Kazaks shifted slightly in the sand, his gaze distant, his remaining hand absently brushing over the rough texture of his pants. 

The morning light illuminated his face, revealing a flicker of hesitation as he finally broke the silence.

"Hey, Captain," Kazaks said, his voice steady but low. 

"I know this is random... but do you think someone like me can still serve a purpose?"

Zach turned toward him, his brow furrowing, surprised by the question.

Kazaks exhaled sharply, as if steadying himself. 

"I mean, I've lost my left arm. Can I still serve you? After all these years... all we've been through... can I still fight? Can I still be of use to you?"

The others—Qarek, Yzavynne, Gargeal, and Leeani—glanced at Kazaks, their faces a mix of understanding and sadness, but they didn't interrupt. 

This wasn't a moment for anyone but Kazaks and Zach.

"I've been thinking about it for a while," Kazaks continued, his voice thickening. 

"I've wanted to talk to you about it, but I guess I didn't know how to start. I mean... look at me now. My war hammer's gathering dust. My body feels half-empty, and I don't know if I even belong in battle anymore. You saw what Thorne did to me."

Kazaks' voice cracked as he mentioned Selene, his hand balling into a fist. 

"He didn't just take my arm; he took away my confidence. I couldn't even stand on the battlefield after he made me useless. If I go out there now, with just one arm, I'll just... I'll just be a weight to carry around. I'll drag you all down, just like I was dead weight that day."

The silence that followed felt heavier than any weapon they had ever wielded. 

Kazaks stared at the ground, his words hanging in the air. 

None of them spoke—not Qarek, not Yzavynne, not even Gargeal, who always seemed to have some sage advice ready. 

Leeani's hand twitched slightly, as though she wanted to reach out but wasn't sure it was her place.

Zach's heart clenched at the rawness in Kazaks' voice. 

This was one of his strongest warriors, someone who had faced countless battles by his side, now questioning his worth. 

Zach stepped forward and crouched slightly, meeting Kazaks' gaze head-on.

"Kazaks," Zach said quietly, but his voice carried a weight that made everyone listen. 

"You've given everything—your strength, your time, your efforts, your body—for the sake of this band. For me. You've fought battles no one should ever have to face. And now, you're sitting here, questioning if you still have a purpose?"

Kazaks blinked, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Zach added.

"Let me say this, Kazaks, and I need you to hear it: It's time to retire. It's time for you to rest."

Kazaks' eyes widened slightly, and a sharp intake of breath rippled through the group. 

Even Gargeal's stoic expression faltered.

Zach continued, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. 

"You've done enough, more than anyone could ever ask of you. From here on out, we'll be the ones to carry the weight for you. You don't have to prove anything to anyone—not to me, not to them, not to yourself. Your worth isn't tied to a weapon or a battlefield. You've earned the right to rest, Kazaks. To live. To find peace."

The words hung in the air, settling over the group like a balm.

"You've fought side-by-side with us for years," Zach added, his voice softening. 

"It's okay to let us carry you now."

Kazaks' lips trembled slightly, and he turned his head away, blinking rapidly as if to stop the tears threatening to spill. 

His remaining hand gripped the edge of his knee tightly.

Leeani finally broke the silence, her voice gentle. 

"Kazaks, none of us think you're a burden. You've done so much for us... for all of us."

Qarek nodded, his voice thick with emotion. 

"You're still our brother. With or without an arm, nothing changes that."

Yzavynne leaned forward slightly, her tone softer than usual. 

"You've earned this, Kazaks. Don't think of it as giving up. Think of it as moving forward in a different way."

Even Gargeal, who had remained quiet throughout, finally spoke, his voice carrying a quiet wisdom. 

"Growth doesn't stop just because you're not holding a weapon anymore, Kazaks. You can still protect us. In different ways. Sometimes, the greatest warriors are the ones who step back and allow others to grow stronger in their stead."

Kazaks' head hung low, his shoulders trembling slightly. 

He didn't speak, but the tears streaming down his face said everything.

Zach said.

"We're here for you, Kazaks. Always. Whether you're on the battlefield or sitting here with us, you're still part of this family."

Kazaks finally looked up, his voice breaking as he whispered.

"Thank you... all of you."

Kazaks wiped his eyes with his sleeve, his breaths uneven but calmer now. 

The burden that had weighed him down for so long seemed just a little lighter.

Leeani leaned back on her hands, letting out a dramatic sigh as she glanced up at the sky. 

"Well, it looks like we're dropping like flies," she quipped, her tone light but teasing. 

