The Price of Honour

The steps of Silvermoon glowed beneath the late afternoon light — gold catching on gold, as though the city itself refused to be outshone.

Keirix stood partway along the rise, one hand resting loosely at her hip, the other adjusting the strap along her shoulder. The leather there was new — still warm from shaping, still holding the faint scent of smoke and something wilder beneath it.

Behind her, two flickers of motion drifted lazily through the air.

Ash lingered to her left; his form was dark with molten gold threading through shadowed scales. Ember circled once at her right, brighter, sharper, his glow licking at the edges like flame given form.

The mana wyrms settled near her shoulders as if they had always belonged there.

“…You have taken up leatherworking.”

The voice behind her was measured, controlled, and already disapproving.

Keirix didn’t turn.

“I have.”

A pause.

Khalias stepped closer, the soft weight of plated armour marking each step. Even without looking, she could feel the scrutiny in the way his gaze moved not just over her, but seemingly through the choices she had made.

“You are Lightforged,” he said at last. “You carry the Light within you. Your form, your purpose, it is meant to elevate, to endure. To stand apart.”

He took another step closer.

“And you choose to now cloak yourself in the remains of beasts.”

She turned slowly and met her brother’s gaze. There was no shame in her features, only the quiet certainty of someone who had already decided.

“And you choose to leave them behind,” she replied evenly. “Untouched. Unused.”

Her gaze flicked, brief but deliberate, to his armour. It was polished, radiant, and immaculate; every inch as controlled as the man within.

“Tell me, brother… does that make you noble? Or merely wasteful?”

Khalias’ jaw tightened.

“We do not harvest the fallen like trophies.”

Ember drifted closer, his glow flaring faintly, as if in quiet disagreement.

Keirix lifted her hand, brushing her fingers along the edge of a newly worked seam at her shoulder.

“No,” she said softly. “You simply pretend the cost of battle ends when the fighting does.”

She stepped past him, not dismissive, not hurried. Just… finished.

Ash followed first, silent and steady. Ember lingered a moment longer, hovering near Khalias before drifting after her, his light trailing like the last flicker of a dying flame.

Behind her, the silence stretched.

“…It is well-made.”

The words were quieter this time, almost reluctant. But Keirix did not turn back.

“I know.”