"I'm not going," says Mithra.

"Won't you at least give it a try?" asks Rutile, imploring. "It's been so long since you met other people besides myself and Mitile. I think you might enjoy it."

It's been a week since Rutile came to him, bearing news about an invitation to a reality television show where singles in their advanced years meet with the prospect of romance between them. Supposedly, there are plenty of games, talks, and intercourse to go around. Rutile has shown him a few clips in the hopes of piquing his interest, only for every instance of explosive emotion or raunchy nudity to kill his halfway tolerant mood even more. It all looks and sounds like something Tiletta might have enjoyed, which alone is reason enough for Mithra to decline, no matter how many times Rutile harasses him about going.

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400 years ago, the Origin defeated the Singularity in a bloody battle to safeguard creation. Neither of them survived the encounter. However, the Origin's soul was pulled into the souls of his derivatives—those who'd shared his identity yet taken diverging paths from his in their original lives. The Origin's soul splintered into fragments, and those fragments nestled into the souls of the derivatives, awakening them to their lost memories. In exchange for the boon of the Origin's immortality, they surrendered the gift of reincarnation.

But such boon was short-lived. While their newfound longevity cultivated their powers over decades and scores, the derivatives' strengths paled to that of their origin's. One after another, they gave themselves to the same cause as their originator, passing fragments of his soul onto their surviving counterparts while what remained of themselves dissipated into nothingness. At the turn of the third century, only two derivatives remained.

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It’s a tale as old as time—wizards who cheer with their hands up to the flowers of their fated union that burst from their hearts before choking on the petals while their northern cousins cackle in the background. Then there are wizards who are left at the floral altar, because their human counterparts never knew to RSVP, at which point everyone else shows up with cutlery. Rutile, it seems, is going to be one of those latter wizards served on a silver platter for those in search of easy mana stones.

Mitile is beside himself at the revelation that not a single petal has grown on the seed of Rutile’s heart. At the tender age of fifteen, Mitile already sports a few petals to match those that dot Riquet’s chest. Although he can’t see them, Rutile imagines based on Mitile’s vivid descriptions that the blooming flowers he and Riquet share must be beautiful.

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Four years after Cordelia's passing, Roland procures the globe from the royal family's bedchambers. With naught but a bag of his most pertinent possessions, he weaves through the fabric of space and time to enter Southern Country. There, Rutile greets him with an embrace.

"Welcome home," he says, to which Roland nods.

"I'm home."

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Drip.

How many weeks has it been?

Drip. Drip.

Winter must be approaching. While it doesn't snow in Glenbrook, the air has grown thin and heavy at once with moisture. Droplets of water fall through the cracks between the stones, echoing purely within the walls of his gaol. Roland exhales, riding out the mild shiver that shakes his shoulders, as he watches the growing puddle by his feet when something in the air twists.

Ah. It's you again.

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Haha. Who knows how to write Rutile? I sure don't.

"Is she hurt anywhere? Please let me help. . . . Ortonik Setomaouge!"

A strange, colorful light discharges from the unfamiliar man in unusual garbs and envelopes the child in Roland's arms. Her cries, wan from starvation and sickness, must have attracted the bright-eyed man's attention. Roland raises his hooded face and waits for the light to fade before he speaks, stopping the man from a second attempt.

"There is no need," he says, words measured. "This child . . . has already passed."

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He lays a flower before the grave to join the rest.

"Have you been well?"

The rhythmic chirping of nocturnal insects greets Sieghart as he takes a seat on the ground. The last of the visitors for the annual event have gone, leaving him alone in the temple's resting grounds. Still, he sits cross-legged in a suit with his arms rested against his thighs.

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"Hey, elf. I have a favor to ask."

Grandiel sighs, his breath light in spite of his very full hands with Aikawa, who's entertaining Kyle and Cindy in the distance. "Another favor? What is it this time?"

"It's nothing big. You're a master wizard, aren't you? I just need you to teach me a spell."

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They move to a remote region of Aernas, close to familiarity yet far removed enough to be comfortable in their new routine. Dorothy has left behind that which shackled her; Rufus, meanwhile, can be said to have followed her with nothing left for him in the Underworld. They relocate with almost empty hands, save for the essentials to carve out an honest living for themselves, which definitely includes a trunkful of firearms.

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Noblecourt is just around the corner when Aoko's legs give out under her. Considering this is her first venture in Orsterra, Cyrus isn't entirely surprised that she's reached her limit amid all the walking and battling. Of course, given the type of person she is, she tries to insist that she can make the remaining distance when she winces from shifting weight onto her feet. Cupping his chin, he watches her, awash in the orange rays of the sunset, and nods after some consideration.

"It can't be helped."

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