"Nert is now sleeping permanently somewhere—we don't even know where, but I'm sure he's having a good, peaceful, silent nap. Jiighual has somehow become this village's chef—I mean, seriously, who let that happen? And now..." 

She turned to Kazaks with an exaggerated pout. 

"...our angry boy has lost an arm and can no longer fight. What are we even going to do with you now, Kazaks?"

Kazaks let out a surprised laugh, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. 

"What can I say? I'm just falling apart over here. Guess I'm gonna have to start a knitting club or something. Think the villagers will be into that?"

Leeani snorted, a mischievous glint in her eye. 

"Oh, absolutely. I can already see it. 'Kazaks' Knitting Corner: Weave Your Wrath Into Wool.' You'd be an icon."

Kazaks chuckled, shaking his head. 

"I'd probably stab myself with the needles. Or end up knitting something so bad that people would start asking for refunds."

"That's the spirit!" Leeani said, grinning. 

"Failure with flair—that's what you're all about!"

Yzavynne, who had been quietly listening, finally chimed in, her lips twitching into a rare smirk. 

"To be fair, Lea, you'd probably burn the yarn before you even started. Remember the time you tried to 'fix' that saddle and set it on fire?"

Leeani gasped, putting a hand to her chest in mock outrage. 

"Excuse me, Yza, that was an experiment. I was trying to innovate! Not my fault the leather didn't appreciate my genius."

Qarek, who had been leaning against a rock nearby, let out a low chuckle. 

"Innovate? You nearly got us kicked out of that village because the stable smelled like smoke for days."

"Oh, please," Leeani shot back, rolling her eyes. 

"Like you're one to talk, Qarek. Who was it that tried to juggle flaming torches in front of the town elder's house and nearly burned down their laundry line?"

"That was research!" Qarek protested, grinning. 

"I wanted to see if I could do it while blindfolded. Spoiler: I can't."

Kazaks finally spoke up, a crooked grin on his face. 

"And yet I'm the one they're worried about. I'm starting to think the lot of you need a babysitter more than a battlefield."

"That's rich coming from you, Kazaks," Yzavynne said, raising an eyebrow. 

"Need I remind you of the time you tried to 'train' the village goats to pull a wagon and ended up with one of them chasing you for an hour?"

Kazaks groaned, covering his face with his hand. 

"I was trying to be productive! How was I supposed to know goats don't take orders?"

"They take orders just fine," Leeani said, smirking. 

"They just don't take them from you."

The group burst into laughter, their voices mingling with the sound of the ocean. 

It was a rare moment of levity, the kind that felt almost foreign after everything they had been through.

Zach stood a few steps away, watching them with a soft smile. 

His heart felt lighter seeing them like this—laughing, teasing, living. 

For so long, they had been bound by duty and survival, their lives shaped by loss and war. 

Kazaks wiped at his face again, this time out of laughter rather than tears. 

He pointed at Leeani. 

"You know, you're lucky I can't fight anymore. Otherwise, I'd challenge you to a duel just to shut you up."

"Oh, I'd win," Leeani said confidently, puffing out her chest. 

"One-armed Kazaks is no match for me!"

Kazaks shot back, grinning.

"You're all bark and no bite."

Leeani challenged, pretending to roll up her sleeves.

"Want to test that theory?" 

"Enough, you two," Yzavynne said, shaking her head but smiling softly. 

"Let's not traumatize the villagers by making them witness whatever disaster you're about to cause."

Kazaks raised an eyebrow. 

"Says the woman who once tried to outdrink a tavern full of sailors and ended up asleep on the bar."

Yzavynne's cheeks flushed slightly, and she crossed her arms. 

"That... was strategic. I was gathering information."

Qarek said, smirking.

"Sure you were."

The laughter grew louder, the teasing flying back and forth with ease. 

It was childish, silly, and entirely freeing.

As Zach watched them, his chest swelled with a quiet sense of pride and peace. 

For all their flaws and scars, this group was his family. 

And seeing them like this—unburdened, even if just for a little while—made every hardship worth it.

A movement caught Zach's eye, and he turned to see Gargeal standing slightly apart from the group, his gaze fixed on the horizon. 

There was a softness in his usually stern expression, and then, unexpectedly, he smiled. 

It was small, barely there, but it was genuine—

The first real smile Zach had ever seen from him.

It was a moment Zach would never forget, a reminder that even the most battle-hardened hearts could find moments of peace.

Zach took a breath, the warmth of the moment still lingering in his chest as the group around him began to ease back into casual conversation.

Yet something tugged at the back of his mind—a faint whisper, a reminder of why he had come here in the first place.

