the storm.

High on the clocktower she stood silent, watching the puppet-like crowd below, strings tugged by unseen hands.

After a long hush, she drank in a deep breath and let it ebb like a tide.

She recalled Yuna’s wish for peace, and Desty’s creed of justice, two warm talismans in her palm.

“Fine. You’ve done so much for me. I should do something for you,” she said, the words falling like pebbles into still water.

Lucimia looked back at the bones, white as frost on a grave.

“Hmph. I’ll be a fool once. If Ment wins, it’s bad. A descended Dark Deity casts a shadow over my doorstep.”

“Wait till I’m dead to crawl out and make a mess, Dark Deities. Do as you like; that night won’t touch me.”

“Yeah, this is still for me. If it takes sacrifice, if it burns massive power to fight a descended Dark Deity, I’ll run—that’s why I’ve held back. But if it won’t cost myself, I can push the cart a little.”

She gave the bones one last glance, a final leaf tossed to the stream, and turned away.

She tapped stone with her toe, lifted like a swallow, and cut north through the cold sky.