The Scars That Bind Us

A cavernous hollow of stone and shadow, the cathedral stood in absolute silence, swallowing even the echo of breath. The ceremony long since ended, the new emperor remained alone with nothing but the cold, unyielding presence of a casket. Wrought from copper and glass, its polished surface reflected the last light of day like a dying ember.

Beyond the walls, crowds surged—thousands pressed together, huddled in shared grief, their heads bowed in whispered prayers as they waited for their final goodbye.

No fires burned this night. No torches lined the grand avenues leading to the cathedral, no soft glow of moonstone to break the darkness. Only the fading horizon cast its dim light through the high, arched windows, staining the marble in fleeting hues. Soon, even that would vanish.

He could feel the weight of their sorrow—an unspoken lament pressing into his chest, thick as the mourning cloth draped over the glass. He chuffed, a sharp exhale of something too bitter to be amusement. They mourned as if they had known him. As if their whispered prayers carried the same weight as his grief.

Some of them pressed their faces to the stained glass outside, desperate for one last look. As if proximity might make their loss more real. As if there was anything real beneath the glass at all.

He had lost more than a statesman. More than an ally.

Eiran had been—

His hands curled into tight fists. Gripping the mourning cloth, he tore it from the casket in a single, fluid motion.

“They mourn you, though they have so little understanding of how great a loss…” His voice caught, strangled by despair as he laid a trembling hand against the glass, a single tear splashing between his fingers.

He peered at the man beneath the glass, studying the empty husk closely for the first time. He scrunched his nose up at the obvious inaccuracies, forcing himself to look. Normally he would never allow such work to leave the lab, especially not for someone of such importance. To him. Eiran deserved nothing less than perfection. Yet as the emperor stared, he knew perfection was the problem. Too smooth. Too still. No scars, no tension in his lips. A flawless counterfeit.

No scars.

Without the soul, though, he knew the husk didn't matter, scars or not. The outside was different on each world they found each other anyways, but the soul? He could spot Eiran's soul from a mile away, in a crowd like the one outside, regardless of the shell it inhabited. He lowered his face to the glass, just a hairs breadth between them and sighed. He felt nothing. No pull, no gravity. Eiran was gone.

His breath fogged the glass, ghosting over the still face beneath. His fingers flexed at his sides, aching to reach through, to shake the husk—demand something from it. But the glass was thick. Cold. Impenetrable.

So, he turned away.

His steps were slow, deliberate, echoing in the vast cathedral as he crossed to the window. Light spills through the stained glass in fractured colors—gold bleeding into crimson, blue swallowed by shadow. The world beyond the window is a blur of movement, figures shifting below like ghosts. None of them see him. None of them know.

“Considering everything you did, I shouldn't care that they got your scar wrong. I shouldn't care about anything at all. But I do. Because for all the ways you betrayed me, you were still mine to kill, and now there's nothing left of you—not even that."

He exhaled sharply and leaned into the pane, forearm pressing hard against the carved lattice. His forehead followed, resting in the crook of his arm. Eyes closed. Breath steady. His exhale ghosted against his sleeve, warm against the cool air, stirring against his memories. The weight in his chest ached, something jagged, unspoken, pressing against the walls of his ribs. The muted darkness behind his eyes began to swirl, distorted colors bleeding through. His breath hitched; shoulders tense against the weight pressing down from within him.

The silence stretched—

Then—

It wasn’t silent at all.

It was filled with the clang of iron and the scent of hot metal, of scorched leather and sweat. Voices. Laughter. The snap of a thread pulled too tight.

“Stop grinning, you little menace. You’re making my job harder.”

Eiran barked a laugh, but the motion made him wince, and the needle jabbed deeper into his temple. “Ow—okay, okay! I’ll be serious, Doc, I promise.” His face contorted into something resembling solemnity, but the mirth never left his eyes.

The old physician grumbled something about a scar he didn’t deserve under his breath as he pulled the sutures tight, then shot a glare at the apprentice looming nearby—shoulders hunched, expression stricken. “And you—”

The future emperor flinched, but the blacksmith cut in first, arms crossed over his broad chest. “You think you can just swing a hammer like an idiot and not face the consequences? That’s coming out of your pay until the end of time, boy.”

Eiran let out a sharp jolt of laughter—his real, unburdened laugh. “C’mon, I barely bled—”

“You almost lost an eye.”

“Well, I didn’t.” His grin turned razor-sharp as he turned to his friend. “I should start calling you Hammerhand. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

The emperor exhaled sharply. He remembered how his fists had clenched, just as they were now, how his ears burned with humiliation while Eiran smiled through the whole ordeal. The clang of the forge faded. The warm glow of lanterns dimmed. When he opened his eyes, the only light left was the fractured stain of the setting sun.

