Chapter 84: Mizuki's Vow

The black slime of the Glutton is cooling on our skin. It hardens into a brittle shell that cracks with every movement. We are huddled in a narrow fissure high above the main caverns. It is a small, dark crack in the world, but it is hidden.

I lean against the cold stone. My chest heaves. The golden flame inside me is a quiet ember now. It rests. It waits.

Hachiro scrapes a handful of goop from his arm. He grimaces.

"This stuff smells worse than the sewer," Hachiro says. "I did not think that was possible."

"It is concentrated Void residue," Yogawa mutters. He is trying to wring out the hem of his robe. "It is literally the waste product of unmaking. Of course it smells bad."

"Stop moving," Erima orders. She is inspecting a cut on Hachiro's forehead. "You are bleeding again."

"I am fine," Hachiro says. He flinches as she dabs it with a wet rag. "Ow. Okay. Maybe I am not fine."

Kizawa stands at the entrance to the fissure. He is a silhouette against the faint green glow of the distant tunnels. He has not sheathed his swords. He never seems to relax.

"Two Generals," Kizawa says. His voice is low. "The Weaver and the Glutton. We are making progress."

"But at what cost?" I ask.

The question hangs in the cramped space. I look at them. Hachiro is battered. His arm is healed by chi, but the strain is etched into his face. Yogawa is running on nervous energy and terror. Erima is down to her last few scavenged arrows. Kizawa is a walking wound held together by willpower.

"The cost is irrelevant," Kizawa says. He does not turn around. "The mission is the only thing that matters."

"It matters to me," I say.

I push myself off the wall. My legs are heavy. I walk over to him. I put a hand on his shoulder. He stiffens, but he does not pull away.

"Look at us, Kizawa," I say. "We are breaking."

He turns then. His blue eyes are cold, but there is a flicker of something else deep inside. Fatigue. Fear.

"We break so they do not have to," Kizawa says. "That is the deal. That is the job."

"I never signed a contract," Hachiro jokes weakly. "I just wanted to punch things."

"We are the Phoenix Guard," Erima says. She finishes bandaging Hachiro. "We protect the flame. That is you, Mizuki. As long as you stand, we stand."

I look at my hands. They are stained with black ichor. Beneath the filth, I can feel the hum of the First Flame. It is a terrible power. It demands fuel. It demands life.

"I am not just a flame," I say. "And you are not just fuel."

I walk to the center of the group. I kneel. The stone is rough under my knees.

"I made a mistake at the Spire," I say. "I tried to do it alone. Then I tried to use you as batteries. That ends now."

"Mizuki," Yogawa starts. "We had no choice."

"We always have a choice," I say. "The Spinner King thinks we are food. He thinks we are finite. He waits for us to burn out."

I look at each of them in turn.

"I vow this," I say. My voice is steady. "I will not let this fire consume you. I will not trade your lives for victory. We fight together. We survive together. Or we do not fight at all."

"That is a nice sentiment," Kizawa says. "But it is not tactical."

"Screw tactics," Hachiro says. He grins. "I like it. No more dying. I am a fan of not dying."

"It is illogical," Erima says. She sighs, but she smiles. "But logic has not gotten us very far down here. Faith might be a better strategy."

"It is a heavy vow," Yogawa says. "Can you keep it?"

I close my hand into a fist. A spark of gold flares between my fingers.

"I have to," I say. "Because if I lose any of you, I lose myself. And if I lose myself, the King wins."

Kizawa sighs. He sheathes his swords. He walks over and sits beside me.

"Fine," Kizawa says. "We survive. But we still have five Generals to kill."

"The Architect is next," Yogawa says. "I can feel the structure of the web shifting. Someone is rebuilding the damage we caused."

"Then we go break it again," I say.

"Together," Hachiro says. He puts his hand in the center.

Erima puts her hand on top. Then Yogawa. Then Kizawa. I place my hand on top of the pile.

The golden light flares. It flows through us. It is not a drain. It is a loop. A circuit of shared strength.

"Together," I say.

We sit in the dark. We are dirty. We are tired. We are terrified. But for the first time since we fell, we are whole. The vow is made. The war continues.