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The chaos was deafening.
Wemmbu's horns caught the light as he swung his mace down, the weapon cleaving through the air with brutal efficiency. His tail lashed behind him for balance as he spun, purple-tinged irises tracking the movement of enemies that seemed to multiply by the second. Two hundred of them. Maybe more now. He'd lost count after the first hundred.
His claws flexed, retracted, flexed again.
"Behind you!" Flame's voice cut through the air, sharp and crackling with heat.
Wemmbu ducked, felt a arrow whistle past where his head had been. He brought his mace up and smashed, connecting with something solid. A grunt. A body hitting the ground. Three more rushed in to take their place.
Two against a thousand.
They were winning.
Fire licked at Flame’s fingertips as he moved. The heat radiating off him made the enemies hesitate, gave them both precious seconds to breathe between waves. His movements were fluid, practiced, the result of years spent learning to control fire that wanted to consume everything in its path.
They'd been rivals for so long that fighting together felt almost natural now.
Wemmbu knew how Flame moved, knew when he'd strike and when he'd dodge. Knew the rhythm of his breathing, the way his flames flared brighter when he was pushing his limits. And Flame knew him too—knew when Wemmbu's tail would lash out, when his elytra wings would snap open for a quick aerial strike, when his claws would extend for close combat when his elytra accidentally faltered.
It was a partnership born of necessity and honed by mutual respect, even if neither of them would admit it out loud.
Wemmbu's tail whipped around, catching one attacker with an elytra in the chest and sending them away from himself. His mace followed through, and he heard the satisfying sound of armor cracking. Eyes scanned the battlefield, looking for the next threat, the next opening, the next—
A brown and white blur in his peripheral vision. Ashen, weaving between enemies with the fearless enthusiasm only dogs possessed. The wolf had been at Flame's heels since they'd arrived, never straying far despite the danger. Wemmbu had seen him take down more than ten enemies already, teeth sinking into exposed ankles and calves before darting away.
Loyal to a fault, that dog. Just like his owner.
Wemmbu refocused on the fight.
The battlefield was chaos incarnate. Bodies everywhere—some still fighting, some logged out, some stunned on the periphery trying to figure out how two players were holding off an entire army. The ground was torn up from fire and combat, armor and weapons scattered across the terrain like confetti.
And through it all, Ashen darted and weaved, always returning to Flame's side. Always protecting his owner, even when the odds were impossible.
He turned, mace already swinging. The weapon arced through the air with deadly precision, aimed for the cluster of enemies rushing toward Flame's blind spot. He could see Flame in the corner—the blaze hybrid was handling at least five opponents at once, flames dancing between his fingers as he parried and struck in a rhythm that was almost beautiful to watch.
Wemmbu's mace connected with something as he struck again.
But not with an enemy.
The sound was wrong. Not the clang of armor or the thud of flesh but something softer, more fragile. A yelp—high and sharp and wrong—pierced through the battle noise.
Time seemed to slow.
Wemmbu's eyes widened as he saw the small form crumple to the ground. Ashen. Flame's wolf. Flame's dog. The one that followed him everywhere, loyal to a fault, always at his heels even in the middle of this madness.
No.
No.
Wemmbu immediately dropped to his knees, elytra folding in, hands reaching for the small body even as his mind screamed at him that this wasn't real, this couldn't be happening, he'd been so careful—
Ashen was whimpering. Soft, broken sounds that made something in Wemmbu's chest crack and splinter. Blood matted the fur, dark and spreading. The dog's legs twitched weakly, trying to stand, trying to get back to Flame.
"No, no, no." The words fell from Wemmbu's lips in a desperate mantra. His hands hovered over Ashen's body, shaking, claws retracted so he wouldn't hurt the dog more than he already had. Than he already had. Oh god, what had he done?
His eyes found Flame.
The blaze hybrid had gone still. Completely, utterly still. The fire at his fingertips sputtered and died. His expression was blank, not comprehending, like his brain hadn't caught up to what his eyes were seeing.
The enemies saw the opening. Started moving toward Flame with weapons raised.