He turned his gaze back to Gargeal, who was brushing a thin layer of sand from his hands.

Zach said, his tone shifting slightly.

"Hey, Gargeal."

Gargeal responded, looking up at him with a calm curiosity.

"Hm?"

Zach hesitated for a moment, then continued, his voice quieter now.

"We need to talk—"

But before Zach could finish, his voice faltered, his words caught in his throat.

His eyelids grew heavy, and before he could stop it, they closed as if drawn by an unseen force.

And then, the world around him changed.

Darkness seeped into the edges of his vision, swallowing the gentle sunlight and the sounds of the ocean.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and when his eyes opened again, he was no longer on the shore.

They were back.

The statues.

Zach's breath hitched as he saw them, looming around him and the group like a silent audience. 

This time, they weren't simply watching. 

The details struck him like a blade, slicing through the momentary calm he'd felt.

The stone figures were bleeding.

Thick, crimson streams oozed from their hollow eyes, dribbling down their sculpted faces in grotesque trails. 

From their noses, their ears, their mouths—it poured out, dark and viscous, pooling at their feet. 

The statues' bodies, naked and unashamed, wept blood from every conceivable place. 

Even from their groins, a sight so viscerally unnatural that it made Zach's stomach churn violently. 

The once-pale stone was streaked with slick red, veins of gore carving through the lifeless gray.

They stood frozen, encircling him and the others, yet Zach knew—he felt—their attention. 

Though their blank, featureless expressions betrayed no movement, it was as if their bleeding, hollow sockets were fixed squarely on him.

His breaths quickened, his chest rising and falling as panic began to claw its way up his throat. 

He tried to look away, to focus on Gargeal, on Kazaks, Yzavynne, Leeani, Qarek—on anyone—but they didn't seem to notice. 

They were talking, laughing softly, entirely unaware of the horrors surrounding them.

He opened his mouth to speak, to warn them, but no sound came out. 

"Ah—"

His body felt heavy, as though the statues' unseen grip was rooting him to the sand. 

The air grew colder, denser, and Zach's ears were filled with the wet, sickening sound of blood dripping onto stone.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The statues weren't still anymore. 

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, their heads began to tilt, the sickening motion cracking through the silence. 

Their faces turned toward him, their bloody sockets boring into him with a silent, suffocating malice. 

One by one, they leaned closer, encircling him tighter, until it felt like the walls of reality were caving in.

Gargeal's voice broke through faintly, muffled and distant, like a call from across a vast, empty canyon.

"Zach?" 

Zach blinked, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. 

His surroundings flickered for a moment—the gentle warmth of the village's shore, the soft murmur of his companions—but then the statues were back, unyielding, their bleeding intensifying as the ground beneath them turned a deep, pooling red.

He wanted to scream, to fight, to do something—anything—but all he could do was stand there, helpless as the statues crept closer and closer.

And then, as his vision began to blur, a whisper—no, a chorus of whispers—filled his ears. 

The words were unintelligible, fragmented and haunting, yet laced with a venomous promise.

The last thing he saw before everything went black was a single statue, its blood-drenched hand reaching toward him, its hollow mouth twisting into something that could almost be called a smile.

And then—

Silence.

The statues, encircling Zach and his companions in their grotesque stillness, began to shift. Slowly, unnervingly, they moved—not with the creak of stone grinding against stone, but with the eerie, fluid grace of something alive. 

Their limbs bent and twisted unnaturally, their joints snapping into configurations that defied any human form. 

Blood continued to pour from the gaping holes across their bodies, staining the ground in dark, oozing rivulets.

Zach, still frozen in place, could only watch in horrified silence. 

His companions' laughter faded from his ears, replaced by a growing hum, low and guttural, vibrating deep within his chest. 

It was as if the very air around him pulsed with malevolence.

One statue, the closest to him, lifted its head. 

Its hollow, bleeding eyes stared directly at him, as though it could see through him, past his clothes, past his flesh, and into the fragile threads of his soul. 

The grotesque holes across its face—the sockets of its eyes, the nostrils, the yawning maw of its mouth—twitched and convulsed.

And then it spoke.

The voice was not a voice, not in the way Zach understood. 

It was a collective sound, as though every statue had become a conduit for something ancient and unfathomable. 

The words were guttural, alien, yet somehow he understood them perfectly:

"You... carry their weight. But can you bear what remains?"

Zach stumbled back as the statue's neck cracked to the side, its head tilting unnaturally. 

The others moved in unison, their faces twisting, bleeding mouths curling into mockeries of smiles. 

Their bodies, once rigid stone, now writhed like flesh, the veins of black ichor coursing beneath their cracked surfaces.

