Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

Words I'll Carry Out

Lirien was dead in my arms, her weight heavier than I'd expected. My mother—the woman I'd feared as a ruthless killer, always outmaneuvering me, her power a storm I couldn't match, was still, her breath gone. As her eyes lost their light, the truth sank in like a blade: there was no trap, no final scheme to crush me. She'd brought me here, to the Obelisk, to make me choose—her death, my hands, the path forward. She hadn't been soft or gentle, but she'd shaped me for this unforgiving world, and now, with her gone, that truth hurt more than I could stand. I'd only seen her heart too late.

No tears came. She'd burned that out of me, forged me to carry pain without breaking. My hands felt nothing, not cold, not warm, numb from the lives I'd ended in the last day, too many to count, too heavy to feel. Her lessons had rooted deep, the second rule now solid in my core. The third rule hovered, a shadow I could sense but not name, stirring as I held her, her body limp against me.

Her face was wrong—skin dark, cracked like broken stone, faint mana seeping from the splits even now. The damage wasn't from my blades but something inside her, eating her away. I tightened my grip, careful not to let her slip, and carried her across the Obelisk chamber. The room was cold, its stone walls rough and unyielding, lit only by the terminal's runes—pale blue, flickering like a dying pulse. I moved slow, each step deliberate, her head resting against my chest, blood staining Hazeveil. I didn't want her to fall, not now, not after everything.

At the terminal, I lowered her gently, settling her against the console's edge. Her blood spilled, dark and thick, pooling into the runes. It hissed softly, the glow sparking where it touched, like the machine was drinking her dry. I knelt beside her, my fingers brushing her arm, careful, like she might still wake. "Kara," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "what caused this?"

[Kara]

[Some kind of mana eruption. Her body couldn't hold it, collapsed under the strain.]

Kara's words were a start, but they didn't explain enough. I stayed there, staring at Lirien's ruined face, her cracked skin glowing faintly in the terminal's light. Then I saw it, the letter she'd dropped, crumpled and blood-smeared, lying on the floor. I picked it up, unfolding it with steady hands, her handwriting sharp but shaky, addressed to me. The Obelisk's hum filled the silence as I read, each word shifting the ground under me.

She'd written it all—her power, her end. The pills, meant for captains, gave her crimson-beast strength but tore her apart. She'd taken too many, far beyond safe, a choice made before I came back from the fog, when she thought me dead. It was suicide, planned and certain, to gain the power to unify Districts 97 and 98. The Vyrithax serpent feared her for it; she'd matched its might even though I could not sense it at the time, burned through generations of pills, leaving just one for Tarin. Her body had been breaking all this time, every step timed to her collapse.

I leaned against the terminal, the letter trembling in my hands. She'd known her death was coming, had prepared everything, from the breach to the battles for this moment, to hand me the choice. In her pocket, I found a proclamation, a single sheet, the only copy, as she'd written. It was her vision for Araksiun. "She's giving me a choice," I said to Kara, my voice low, the chamber swallowing the sound. "I could burn this. No one would know."

The proclamation's weight matched the body beside me. Lirien hadn't been the monster I'd feared—she'd hidden her heart, her love for me, for Tarin, to make us strong. She'd raised us to survive a world that crushed the weak, her warmth buried under a captain's mask. I looked at her, blood crusting on the runes, her face still even in death. I'd killed her, not just because she'd led me to it, but because she'd trusted me to carry what she couldn't. The bond we'd had, fractured and unspoken, was real, and losing it now left a hole I hadn't expected.

I reached for the monocle, tucked against my chest, wrapped in cloth to keep its power from my skin. As my fingers closed around it, whispers stirred—voices from the gray realm, sharper now but easier to push down. I lifted it to my eye, and there she was, clear as the sun in my dreams. Lirien's face, free of cracks, no blood or scars, glowed with a smile I'd never seen in life. Her ghost shimmered, brighter than the Obelisk's dim runes, showing colors she'd hidden behind her captain's mask.

She drifted closer, her hand reaching for my cheek, just as she'd done in death. Warmth spread from her touch, soft and real, easing the ache in my chest. It hurt, knowing I'd never burn her proclamation. She'd unified two districts, carried the weight of terrible acts, all for a vision I now saw clear. I was no pawn, never would be again, and her methods of blood and ruin weren't mine. But her ideals, her dream for a stronger world, those I'd choose to carry, standing where she fell.