Wemmbu moved on instinct. He scooped Ashen into his arms as gently as he could, cradling the whimpering dog against his chest. The blood was warm. Too warm. It soaked into his shirt, sticky and accusing. His elytra snapped out as he launched himself forward, dodging between enemies with a speed born of pure desperation.
"Flame!" he shouted. "FLAME!"
The blaze hybrid didn't move. Just stared at Ashen's limp form in Wemmbu's arms, eyes wide and expression crumbling.
The enemies were closing in. Five seconds. Maybe less.
Wemmbu crashed into Flame bodily, grabbing his arm with his free hand. "Move!" he snarled, and Flame moved—stumbling, graceless, like a puppet with cut strings.
The elytra on Wemmbu's back caught the air, and he pulled them both sideways, around a cluster of confused enemies, toward a small cave in the terrain. His tail wrapped around Flame's waist, keeping him close as they dove for cover.
They hit the ground hard. Wemmbu tucked Ashen against his chest, protecting the small body from the impact even as his shoulder slammed into stone. Pain lanced through him, but he barely felt it. His horns scraped against the wall as he twisted, getting between Flame and the opening, buying them a few precious seconds of safety.
The enemies lost sight of them. For now. Confused shouts echoed across the battlefield as the mob searched for their quarry.
Wemmbu looked down at Ashen. The dog's breathing was labored, shallow. Blood pooled beneath them. Too much blood. Too much.
"No." Flame's voice was small. Broken. Nothing like his usual confident drawl. "No, bro, that's not—you didn't—"
He reached for Ashen with trembling hands, and Wemmbu carefully, so carefully, transferred the dog to his arms. Flame gathered Ashen close, and the dog's tail gave one weak wag. Recognition. Love. Even now.
"What did you do?" Flame's voice cracked. His head snapped up, blindfolded eyes meeting Wemmbu's, and the devastation there was like a physical blow. "What did you—he was just—“
"I didn't see him." Wemmbu's voice came out rough, strangled. His claws dug into his palms, drawing blood. "I didn't—there were so many, and you were—I was trying to help, dude—"
"Help?" Flame's laugh was bitter, jagged. Heat rolled off him in waves, the air around them shimmering. "He's dying! Ashen's dying because you couldn't be bothered to look before you—"
"I'm sorry." The words felt inadequate. Worthless. Wemmbu wanted to claw his own throat out. "Flame, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Sorry?" Flame's voice rose, sharp and accusing. "You're sorry? That's supposed to fix this? You're sorry, so everything's fine, my dog's not bleeding out in my arms?"
Ashen whimpered, a soft, questioning sound. His paw lifted slightly, batting weakly at Flame's hand. The gesture was so familiar, so quintessentially Ashen—asking for pets, for reassurance, even at the end.
"Shh, shh, it's okay, boy." Flame's voice immediately softened, became gentle despite the tears streaming down his face. "You're okay, you're gonna be okay, I've got you, bro."
But they both knew he was lying.
Wemmbu felt something hot slide down his cheek. A tear. When had he started crying? His hands clenched and unclenched, claws extending and retracting rhythmically. He wanted to reach out, wanted to fix this, wanted to turn back time by just thirty seconds and aim better, be more careful, not be such a catastrophic lost cause—
"Flame—"
"Don't." Flame's voice was sharp. "Don't you dare try to—"
He cut off abruptly, looking down. Ashen had nuzzled his hand, the dog's nose pressing against his palm in that familiar way he always did when he wanted attention. The gesture was weak now, barely there. But it was still so utterly, heartbreakingly Ashen.
The dog's eyes—warm brown and trusting—looked up at Flame one last time.
Then they went still.
The light faded. Ashen's body went limp in Flame's arms, the small chest no longer rising and falling.
Wolf has been slain by Wemmbu using <Gambit>
Silence crashed down around them. Even the distant sounds of the battle seemed muted, far away. Irrelevant.
Flame didn't move. He stared down at Ashen's body, at the fur matted with blood, at the small form that would never bound after him again, never bark excitedly when he came home, never curl up next to him at night.
