An awkward silence flooded the room. Even Varnis remained mute amongst the occupants, unable to dissolve the unease Isla created.

"Oh, hello there," Ham's high-toned boyish voice intervened as he entered the room. He paused mid-stride, the doorway circling his girth. Ham surveyed the unknown damage inflicted upon their colorful group. "Why the long faces?"

"Fatty, shut it," Slate derided.

Rosey red stained his cheeks. "I take back my concern."

"Ignore him, Ham. Slate's just his old grumpy self," Wolfe commented.

"I thought age was supposed to make him wise, guess stereotypes are meant to be broken," Ham added.

"If you were smart, you'd realize the cause," Slate retorted and threw his head towards Isla.

"Welcome back, Queen." Ham bowed then continued, "I'm glad to see you're alive. After Elysium, we assumed the worst."

"You should stop before someone assumes you care about a God," Isla countered. "Either way, I think it's best if I leave." Her gaze watched Leef once more before she shifted, nodding towards Varnis and leaving the room.

Calimitrin followed beside her, silent and uncaring. But did she expect anything? No. Him, a mere observer, aggravated the situation from awkward to embarrassing. No one else but she reaped this focus.

"How much time will you give me?" she whispered.

Isla stopped as her question garnered no response, and observed him. Even his stone chiseled face mimicked his quietness, no twitch or tick speaking his thoughts. Normally, his crimson and burning irises would permit a hint, but the trait copied the rest.

Isla sighed. "Fine, don't respond. I'll assume I have all the time I need."

They passed back through the memory-driven pathway, heading towards the wasteland. Her mind distracted her upon the trek forward. What could she have done differently? No, nevermind. She expected such an outcome.

She had excuses. Rein killed Rydin. Skye pinned her movements, blocking her aid. She stopped pushing Rydin away. The list could continue from her deciphering Rein's peculiar attitude to her failure of interrelation skills with her sisters.

And yet, her obvious failures, she didn't want them known. The easy way. She could have picked it. But her pride, her one fortifying support, would have crumbled. All these years, she relied upon pride. How could she change now?

Calimitrin interrupted her thoughts. "They are mortals.".

"And? Are you trying to say those things they speak don't matter?"

He grunted but refused to agree verbally.

After a minute's pause, Isla continued. "Sometimes it matters."

Their meager conversation muted as they exited past the barricade. The dreary cloud painted sky professed the first kiss of night. One more hour and darkness would envelop Fin Ardin, concealing the ugliness the Gods created.

"If we're similar, what are we?" Isla questioned as they walked the fallen street. "What does it mean to be an Immortal?" She flicked her gaze, watching his facial muscles twitch.

Still silent? What question would arouse speech? "Is it merely the reincarnation?"

Her pale blues watched him, biding for a cue. "You said: my soul was hurt. That's why ten years passed this time. How can a soul be injured but recover?"

Calimitrin returned her stare, his irises shifting a yellowish tint. "Immortals do not need souls."

He lied. Souls were essential. Everyone knew the soul's presence defined life. Without one, nothing sustained the core of life. The soul, body, and conscious; lacking one component and a state akin to death possessed your being. An existential law. "Then we aren't alive?" she voiced.

"Are we mortal?" He cocked an eye, a flashing glint invoked from his words.

"Because we aren't mortal, we don't follow mortal laws. Is what you're saying?"

She assumed his silence and a lack of reaction as his agreement. Mortal laws. Skye had stated she spawned her own body herself. An act consummated by two joining mortals, disproven by her Immortal blood. Then what was she? What defined her? Simple facts had grounded her, but now their disarrayed forms and flimsy sinkers became absent. Instead, she floated, unable to remain stable.

"We don't need souls. But I have one," she declared then added, "They know I'm part God."

Calimitrin snorted but spoke, "Half-blood. Yet, the color matters not. Color can change just like you never changed but appeared the same."

Her face snapped forward as her eyes widened. How did he know? How did he know her history? Every time she reincarnated as the child of another, her form retained through each life. A disfigured and unnatural child. Had she instinctively controlled herself? Did this mean she could change all her features?"

"How?" she blurted. Her hand shot upwards, covering her mouth. A second passed with reticence, but a minute more, and her hesitation withdrew. "I mean, how can I change my form? How do I hide my soul?"

"I do not need to hide," he growled.

Her translation—he didn't know. Clearly, some questions would earn a complete deflection with him. Isla's brow furrowed. "Fine. I get it."

A stillness befell them and her willpower to socialize became muted. She followed her memory, the wide pathway towards the residential district. Once upon, a brief hint of mint-scented the air, now, the flaking ash coated the wind alongside death's acrid stench.

The homely structure she remembered as a brief roasted apple smelling reprieve stood before them. The strong roof overshadowing the adjacent alleyways had caved, the top floor lost. Still, the quietness enshrouding their walk meant they would be left unnoticed amongst the beaten and broken rabble. A good thing when she bore a God's blood and him an unapproachable appearance.

Isla stopped before the drifting memory. "We'll go to Erose tomorrow."