Weights We Carry

It had been a week since the Ashvale incident. Wounds had healed, and the rhythm in Emberhold was the same as always.

The Bellbark yard rang with steel and sweat.

Let’s do this.

Rokuro stepped onto the narrow balance pole, one bucket hooked in each hand. The wood flexed. He kept his shoulders square.

Three steps.

Five.

Eight.

He landed down without spilling a drop.

A few rebels trading watch duty tried not to look impressed. One failed.

“Again,” Lykos said—but there was the slightest nod in his voice.

Rokuro reset, made the walk back even steadier, then headed for the trough.

The water was mountain-cold, a thin skin of ice clinging to the rim. Lykos stood beside it, arms folded.

“Still Breath. In. Hold. Count.”

Rokuro exhaled once, slid under.

The cold punched his skull. His chest jolted—then settled.

…fifteen… nineteen… twenty‑three…

He pushed the panic down like a lid. The world went quiet, clean.

Twenty‑seven.

He came up smooth, not gasping—just breathing. Steam drifted off his hair.

“Better,” Lykos said. “Again.”

Rokuro went under twice more. The third time, he surfaced on his own count and wiped his face, a small, satisfied exhale escaping him.

Blindfold next. Cloth tight. Ropes creaked as logs swung.

Step. Duck. Pivot. Jump.

He flowed through the rhythm like he finally knew the song, skidding to the finish and tugging the cloth off with a crooked grin.

I’m finally getting the hang of things!

Lykos didn’t smile—but his eyes said he’d seen enough.

“Last,” he said, toeing a block of ironwood onto the stump. A pale, silvery vein threaded the core—Aether, alive and temperamental.

He handed Rokuro the axe.

“Focus, not muscle,” Lykos murmured. “Don’t break the thread.”

“Okay… time for the real test…”

Rokuro set his stance, tongue out. He’d butchered this a dozen times last week. Today he breathed, let the line sit in his vision… and brought the axe down.

THOCK.

The ironwood split clean, the shimmering vein intact, humming faintly as the two halves fell away.

“Yoshaaa!” Rokuro clenched his fist.

Someone from the watching line muttered, “No way…”

“You’re improving,” Lykos said at last. “Still rough. But improving.”

“Careful, sensei,” Rokuro puffed, trying to play it cool. “I might just let it get to my head, y’know.”

A breath that might’ve been a laugh left Lykos. “Don’t worry. I’ll just make the drills harder.”

Rebels drifted back to their stations. Rokuro slung the axe back onto the rack and grabbed a waterskin.

Ever since he had owned the title of Lock, it felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders. And as a result he even performed better in training. He glanced at Lykos.

Their relationship had improved a lot too. But there was something he still hadn’t talked about…

“Hey… can we talk? Just us.”

The man was sitting on a broken wall beneath the Bellbark, chewing on something. A faint, sour smell hung in the air.

Rokuro frowned. “Uh… what are you eating?”

Lykos bit into a small, gnarled fruit that looked like a beating heart with purple glowing veins. “Aetherfruit.”

Rokuro squinted. He thought he’d seen them piled in baskets at the market, but never tried one.

Lykos held one out wordlessly.

It didn’t really look all that appetising but at the same time… what did?

Everything in Ironwood was either purple, green or glowing like Tokyo’s neon billboards.

Rokuro hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure, what the hell—” He bit down, instantly gagged, and spat it out onto the dirt. His throat burned like acid, and his stomach churned. “What in the blue hell is this bullshit! It’s like chewing a sour fire cracker!”

Lykos’ mouth quirked into the closest thing he had to a smile. He calmly bit into another piece, chewing as if it were nothing. “You’ll live. For rebels, it’s common enough. The famous Aetherfruit elixir is made out of it too. For outsiders… less so.”

Rokuro coughed, wiping his tongue on his sleeve. “Then why are you eating it, old man?!”

Lykos’ eyes stayed on the Ironwood stretching away in metallic waves. “…I’m preparing.”

Rokuro shook his head. Guy’s insane. But his mind shifted back to the real reason he’d wanted to talk.

They sat on the broken wall at Emberhold’s edge, Ironwood stretching away in slow metallic waves.

Rokuro fidgeted with the waterskin he used to wash away the bitter flames in his mouth.

“There’s… something I should’ve told you sooner.”

Lykos waited.

“Your mother,” Rokuro said. “She’s got Corrosion.”

The air froze between them.

“I saw her,” Rokuro added quickly. “Your folks hid us from the guards and shared a meal with us. She showed us the marks then… I just didn’t know how to bring it up. I’m… sorry.”

Lykos stared into the trees, jaw set. A long beat passed.

“Her too…” he said quietly.

Rokuro swallowed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“How were they?” Lykos asked, voice rough around the edges. “When you saw them. Were they happy? Doing well?”