"He's gone." Flame's voice was flat. Empty. "He's really gone."
Wemmbu opened his mouth. Closed it. What could he possibly say? What words existed that could make this even fractionally less awful?
"I killed him." The words tasted like ash.
"Yeah." Flame's voice was quiet. Emotionless. Somehow that was worse than the shouting. "Yeah, bro, you did."
Wemmbu flinched like he'd been struck. He deserved it. Deserved worse. His tail curled around himself, and he pressed his back against the wall of their hiding spot, making himself smaller. His horns scraped against stone.
"I'll hold them off." The words came out mechanical. "However long you need. Give you time to—" His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't help, I know it doesn't matter, but I'm so, so sorry."
Wemmbu forced himself to stand, to turn away, to give Flame what little privacy he could. His eyes scanned the battlefield beyond their cave opening. The enemies were regrouping, searching. He picked up his mace with numb fingers, the metal still stained with Ashen's blood.
Then he stepped out into the chaos.
The sounds of fighting faded to background noise.
Flame couldn't look away from Ashen's still form in his arms. The fur was matted with blood—so much blood for such a small body. His hands trembled as he stroked through it, trying to smooth it down like he always did before bed. Ashen loved that. Would push his head into Flame's palm and make that little contented sound.
He wasn't making any sounds now.
"I've got you, boy," Flame whispered, even though he didn't. Even though Ashen was gone and nothing Flame did would change that. "I've got you, bro."
The weight of Ashen's body was so light. Too light. Like he might disappear entirely if Flame loosened his grip. How could something so important, so integral to his existence, weigh so little? How could months, years of companionship, of loyalty, of unconditional love just... end? Just stop, like a candle snuffed out?
Outside the cave, Flame heard Wemmbu's mace connecting with armor. Heard the demon's voice shouting warnings, laughing that signature laugh of his, but that laugh was bitter now. Keeping the enemies at bay. Buying time.
Time for what? To sit here cradling his dead dog? To fall apart while Wemmbu cleaned up the mess he'd made?
Flame's vision blurred. He blinked hard, and tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and angry. His free hand clenched, fire sparking between his fingers before dying out. He couldn't even maintain a flame right now. What kind of fighter couldn't hold onto fire when he needed it most?
What kind of owner was he, letting Ashen follow him into a battle like this?
"I'm sorry," he choked out. Ashen's ear was soft under his thumb, the fur there thinner and silkier than the rest. "I'm so sorry, bro. You shouldn't—you should've stayed home. Should've been safe."
But Ashen never stayed home. Always at Flame's heels, loyal to a fault, following him everywhere even when it was dangerous. Even when it was stupid.
Flame had tried to leave him behind before, back when he first tamed Ashen. Had locked him in the base, built walls to keep him contained. But Ashen had always found a way out, had always tracked him down no matter how far Flame traveled. Eventually, Flame had given up trying to protect him and just accepted that wherever he went, Ashen would follow.
It had been comforting, in a way. Never being alone. Always having someone at his back who would never betray him, never leave him, never choose someone else over him.
Especially when it was stupid.
Flame let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "You dumb dog. You wonderful, loyal, dumb dog."
His fingers traced faded scars, barely visible beneath the fur. Every rough battle had remained as a scar, a reminder of how fragile life could be.
How quickly it could all disappear.
A particularly loud crash from outside made him flinch. Wemmbu was still fighting. Still protecting him while Flame sat here useless and broken.
He should get up. Should help. They'd come here to win this thing, and enemies didn't care about grief or loss. They'd just keep coming, keep pushing, keep trying to overwhelm them through sheer numbers.
But his arms wouldn't move. Couldn't let go of Ashen's body, couldn't accept that this was real, that his best friend was actually—
Another crash. Closer this time.
Flame finally looked up. Through the opening of the cave, he could see flashes of movement—Wemmbu's horns catching the light, his tail whipping around for balance, his mace swinging in wide arcs.