One by one, they began to kneel—not in reverence, but in a grotesque display of mockery, their heads bowed as if to worship Zach. 

But he knew better. 

This was no act of submission. 

This was something darker.

The hum grew louder, vibrating through the ground beneath his feet, through the marrow of his bones. 

The kneeling statues pressed their bloodied hands into the earth, and the crimson that seeped from them began to spread. 

It moved like a living thing, tendrils of liquid malice snaking toward him, encircling him in an inescapable ring.

Zach gasped, his breath catching as the blood began to rise, defying gravity. 

It formed shapes—faces, distorted and screaming, mouths wide in agony. 

They floated around him, whispers growing louder, overlapping in a cacophony of despair.

"The captain who carries the weight of the fallens..."

"Do you think you can save them, Captain?"

"You wouldn't be able to save everyone."

"He, Nyctheros, will come for you."

At the mention of one of the god's name, Zach's chest tightened, his knees buckling as the voices clawed at his mind. 

He wanted to scream, to fight back, but his body felt paralyzed, trapped within this nightmare.

The statues rose once more, their movements more fluid, their forms less defined. 

They were no longer statues but something between stone and flesh, their features a grotesque amalgamation of human suffering.

The closest one reached toward him, its blood-soaked hand extending unnaturally long. 

Zach tried to step back, but the tendrils of blood on the ground tightened around his ankles, holding him in place. 

The statue's hand stopped inches from his face, and for the briefest moment, Zach thought it might strike him.

But it didn't.

Instead, the hand turned, palm facing upward, revealing something embedded within its center. 

A small shard, faintly glowing, pulsed with a cold, unnatural light. 

The sight of it sent a wave of nausea through Zach, as if every fiber of his being rejected whatever it was.

The voices said in unison, resonating through his skull.

"Take it."

"Take it and bear what remains."

Zach's mind screamed at him to refuse, to resist. 

But his body betrayed him. 

Against his will, his hand lifted, trembling, and reached for the shard.

The moment his fingers touched it, a searing pain shot through him, unlike anything he'd ever felt. 

It wasn't just physical—it was emotional, spiritual. 

Memories flooded his mind: battles lost, enemies killed, kings beheaded, innocent people tortured, friends fallen, Selene's lifeless eyes staring up at him. 

And then, deeper memories, ones he didn't recognize—visions of people he had never met, lives torn apart, screams echoing through endless darkness of crimson red.

The shard dissolved into his palm, its light vanishing as it sank into his skin. 

The pain subsided, but the weight it left behind was unbearable. 

He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, his vision blurred with tears.

The statues began to retreat, their forms dissolving into the shadows as if they had never been there. 

But their presence lingered, a heavy, oppressive force that Zach knew would not leave him.

As the last of the statues vanished, the voices whispered one final message, soft but chilling:

"You wield great strength, yet even the strongest hands cannot shield all from the tide. Not others... and not yourself."

"When you turned away from the gift of the Tome of Fate, you turned away from the fabric of existence itself. To spurn what was woven by the threads of eternity is to invite the wrath of its weaver. For Fate is not a mere path—it is the essence of all that was, is, and will be. To deny it is to defy the divine, to mock the hand that shapes the cosmos."

Its hollow eyes bore into Zach, though the others around him saw nothing.

"You turned away from the Tome of Fate, mortal. It is not a mere book, but the pulse of creation itself, older than the stars, older than the gods who claim dominion over this world. Its pages hold the threads of destiny, not just of your life, but of all who walk, who breathe, who die.

When you cast it aside, you severed yourself from the great tapestry. You dared to mock The Eye, he who spins the threads of existence and shapes the rhythm of eternity. You turned your gaze from the truth, refusing not just its guidance but your place within the design.

Do you understand the weight of your defiance? The Tome does not simply record the future—it is the future. To reject it is to sever your own thread, to unmoor yourself from the balance of all things. This is no small blasphemy, mortal. You have denied the will of the Eye That Sees All. And in doing so, you have drawn his wrath.

The world no longer recognizes you, Zach. The winds, the waters, the very earth turn from your steps. The fabric of destiny rejects you. Without the Tome, you walk blind through a world that demands balance, and balance will be restored, with or without you.

You have invited his gaze. The Eye sees you now, an anomaly in his perfect design. Know this, mortal: the tapestry of fate cannot be unraveled. And you will feel the weight of what you have undone."

And then, silence.

Zach was left alone on the shore, the echoes of their words reverberating in his mind. 

His body shook, his breath uneven. 

Whatever had just happened—

It had only just begun.

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