(Less than 24 hours before the execution, Planet Ixtal, Soron’s POV)
Soron sat alone in the quiet of his chamber, his back resting against cold stone as his breathing remained shallow and measured, each inhale deliberate as though his lungs themselves needed persuasion to keep working for a little longer.
His body felt brittle.
Not in the dramatic sense of imminent collapse, but in the far crueler way where strength had simply faded away over time, leaving behind stubborn will layered over exhaustion, as even remaining seated demanded more effort than it once should have.
His hands trembled faintly when he lifted them from his lap, the motion subtle yet undeniable, as age, injury, and countless battles finally caught up to him, reminding him that his time was no longer measured in years or even months.
But rather in moments.
As only after steadying himself did his gaze finally drift forward, lingering on the stone table before him, where two artifacts rested side by side.
Artefacts that were silent witnesses to both his past and what little of his future remained.
The first was the Grudgekeeper dagger set.
Twin blades forged from origin metal, crafted by Supreme Master Argo and his apprentices at the height of the Cult’s desperation, as every hammer strike that birthed them had been fueled by grief, rage, and the collective hope of a people who refused to let their suffering be forgotten.
They were not merely weapons.
They were promises given form.
Promises of vengeance.
Promises of remembrance.
Soron’s fingers hovered just above them without touching, as the weight of their existence pressed against him heavier than normal steel ever could, because he knew these daggers carried not only the power to kill Gods, but the expectations of everyone who believed he would.
And yet, despite their purpose, despite their necessity, there was a part in him that did not wish to take these daggers into battle, for while he was okay with not using them at all, what he dreaded more was losing them to the enemy hands at the end of the fight.
’These blades must survive even if I do not.’
The resolve settled firmly within him as his expression hardened, because if the Cult was to endure beyond his death, then these daggers needed to belong to someone who could carry them forward.
Someone young.
Someone relentless.
Someone named Leo Skyshard.
"The boy does not yet understand just how valuable these daggers truly are.....
In his ignorance, he has made no provisions in his plan for me to pass them on to him."
Soron murmured quietly, his voice low and worn as it echoed faintly through the chamber, carrying neither frustration nor blame, only the tired understanding of someone who had once been just as ignorant.
"But I must be patient."
He exhaled slowly, the breath dragging faintly as if it cost him something.
"At the end, regardless of what happens, they must be passed to him."
His gaze shifted then, drifting away from the blades and toward the second item resting beside them, far smaller in size yet infinitely heavier in consequence, its presence weighing on him more than any weapon ever could.
A single vial.
Unassuming.
A vial that represented his last chance to speak with his deceased father one final time, the man whose shadow Soron had lived beneath for most of his life, and whose absence had shaped him just as deeply as his presence ever had, as the vial symbolized not power or salvation, but closure long denied.
A conversation endlessly delayed.
A farewell postponed by duty, war, and responsibility.
’By the end of the war, will I even have enough strength left to consume it?’
The question surfaced unbidden as doubt crept in, heavy and unwelcome, as he wondered whether his failing body would even allow him that final mercy when the time truly came.
’And even if I do... will my enemies allow me the luxury to consume an unknown vial?’
He wondered grimly, as in his heart he already knew the answer, knowing full well that mercy was never something the Righteous offered freely..... and especially not to their worst enemy.
Which meant that this path, like all others before it, was fraught with risk.
He wanted desperately to drink the vial at this very moment and take the opportunity to speak with his father at last, to hear his voice again and unburden the years of silence between them.
Yet he could not bring himself to do so today, not when his story remained unfinished, not when the words he would speak would lack the ending that gave meaning to everything that came before.
For if he stood before him now, the tale would be fractured.
Incomplete.
And that was something Soron could not accept.
Not when what he wished to tell his old man were not hollow words of comfort, but the truth, raw and unfiltered.
The truth of how he lived after his father’s death.
Of the mistakes he made.
Of the sacrifices he endured.
And how, until his very last breath, he had tried to be the man his father had wanted him to become.
’Father would want to know whether I kill Kaelith with my own hands tomorrow.’
The thought lingered, sharp and steady, as Soron looked between the daggers and the vial, between legacy and closure, as a slow, weary sigh escaped him.
His body was failing.
That much he could no longer deny.
The strength that once defined him had faded into stubborn will, and even that was beginning to fray, which was why, despite everything, he felt relief rather than fear knowing the war was less than a day away.
For regardless of how things unfolded tomorrow.
Regardless of whether he lived or died.
One way or another, his long, agony-filled existence was nearing its end.
And for the first time in centuries, Soron welcomed that truth, feeling content in the quiet certainty that whether through victory or death, he would finally find peace.