The demon was fighting like something possessed, taking on nine, ten, eleven enemies at once. His movements were getting sloppy though. Flame could see it in the way Wemmbu's elytra flared for balance a fraction too late, in the way his tail moved a split-second behind where it needed to be.
He was going to get himself killed out there.
Good, part of Flame thought viciously. Let him. After what he did—
But the thought died as quickly as it formed. Because Wemmbu was out there. Fighting alone. Protecting Flame even though Flame had screamed at him, even though the guilt was probably eating him alive. The demon hadn't run, hadn't made excuses, hadn't tried to justify what happened. He'd just taken responsibility and stepped back into the fight, giving Flame space to grieve.
Even though he'd killed Ashen.
Flame's chest felt too tight. He looked back down at Ashen's still face, at the brown eyes that would never open again. His fingers traced the familiar patterns in the fur, memorizing every detail. The slightly crooked fang that made him look goofy when he panted, like he was perpetually smiling. The way his hind paws were just a shade darker than the rest of him. The white patch on his chest that Flame used to joke looked like a heart.
All the little details that made Ashen unique. That made him Ashen and not just another wolf.
"I have to go bud," Flame whispered. "I have to—there's still a fight, bro. We came here to win."
Ashen didn't respond. Of course he didn't. Would never respond again, never tilt his head in that questioning way when Flame talked to him, never bound over with that infectious enthusiasm that made even the worst days better.
Gone. All of it, just... gone.
Flame's hands shook as he carefully, so carefully, laid Ashen down on the ground.
The stone was cold and hard, nothing like the soft beds Ashen preferred. Ashen had loved the ones he made best compared to dog beds Flame purchased for him. He would circle three times before flopping down with a satisfied huff.
Wrong. Everything about this was wrong.
But there wasn't time to make it right.
He dug. His fingers tore into the dirt, nails breaking, not caring about the pain. The earth came away in chunks, and Flame worked faster, deeper, until there was space enough. Not deep enough to be proper, not dignified enough for someone who'd meant so much, but enough. It had to be enough.
He lifted Ashen one more time, pressed his forehead to the soft fur, breathed in the familiar scent of ash and warmth and home. "You are a good boy, Ashen," he whispered. "The best dog I ever had. I hope you knew that. I hope you knew how much you meant to me."
Then he placed Ashen in the ground and covered him up, packing the dirt down tight. Each handful felt like a betrayal, like he was erasing Ashen from existence, but he forced himself to continue until the small body was hidden from view.
When it was done, Flame sat back on his heels and stared at the small mound.
That was it. That was all that remained of the companionship, of loyalty, of love. A mound of dirt on a battlefield, unmarked and anonymous. Ashen deserved better. Deserved a proper memorial, a place where Flame could visit and remember and honor everything his dog had been.
But right now, this was all he could give.
Outside, the sounds of fighting continued. Wemmbu was still out there. Still holding the line, still buying time Flame was wasting sitting here staring at a grave.
Flame's hands clenched into fists. Fire sparked around his knuckles, brighter and hotter than before. The grief was still there—crushing, suffocating, all-consuming. But underneath it, something else was building. Something sharp and vicious and burning.
Rage.
These enemies. If they hadn't been here, if they hadn't pushed, if they hadn't existed—Ashen would still be alive. Wemmbu never would've swung his mace in that direction. Never would've had to choose between protecting Flame and watching where his weapon landed. Never would've made that terrible, irrevocable mistake.
And it was a mistake. Flame knew that, even through the grief and anger. Knew that Wemmbu hadn't meant to hit Ashen, hadn't seen him in the chaos. The overwhelming numbers, the split-second decisions that combat demanded—all of it had conspired to create a perfect storm of tragedy.
But knowing it was a mistake didn't make it hurt less. Didn't bring Ashen back. Didn't fix the gaping hole in Flame's chest where his dog used to be.
Flame stood slowly. The fire around his hands blazed brighter, spreading up his arms, licking at his shoulders. The heat felt good. Cleansing. Like he could burn away everything that hurt if he just got hot enough.