***

Lirien's death hit District 98 like a shockwave. Whispers filled the streets; nobody had expected her to fall, not the woman who'd toppled the council. The Blackthorn name rang out now, not just as chainrunners but as the district's law, carved into every corner by her brief, iron grip. People had thought she'd outlast them all, take the council's place herself. Instead, she was gone, and the weight of her absence settled heavy over us.

The chainrunners had always followed a Blackthorn. With Lirien dead, that mantle fell to Tarin, her son, only 16. He wasn't a stronger warrior, not like Gustav, not like me, but I saw the fit. Tarin had a steadiness, a way of holding ground that didn't need a blade. With Dain at his side, weathered but sharp, I believed he could be what District 98 needed. Not a warrior, but a leader, someone to steer us through the battery shortages and the scars the council left behind.

Her proclamation loomed largest, though. Her rule lasted mere hours, but she'd poured everything into that single document, a vision I'd held in my hands. On the day Tarin ascended as Overseer, a title created for this new era, with advisors like Dain to guide him, I handed it to him. The crowd gathered in the district's central square, faces tired but hopeful, their breath misting in the morning chill. I stood at the edge, Hazeveil shadowing me, watching Tarin take the steps to a raised platform, the proclamation folded in his cloak.

He didn't cry at Lirien's funeral. I'd stood close, hearing his heart race, thumping hard enough to shake him, but he kept his face stone-still, no weakness shown. He'd learned that from her, to hide the hurt and carry the weight. But during his ascension, I slipped the monocle from its cloth, lifting it to my eye. The square blurred, and there she was—Lirien, at Tarin's side, a ghost only I could see. Her face was clean, no cracks or blood, her smile soft and proud, brighter than the gray realm's haze. She watched him, unhidden, her love bare in a way she'd never allowed in life. My chest tightened, a pang I couldn't name, knowing she was here, even in death, to see her son rise.

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Tarin stepped forward, his voice cutting through the crowd's murmur. "Most of you know me," he said, clear and firm, no trace of the boy I'd grown up with. "For those who don't, I'm Tarin Blackthorn, son of Lirien Blackthorn, who, like so many of our fallen, gave her life for something bigger than herself." He spoke of her honor, her sacrifice, painting her as a hero. To him, it was true, and the crowd leaned in, their faces softening, some nodding, others clutching cloaks against the cold. They believed him, not just because of Lirien's shadow but because of how he stood, straight, eyes meeting theirs, no hesitation.

He turned to the challenges ahead, his voice steady. "The battery shortage is real, but we've secured a stock to hold us for months until a new run can be planned. We know what needs to change, and how." The crowd stirred, murmurs rising with hope, maybe, or relief. Tarin's words carried weight, not from force but from conviction, something the old council had lacked. At 16, he spoke like he'd carried the district's burdens for years, and they accepted him, not just as Lirien's son but as their Overseer, dignified and sure.

Then came the moment for Lirien's proclamation. Tarin reached into his cloak, pulling out the folded sheet I'd given him, its edges worn from her hands.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

PROCLAMATION OF REFOUNDATION

Issued under the Ancient Statutes of the City of Araksiun

Let it be recorded and broadcast beyond every ward:

Reconstitution of the City

The legacy of Araksiun endures. From this hour the fractured wards and numbered districts shall be gathered beneath a single mantle and named New Araksiun. The old partitions are dissolved in spirit; the city lives again as one polity.

Seat of Authority

By mutual accord of the signatory districts, District 98 is ratified as the civic heart and strategic command of New Araksiun. All civil writs, levies, and edicts shall issue henceforth from its council hall.

Chain of Governance

The undersigned acknowledge the ancient prerogative of the Overseer to safeguard the city in times of crisis.

Lirien Blackthorn — First Overseer of District 98 — is confirmed as High Commander of New Araksiun, invested with full executive powers enumerated in the Codices of Unity.

Camilla Seravelle — lawful Overseer of District 97 — affixes her seal in unanimous assent.

Obligations of Allegiance

Each district pledging allegiance to New Araksiun shall uphold the edicts of this proclamation, render men and materiel as assessed, and recognize the authority of the High Commander until such time as a Grand Conclave may convene to draft a charter of permanent governance.

