Page 224 of Celestial Combat

Not a sound, not a breeze – just stillness so heavy it pressed against my chest. My eyes opened to the dark, the fan above spinning lazy circles in the shadows.

Beside me, Kali slept curled toward my side, her breathing soft and even, her warmth anchoring me.

But something felt… Wrong.

I slipped out from under the sheet, careful not to disturb her. The cool tile greeted my bare feet as I padded through the villa. Outside, the ocean murmured in low rhythm, distant and unconcerned.

I told myself I was just thirsty. Just restless. But my stomach had already twisted into a knot before I reached the kitchen.

The moonlight spilled in through the wide, open walls – silver on glass, pale on wood. I filled a glass at the faucet, raised it halfway to my lips.

That’s when I saw the letter.

It was resting on the dining table, weighted by a smooth stone, the kind you’d find at the edge of the shore. My name was scrawled across the front in Aleksandr’s strong, deliberate hand.

A chill crawled down my spine.

I set the water down, slowly, and unfolded the paper.

Zane,

Thank you – for telling me the truth, and allowing me to be part of Yui’s beautiful goodbye.

I lived the last fifteen years believing the only reason I was still breathing was because of the chance – however small – that I might see her again.

Now I have.

In your stories. In the ash you gave back to the wind. In the look she left in your eyes.

It’s enough.

Thank you&goodbye.

– A

I didn’t think. I just ran.

Out the door. Down the steps. Onto the sand – barefoot, shirtless, the humid air dragging salt across my skin. The moon hung low and swollen above the sea, casting the water in blue and pewter. I tore down the shoreline, heart thudding so hard it echoed in my ribs, heading towards the cliff where we’d spread my mother’s ashes.

I scanned every inch of the sand. My breath ripped in and out, but I didn’t slow.

He couldn’t have gone far.

He couldn’t have left yet.

Not yet.

Not like this.

The shape was barely a silhouette at first – just a man in the surf, swallowed by shadow and tide. But I knew it was him. Ifeltit. The heavy-set frame. The slow, deliberate pace. He walked farther into the ocean like it was calling him home.

“Aleksandr!” I shouted, lungs tearing from the sprint. My feet sank into the wet sand, salt stinging my skin.

He didn’t turn.

“Aleksandr!”

Only the waves answered, slapping against his legs, waist, chest – higher with each step.

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