"We’ll finish this bud," he said to the grave. To Ashen's grave. To himself. "We’ll make them pay for being here, for being part of this—for all of it."
He turned toward the opening. Toward the battle. Toward Wemmbu, who was still fighting despite everything.
The demon had his back to the cave, surrounded by enemies.
His mace swung in desperate arcs, his elytra gliding him perfectly to land hits on enemies. But he was flagging. Tired. Too many opponents, not enough time to recover between waves. Blood stained his shirt—his own or someone else's, Flame couldn't tell from this distance.
Flame stepped out into the light.
An enemy rushed him immediately—sword raised, expression confident. They thought he was an easy target. Thought grief made him weak. Thought they could take advantage of someone who'd just lost everything that mattered.
They were wrong.
Flame's hand shot out, and fire erupted from his palm in a concentrated blast. Not his usual controlled burn, but something wilder, hotter, fueled by rage and grief in equal measure.
The enemy went flying backward, armor smoking, and hit the ground hard enough to kick up dust. More took their place, and Flame laughed—sharp and bitter and wild.
"Come on then, bro!" he shouted, flames dancing around him in patterns that would've been beautiful if they weren't so dangerous. "Let's see what you've got!"
Wemmbu's head snapped around at his voice.
Their eyes met across the battlefield.
The demon's expression was torn between relief and guilt, hope and self-loathing, but Flame didn't have time to parse it. Didn't have the energy to care right now about Wemmbu's feelings.
He just fought.
Fire became his only language. It consumed everything—weapons, armor, the ground itself. Flame didn't bother with his usual precision, his careful control that kept the flames from spreading too far.
He just burned, and the enemies learned to fear the heat. They scattered before him, tried to regroup, but fire followed them wherever they went.
One enemy got through his defenses, sword aimed for his ribs. Flame twisted, felt the blade scrape across his armor, and retaliated with <Fragger>, hot enough to make the attacker shriek.
Another came, using wind charges. Flame's flames shot upward like a geyser, catching them mid-strike and sending them tumbling away.
It felt good. Too good. The violence, the destruction, the way enemies fell before him like wheat before a scythe. It didn't fix anything—Ashen was still dead. But it helped. Made the grief slightly more bearable when he could direct his rage at something tangible.
Flame's flames grew hotter, brighter, fueled by a grief he couldn't contain and a rage he didn't want to. Every enemy that fell was one less person who'd been part of this. One less person who'd contributed to the circumstances that killed Ashen. It was irrational, he knew.
But rational thought had no place in his mind right now.
An enemy lunged at him. Flame caught the weapon with one hand, flames racing up the shaft until the attacker was forced to let go or burn. Another came from the side with a sword. Flame's fire met them halfway, and they stumbled back.
Beside him, Wemmbu fought with similar intensity. The demon's mace swung in devastating arcs, his claws extended for close combat. Eyes tracked every movement, every threat, even as exhaustion made his movements slower than they should be.
He was fighting for both of them, Flame realized. Fighting to protect Flame while he processed his grief, fighting to make up for what he'd done even though nothing could ever truly make up for it.
The realization should have made Flame angrier. Should have fed the rage burning in his chest. But instead, it just made him feel tired. Hollow. Like he'd been running on adrenaline and grief for so long that now that the battle was ending, there was nothing left to sustain him.
The sun was setting when the last enemy finally fell.
Flame stood in the center of the carnage, chest heaving, lungs burning from exertion and smoke inhalation. His hands were still wreathed in flames, but they were dying down now. Guttering like candles in the wind. The rage that had fueled him was fading, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. His muscles screamed in protest, his head pounded, and his throat was raw from shouting.
One thousand enemies. Two fighters.
They'd won.
The realization felt hollow. Empty. Like it should mean something but didn't. Like all the sacrifices, all the pain, all the loss should add up to something more than just... victory. An achievement unlocked. Words in a database somewhere recording that yes, two players had defeated a thousand and lived to tell the tale.
But what did that matter when Ashen was dead?
"We did it," Wemmbu said quietly from beside him. The demon's voice was rough, tired, barely above a whisper. "We actually did it, bro."