So sworn and sealed on this day of binding, beneath the cracked spires and steadfast wards of the old walls.

Lirien Blackthorn

High Commander & First Overseer of District 98

Camilla Seravelle

Overseer of District 97

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The crowd held its breath as Tarin read Lirien's proclamation, his voice steady, carrying over the cold morning air. The document was no afterthought; she'd signed it with Camilla of District 97 before even leaving, her plan to reforge Araksiun as New Araksiun set long before her death.

Two districts, united under one name, with District 98 as its heart. The words sank in, heavy and final, dissolving old divisions and naming Tarin not just Overseer but High Commander, a title that echoed the ancient Codices of Unity. Gasps rippled through the crowd, chainrunners and civilians, some clutching cloaks, others whispering, their faces a mix of awe and unease at the weight of it all.

I stood at the square's edge, Hazeveil shadowing my form, watching Tarin on the platform. He held the proclamation like it might burn him, but his posture stayed firm, no trace of the boy who'd once ducked Lirien's training drills. Dain stood nearby, his weathered face blank, eyes distant. I knew that look—he'd handled Lirien's paperwork for years, every order, every plan. Now, with Tarin as High Commander, the flood of new edicts, alliances, and logistics loomed. Dain's shoulders sagged slightly, not from weakness but from the endless work he'd never escape. He'd be at Tarin's side, just as he'd been for her, no rest in sight.

Tarin finished, folding the proclamation with care, and the crowd erupted in cheers, some hesitant, others loud, a wave of sound that shook the square. They saw him as Lirien's heir, but more than that, they saw him ready to lead where the council had faltered. I didn't join the cheers. Leadership wasn't my path. I knew my limits, my strengths and my weaknesses. Gustav, now Captain of District 98's chainrunners, would hold that role until Tarin's future son came of age. They'd rebuild Araksiun. My part was elsewhere.

Later, I found Meris in one of my old hiding spots, a cramped rooftop nook overlooking the district. She sat on a worn crate, her cloak bundled against the chill, while I lay with my head resting on her lap, staring up at the fog. Light leaked through in thin streaks, pale and cold. Her hands were still, tired from days of healing the district's wounded, her mana drained to nothing. She'd worked until she swayed, but her eyes still held that spark, the same one I'd always known.

"Politics are so complicated," I said, my voice low, the words half-lost in the quiet. The proclamation, Tarin's new titles, the district's shift felt like a knot I couldn't untie.

Meris tilted her head, her fingers brushing my hair lightly, careful like she thought I'd break. "You don't need to worry about that," she said, soft but sure. "Tarin's going to do a great job. You know he will."

She was right. He had an army armed with sub-artifacts, a Frost Titan that made other districts think twice, and a stock of batteries to hold them over. They could hunt, craft, even run to District 96 for more. New Araksiun was his to shape, and he'd do it well. But that wasn't my place. I felt it, deep in my core—a pull to the fog, to the dangers beyond. Creatures like Markus were out there, stronger than crimson beasts, and when they came, I had to be ready.

"I'm leaving again," I said, the words blunt, cutting through the stillness.

Meris froze, her hand stopping in my hair. Her face twisted, eyes wide with shock. "Again?" she said, her voice rising, cracking a little. "Why? Everything's fine now, no, no, you should stay! They need you. What about the runs? What if they find a monster they can't beat out there?" She leaned forward, her words tumbling fast, like she could talk me out of it.

I looked up at her, her face close, her breath quick. "They don't need me here," I said, steady but quiet. "People will die on runs; they always do. I can't save everyone. It's not my job. Death's part of it, Meris. They've got the strength they need." I paused, feeling the weight of what I had to do. "But out there, I can find real artifacts, ways to strengthen the wards, to refuel them. To protect us from what's coming, horrors bigger than we've seen."

Her eyes searched mine, desperate, like she was looking for a way to argue. She bit her lip, then said, softer, "But what about me? I… I need you. Here." Her voice broke, honest and small, her hands tightening on my cloak.

I held her gaze, the knot in my chest tightening. She was the one thing that made staying feel possible. But the fog called, and I couldn't ignore it. "Wait for me," I said, my voice firm, a vow I meant with everything I had. "I always come back. That's a promise I'll never break."