No forge. No laughter. No Eiran.

Just a husk in a casket.

The emperor swallowed against the ache in his throat. “I used to hate that scar,” he murmured. His reflection in the glass wavered, unsteady. He still hated it.

But now, he hated its absence more.

The emperor’s jaw tightened.

No.

Not this. Not again.

The scar was his mistake, but this—Eiran's death—this was not his failure to carry. It never was.

Eiran had done this to himself.

His grief twisted, the ache in his chest cooling, hardening into something sharp. A breath shuddered past his lips, slow, deliberate. His fingers unfurled, slow and steady, tension bleeding from his stance. He lifted his chin, breath even now, the tightness in his throat smoothing into something steady. Slowly, he straightened, drawing himself up, shoulders squaring. When he turned back to the casket, his expression was unreadable—smooth as the glass between them.

"You made your choices." The words came quiet, almost reverent. "And you made me kill you for them." The words settled into the silence like dust on polished stone.

Then—

Boots against marble. A presence lingering just beyond the threshold. Waiting. The emperor’s spine straightened. His jaw tensed. He did not turn immediately. Instead, he allowed the silence to stretch before him, inviting the intruder to continue, if he dared. The return echo of boots came closer, stopping just behind him. When he finally turned, the man knelt before him.

"I trust this is important," he said to the man, voice like frozen steel.

“My lord, I have just returned from the wreckage of the Sotere.” He spoke from his lowered position, eyes averted. “No life pods were ejected and no communications sent since the ship left Solcarra. His remains were not located.”

The emperor returned his gaze to the casket, a sneer plastered across his face. Shame, he thought, I guess you’ll be required after all. “And?”

The emperor could hear the man’s pulse quicken as he turned back to face him. “There was a complication. A passing patrol pinged my torpedo as it was inbound. They were on me before it made impact, and as you can imagine, your grace, I thought it best for both of our sakes that the imperial government was not made aware of our little “adventure”.” As he spoke, he raised his eyes to meet the emperors. “Since your rule is still in its infancy, I assumed you wouldn’t want that complication. “

He was bold. Strike one. He could see the man trying to twist his own ineptitude into a redeeming win. Eiran used to do that. The emperor fumed. Strike two.

“While it is true that the patrols in that area were supposed to be diverted, I hired you because you could get me what I wanted, no matter the complications.” He said coolly, though his eyes flashed angrily in warning. “Did you or did you not recover the item we discussed?”

The man, either oblivious to the simmering inferno building within the man in front of him, or unaware of the danger it posed to him, met the emperors gaze as he continued. “By the time I took care of the patrol and made it back to the debris field the scavs were all over. They’re dead too by the way, and I’m not even gonna charge you for it. My point is a lot more blowin up had to go down and that place was a fucking mess, and you wouldn’t believe —”

“DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT FIND THE BOX?!” The emperor could feel his rage stirring, the shadows swelling around him like tides on the ocean moon Ansardea, terrible to behold.

“Yes! Yes I did my lord!” The man trembled as he threw himself prostrate at the emperors' feet; his eyes slammed shut. “At least what was left of it! Here! Take it!” The man brought forward a sack from behind him, lifting it towards the emperor.

The emperor grabbed it from his hands and set it roughly on top of the casket, rummaging through its contents before pulling out a piece of what was once a lockbox. Not much of it was left, just a small, fractured side wall, the gold inlay still bright underneath the soot from the explosion. He crushed it in his palm, watching as the blood began to drip, slowly at first then a steady trickle, from his clenched fist onto the glass, hiding Eirans’ husk from his sight.

“You fool.” he said simply, teeming with silent rage. The box was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that would make this worth it. And this so-called professional blew it up. He could feel the tides roiling beneath the surface, his rage breaking the plane. And now Eiran wasn’t here to temper it. For nothing. Strike three.

He didn’t even turn to face the mercenary as he began to scream, his flesh bubbling under unseen flames. He clenched at the emperors' robes, begging for his life.

The sack fell from the top of the casket in a heap. A soft metallic chime echoed as something slipped free, skittering across the floor.

The man continued to scream as the emperor bent to the floor and reached for the small shining object. He drew his hand back quickly, the air forced out of him in a huge great gust. On the edge of his mind he felt his rage extinguish, like the screams of the man before him. But for the emperor, he was alone with the small piece of metal that lay on the floor.

He reached tentative fingers out towards it, afraid it would scar him the same way it had his friend. It was cool to the touch but for him it burned just as hot as the day it was forged and shattered. He could still see the sharp, jagged edges that cut the flesh in that sunburst shape, but as he picked it up and placed it flat against his palm, running his fingers across the side, he found it to be smooth. As if for years it had been eroded by gentle constant pressure. A small hole was pierced through the top and what remained of a small wire clasp and leather strap ran through it.