Flame nodded slowly. His eyes tracked across the battlefield, taking in the evidence of their victory. The ground was scorched black in places where his fire had burned hottest, torn up in others where Wemmbu's mace had struck earth instead of armor.
It didn't change anything.
Ashen was still dead. That small grave in the cave still existed, still held the body of Flame's best friend. Nothing they'd done here could fix that. No amount of enemies defeated, no impossible odds overcome, no legendary status achieved could bring back what he'd lost.
"Yeah," Flame whispered. "We did."
The flames around his hands finally died completely, smoke curling up from his fingers in lazy spirals. He lowered his arms, and they felt too heavy.
Everything felt too heavy. The adrenaline was wearing off, and grief was rushing back in to fill the space it left behind. Threatening to drown him, to pull him under until he couldn't breathe.
The cave where they'd hidden was still visible in the distance.
That small mound of dirt, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things but containing everything that mattered to Flame. His feet started moving toward it before his brain caught up. He needed to—what? Say goodbye again? Stand vigil? He didn't know. But he couldn't just leave. Couldn't walk away like Ashen had never existed, like that grave was just another feature of the terrain.
His legs felt like lead as he walked. Each step was an effort, but he forced himself to keep going. The battlefield stretched out around him, empty now except for the evidence of combat. Quiet in a way that felt wrong after hours of noise and chaos.
Behind him, he heard Wemmbu following at a distance. Not speaking. Not trying to comfort or explain or apologize again. Just there, a silent presence that Flame wasn't ready to acknowledge but couldn't quite push away.
Flame reached the cave and stopped. The small mound of dirt was undisturbed, exactly as he'd left it. No enemies had trampled it, no stray attacks had scattered it. It sat there peaceful and permanent, a monument to loyalty and love and all the things that had ended too soon.
He sank down beside it, numb. His hand reached out, fingers brushing the dirt like he could somehow feel Ashen through the earth, could reassure himself that this was real and not just some nightmare he'd wake up from.
But the dirt was just dirt. Cold and lifeless and final.
"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, bro," he said quietly. His voice cracked, and he had to swallow hard before continuing. "You deserved better. You deserved so much better than this."
Better than a hastily dug grave on a battlefield. Better than an owner who'd let him follow into danger. Better than dying young when he should have had years left, should have gotten to grow old and slow and content. Ashen had deserved to die peacefully in his sleep someday, surrounded by warmth and comfort, not bleeding out in the dirt while his owner was too far away to help.
Silence answered him.
The battlefield behind them was empty now, all the chaos and noise faded to nothing. Just Flame and a grave and the weight of everything he'd lost. The sun continued its descent, casting long shadows that made the mound look deeper, darker, more permanent than it had any right to be.
He didn't know how long he sat there. Could've been minutes. Could've been hours. Time felt meaningless, like the world had stopped moving the moment Ashen's heart stopped beating. Like everything since then had been happening in some parallel dimension where nothing mattered and nothing would ever matter again.
Eventually, he sensed Wemmbu moving closer. Not all the way—the demon kept his distance, respecting the space between them. But close enough that Flame could see him in his vision. Could feel his presence like a weight, heavy with unspoken apologies and barely contained guilt.
Wemmbu's horns were silhouetted against the darkening sky. His tail dragged in the dirt, limp and listless.
He looked as exhausted as Flame felt—shoulders slumped, eyes dim with guilt and grief. Blood stained his clothes, bruises were forming on visible skin, and he stood like someone who'd forgotten how to hold himself upright.
"Flame," Wemmbu said softly. "I don't—I can't make this right. But I need you to know I'd fight for however long you needed, bro. I meant that."
Flame didn't respond immediately. His hand rested on the dirt covering Ashen's grave, and he could still feel the weight of his dog in his arms. The warmth that was fading too fast. The trust in those brown eyes even at the end, looking up at Flame like he could fix anything, like he was the center of Ashen's world.
Which he had been. And now that world had ended, and Flame was left to figure out how to exist in one where Ashen didn't.