Rokuro nodded. “Yeah. Even with the marks. They looked content. And when they mentioned you… guess they were proud.”

Something in Lykos’ shoulders loosened. Not much, but enough.

He was silent another moment, then spoke, steady again:

“Don’t ever hold back truths like that. The only path is honesty. Even if it hurts.”

Rokuro met his gaze and nodded. “…Got it.”

Before Rokuro could walk away, Lykos grabbed him from the shoulder.

“Thank you. For telling me.” Lykos expression never seemed to soften. Yet as he looked at him, Rokuro really thought that this was as soft as it was gonna get.

Rokuro’s eyes were warmer too.

“No problem, teach.”

╒ 🗝 ╛

Selka’s workshop smelled like burnt metal and wet stone. Scrolls, shards, and half-scribbled notes cluttered the long table. A faint glow pulsed from the crystal remains of Ashvale’s golem core, caged in a lattice of ironwood rods.

Kagi leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, violet eyes locked on the shard. She hadn’t spoken in a while. The air in there felt heavier than the battlefield.

Selka adjusted the dial of a copper frame, strands of Aether arcing from her fingers into the shard. It hummed, like a second heartbeat. She frowned, then tapped the side of the frame.

“…There it is again,” she murmured.

Kagi finally asked, “What is?”

Selka spun a parchment across the table. Lines and spikes stretched across it—Aether frequency readings. Next to them, another scroll showed nearly identical patterns, though thinner, shakier.

“This.” Selka pointed. “The shard’s resonance matches the anomalous frequency we’ve been tracking in recent Corrosion victims. It’s not just coincidence—it’s identical.”

Kagi’s brows knit. “…So you’re saying the shard causes Corrosion?”

Selka shook her head quickly. “No. Corrosion existed long before this thing showed up. But look.” She unrolled another parchment, “The same frequency spikes started the very day Draven set foot in Crystalor. Since then? Every week, cases of Corrosion have multiplied. The shard isn’t the origin—it’s our key to connect it to Draven’s magic. It shows us that his presence… his meddling with the relic in the Glass Castle… it’s accelerating the spread. He’s the cause.”

The words settled like ash.

“…So everywhere he walks, the world rots faster.” Kagi’s voice was sharp, “He’s not just waging war on people. He’s poisoning the land itself.”

Her teeth clenched. She could almost feel the weight of the prophecy again—how it had dangled Rokuro and her like tools to stop this. For once, she wasn’t thinking of fate or prophecy. Just anger.

Before she could say more, a heavy shadow crossed the doorway.

Ravuun filled the frame, his presence like that of a mountain. His gaze swept from Selka’s contraption to the shard, then to Kagi.

“Selka.” His voice boomed, “The council is waiting for your report.”

“Uh… okay. Yeah, I’ll be there in a bit.” Selka smiled crookedly, managing a nod, “Warden…”

For all her carefree attitude, even Selka couldn’t help but be awkward around Warden Ravuun’s overwhelming presence.

“And you.” He turned to Kagi, “Why are you not by your Lock’s side?”

Kagi frowned, furrowing her brows like the words were a physical blow.

She didn’t reply, and Ravuun simply didn’t wait. After a final sweep with his eyes, he left the room.

“Haaah…” Selka exhaled with relief, “This is always so intense.”

Kagi on the other hand didn’t say anything. Her mind was still stuck on what Ravuun had told her.

She and Rokuro weren’t one and the same. She knew she only existed because of him but…

Was she really her own person without him?

╒ 🗝 ╛

Ravuun’s heavy steps echoed down the hall. By the time Selka muttered her sigh of relief, he was already gone.

Outside, in the training yard, Nero leaned against a post, one dagger flipping between his fingers. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, but his grin was as lazy as ever.

Ravuun stopped in front of him. The Warden’s shadow swallowed half the yard.

“You will attend the council,” he said flatly. “Stand at my right.”

Nero twirled the dagger once more, then let it vanish into its sheath. He didn’t move.

“Funny. I think I’ll stand where I damn well want.”

The air tightened. A few rebels nearby pretended not to listen, though every ear bent that way.

Ravuun’s eyes narrowed, voice dropping like a stone.

“You carry my blood, Nero. One day you’ll realize what that means. For this hold. For this cause.”

Nero smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah? Well… that day sure as hell ain’t today. Nor tomorrow, or next week for that matter…”

For a long beat, Ravuun didn’t reply. Then he turned, his cloak moving with him.

“War won’t wait for you, boy. And the days I let you run free are ending.”

He left.

Only when the Warden’s footsteps faded did Nero let his grin slip. He sighed bitterly, muttering low enough so only he could hear.

“Damn bastard thinks I asked for any of this…”