“Oh Eiran —” he said as he clutched the small fragment to his chest and collapsed to his knees. He curled up around the piece in his hand, the tears threatening to overtake him again.

Eyes closed. Breath steady.

His own exhale like a whoosh in his ears.

The silence stretched.

...He’s back in the forge, the night he gave Eiran his scar. He’s pouting in the corner, fiddling with his gloves, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Eiran stoop over and pick something up off the floor...

...He's walks into the forge a few days later to find Eiran stretched lazily against the work bench, exaggerating the stiffness in his shoulder.

“You planning to do any real work today, or just milk that scar for all it’s worth?” he asked, voice edged with impatience. He had been picking up the slack; they both knew it.

Eiran only grinned, the grin that had always gotten him out of trouble since they were boys. “I am working,” he said casually.

But the emperor caught the quick flick of his wrist—Eiran sliding something beneath a stack of leather behind him, the motion so fluid it nearly went unnoticed. Until now.

Narrowing his eyes, he stepped closer. A sunburst of metal glinted just beneath the pile, the faintest shimmer of light catching on its surface. A necklace. Barely visible, dangling off the edge of the table...

...They are much older now, working in the Royal Forge. It was hot, the air thick with the scent of molten metal and burning coals. He sat across from Eiran, his hammer resting idle as his mind wandered. His eyes were on Eiran but not truly watching—just following his rhythm, lost in his own thoughts of the future. Of what lay beyond.

But then, something caught his attention. A flicker of movement beneath Eiran’s collar. A thin leather cord, darkened with age, swayed as he worked. Hanging from it, a small piece of metal, worn smooth from years of touch. The emperor frowned, realizing he had never noticed it before...

...Years pass, in the dim glow of their study, they had fought—not just debated, not just disagreed, but fought. Remnants of their earlier celebration lay scattered around the lab, evidence that just a few moments ago they had built something —together.

And now, watching this memory through new eyes, he saw the detail he had missed before. Eiran’s fingers ghosting over the metal keepsake at his throat, as though it anchored him. A nervous habit. A reminder of something unspoken. A tether to something the emperor had never thought to ask about...

...Years later, in this very room. Silence. The emperor stood with his back to him, arms crossed, jaw set. He had already decided.

Eiran had spoken his last words on the matter as well. There was nothing left to say. Behind him, Eiran lingered silently. The emperor didn’t see it—not then, but Eiran reached for the necklace at his throat, pulling it over his head. His hand hovered above the table, fingers loosening as if he meant to leave it behind.

Then, hesitation. A deep breath. A flicker of something breaking. At the last moment, he curled his fingers around it and stuffed it into his pocket.

The door hissed open, then closed...

The emperor exhaled as his eyes slowly opened, revealing the twilight through the open ceiling above him.

It was time.

The emperor rose to his feet, the small metal sunburst still in his palm. The mercenary’s breath rattled, the sound wet and gurgling. His body twitched on the floor, his hands weakly grasping at the marble around him. He wouldn’t last long. The emperor no longer spared him a glance. His gaze was locked on the small, battered token lying in his palm, slick with blood.

His grip tightened around the token. His throat burned, but he forced himself to swallow it down. When he finally moved, it was slow, deliberate. He smoothed his face into its familiar mask of cold detachment, an unbreakable wall against the storm raging within him. Only then did he step forward, his voice strong and sure as he moved towards the casket.

“I once thought that we would walk this life together, as we had so many times before. That there were no secrets between us. That secrets were ours to bear...together.” He paused, staring down at what remained of his friend, opening his hand to reveal the tiny piece of metal. “But you had so many secrets that were all your own, didn't you? So much that you kept from me —”

He smeared the blood across the top of the casket to clear the glass. Even though he knew it wasn’t him—not really—he had to have this last moment. One last goodbye. The emperor placed the token gently down onto the casket in the midst of his own blood, its small weight insignificant against the cold glass. A final offering. A final truth: there had always been more between them than he had known.

The emperor exhaled slowly and turned away, his movements precise, controlled. His face a mask as he descended the steps, back into the empty halls of the chamber. Behind him, the pyre rose, carried upward toward the open sky. The golden glow of its blaze illuminated the walls, casting flickering shapes that stretched and twisted as the light ascended—until, finally, it disappeared beyond the towering ceiling, swallowed by the night.

The darkness grew in its absence.

The city mourned as the flames burned across the sky. He did not.

At the threshold, he paused, the cold air pressing against his skin. He did not look back. His voice, when it came, was soft—barely more than a breath, yet steady, certain. “I will find you in the next life, brother. Ad tum”

Then he stepped forward, vanishing into the dark.