"I know," Flame said finally. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw from screaming and crying and smoke inhalation. "I know you would've."
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," Wemmbu continued. His tail curled tight around himself, a gesture Flame recognized from months of fighting against the demon. "I don't deserve it. But I—if you'll let me—I want to be better. Want to make sure nothing like this ever happens again, bro."
The words should have sounded empty. Should have felt like hollow promises made in the wake of tragedy, the kind of things people said because they didn't know what else to offer.
But Flame heard the sincerity in them, the desperation. Wemmbu meant it. Would probably spend the rest of his time on the server trying to make up for this, trying to prove he could be trusted again even knowing he might never succeed, even if they became rivals and enemies again in the future.
Flame closed his eyes. The grief was still there, sharp and crushing and all-consuming. The anger too, simmering beneath everything else like magma waiting to erupt. But under all of that, there was something else. Something small and fragile that he wasn't ready to name yet.
Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
Wemmbu hadn't done it on purpose. Hadn't meant to kill Ashen. And Ashen had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, darting through the battlefield with that fearless loyalty that had defined him.
It was an accident. A terrible, irreversible, life-shattering accident.
But an accident nonetheless.
And Flame—Flame was tired. Tired of being angry, tired of hurting, tired of carrying grief and rage in equal measure. It didn't make the pain go away, didn't bring Ashen back. It just made everything harder, made the weight on his chest heavier until some days he could barely breathe under it.
"We won," Flame said quietly, opening his eyes. "Against a thousand people, bro. We actually won."
"Yeah." Wemmbu's voice was barely audible, thick with emotion the demon was clearly trying to contain. "We did."
"Ashen would've liked that," Flame continued. His throat felt tight, constricted by grief and exhaustion. "He always got so excited when I won fights. Would jump around and bark like it was the best thing ever, like I'd hung the moon just for him."
A memory surfaced, unbidden—Ashen bouncing around their base after Flame had won a particularly difficult duel, tail wagging so hard his whole back end moved with it. Flame had laughed, had picked up his dog and spun him around, both of them caught up in joy and victory. It had been simple. Easy. A moment of uncomplicated happiness.
Would there ever be moments like that again? Without Ashen to share them?
"He was a good dog," Wemmbu said softly, carefully, like he was afraid the words would shatter something fragile.
"The best." Flame's hand pressed harder against the dirt. "The best dog I've ever had. He never judged me, never left me, never chose anyone else over me. He was there. Always."
Until he wasn't.
Flame's voice cracked on the last word, and he had to stop, had to breathe through the wave of grief that threatened to overwhelm him.
His fingers dug into the dirt, anchoring him to the present, to the reality of what had happened even though every part of him wanted to reject it.
"I'm not ready to forgive you bro," he said when he could speak again. The words came slowly, painfully, like pulling them out cost him something he couldn't afford to lose. "Not yet. Maybe not for a long time, bro."
"I understand." Wemmbu's response was immediate, expected. Like he'd been preparing for this, had accepted it before Flame even spoke.
"But." The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. "But you're—" Flame's voice cracked. "You're one of the only people who gets it. Gets me. Even though we're supposed to be enemies or rivals or whatever the hell we are to each other."
Wemmbu was quiet for a long moment.
When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion, with relief and guilt and gratitude all tangled together. "I'll be whatever you need, bro. Friend, rival, enemy. Whatever helps. Whatever makes this even slightly more bearable."
Flame finally looked at him properly, really looked at him for the first time since Ashen died.
The demon's eyes were wet with unshed tears, his expression raw with guilt and grief. He looked broken, carrying his own weight of what-ifs and if-onlys that would probably haunt him for as long as he lived.
"Come on," Flame said, pushing himself to his feet. His legs protested, muscles screaming after hours of combat, but he forced them to work. "Let's get out of here."
Wemmbu stood too, keeping that careful distance like he was afraid to crowd Flame's space. "Where do you want to go?"
"Doesn't matter." Flame turned away from the grave, from the cave, from the battlefield that had taken so much from him. "Just away from here, bro."