Weeks passed, and I lived-had to, champion's blood still in me. The Stoneheart villa, its stone walls etched with vines, was my refuge, its air heavy with lavender and honeysuckle from the garden. Rina's flight, her prince's hand, and Dakor's shadow-my vow to end him-stung less here, Keiya's blood a quieter ghost.

The twins, Kenan and Crust, had left a life across the seas, seeking Vernise's peace, only to be bound by duty to a flock beyond the villa-artisans, beggars, widows, chanting in markets and alleys. Their devotion burned from dawn, pure, relentless. Was this religion? Their rhythm-methodic, tranquil-soothed my troubled mind, a balm to Vernise's chaos. Kenan, a mystery, drew wisdom from a worn book, its pages soft with use, words of light and strength that felt superior, not loud, unlike my brash gods. His discipline outshone my rashness, his compassion a quiet force. Crust, steady, honed his body, his love for combat clear but measured, always yielding to Kenan's lead.

They stretched me, mind and body, beyond my limits-a lifeline against the torture beyond the villa's walls. My failures haunted me: Dakor's blade stealing Keiya, her blood on my hands; Rina's lies, her bitter wine dulling my senses, her absence a wound. The twins' drills-endless questions of faith, grueling sparring with staves-forced me to face my weakness. I'd thought it bravery, charging into battles, but it was folly, breaking me time and again. Their God, Kenan's God, called me to more. I'd fought mentors all my life, but now I wanted to bow-head, knee, soul, will-to Kenan's way, to rise above my ruin. I hungered for enlightenment, but my nature resisted, a war I'd lose. Still, I could act.

I stood before the open case, its black wood gouged, my eyes tracing my trade-killing. Leather armor, folded tight, creased with old blood. Twin poniards, strapped, edges nicked. Wrapped rapiers, their hilts worn. Knives, wires, a killer's tools, nestled in velvet. My Kris, the Dragonhead, lay dull in its bandolier, heavy with Dakor's oath and Rina's betrayal. I placed it inside, no pause, and locked the padlock, its click final. The fake floor gaped below, a grave. I lowered the case, boards creaking, the weight crushing. What followed-living without that life-loomed, unfathomable.
That was Dorack, buried feet deep. Dead.

A new purpose welmed me, and with a new name. I remembered Kenan's gift, weeks back, in the villa's garden. "Abraham," he'd said, voice soft, eyes piercing. "It belonged to a hero of great faith. You have such faith, Dorack, more than you fathom." I hoped he was right. I'd need it, more than ever, to walk this path. "Abraham..." I tested it, the word strange but true. "Abraham Dun." A faint smile broke, the name a new skin, pulling me beyond Rina's lies, Dakor's blood. In the villa's quiet-broom scratching, firewood thudding, pot steaming-I felt a spark, my soul alight, ready to rise, to become.