Klaus stood at the mouth of the cave for a long moment, staring into the darkness.
He stepped inside once he confirmed no other person was near.
The light faded behind him with every step. The forest sounds grew distant. The smell of damp stone replaced dust and smoke. Water dripped somewhere deep within, slow and patient, counting time better than any clock.
Klaus did not need light.
He knew the way.
Still, he walked slowly.
As if speed would be disrespectful.
As if the dead might complain if he arrived too casually.
The path curved once, then narrowed. Old scratches marked the cave wall. Some were from blades. Some from claws.
Klaus' fingers brushed one mark as he passed.
A memory stirred and vanished before it could fully form.
Then he reached the chamber.
It was small. Narrow.
Two corpses lay within.
Time had eaten most of them. Flesh was gone. Cloth had rotted. Hair remained in thin patches, dry and dull. Dust and webs covered what battle had left behind.
One corpse wore armor.
It lay on the ground, half-turned, one arm stretched forward as if it had been crawling toward the other in its final moments. Its metal plates were rusted and cracked. A sword rested nearby, buried beneath dust.
The other corpse leaned against a stone.
Gray hair clung to the skull. The ribs were exposed, and there, where the heart should have been, a black mark stained the bone.
Klaus stood very still.
The shadows around his hood trembled.
He walked past the armored corpse and stopped before the one leaning against the stone.
Slowly, he took off his hood.
The shadow peeled away from his face like torn cloth, crawling back into the cloak as his features came into the faint light. His silver eyes shimmered.
He knelt.
His voice came out rougher than he wanted.
"I'm back… Father."
The cave did not answer.
Only water dripped in the distance.
Klaus stayed kneeling for a while, eyes on the bones. He had imagined this moment too many times, yet now that he was here, every prepared word abandoned him like cowards fleeing battle.
He swallowed.
"You look like a mess," he said at last.
His mouth twitched, weak and bitter.
"Really. I leave you alone for a while, and this is what happens? Dust, webs, bad posture. You used to scold me for sleeping like that."
The skull leaned silently against the stone.
Klaus stared at it.
"Don't look at me like that."
He reached to his side. He had tools. A small folding shovel. A dagger that could cut through packed soil. Even magic, if he wanted to be practical.
He used none of them.
He placed both hands against the ground beside Leopold De Vedre's corpse and began to dig.
The soil was hard at first. His fingers scraped stone and roots. Dirt gathered beneath his nails. Small cuts opened along his skin.
He did not stop.
Maybe it was habit.
Maybe some forgotten memory pushed him to use his hands.
Maybe it was simply easier not to think while doing something painful.
He did not know.
Nobody did.
Not even him.
"I know," Klaus said as he dug. "I should've come sooner."
His hands drove deeper into the earth.
"I kept saying I would. Tomorrow. Next week. After one more mission. After one more lie I told myself."
He pulled out a clump of dirt and tossed it aside.
"I'm sorry."
The words sounded too small in the cave.
Klaus clenched his jaw.
"I'm sorry I haven't fulfilled the promise yet."
His fingers struck a root. He tore it loose with more force than needed.
"The way to revenge is harder than I thought. Annoyingly hard."
He breathed out, shaky but almost amused.
"You'd probably say I planned poorly."
The skull said nothing.
Klaus kept digging.
"I didn't forget," he said. "I know what I promised. I know whose names you told me. I know what they did. I know what I owe."
His hands slowed.
For a moment, his voice dropped.
"I just need time."
Dirt fell from his fingers.
"A lot of time."
Silence pressed against him.
Klaus glanced at the corpse and frowned.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm doing my best."
He dug again, faster now.
"Yeah, yeah. I slacked a bit. But I need rest too, right? You always said a tired blade cuts its owner first."
He paused.
Then muttered, "Actually, you said that after getting beaten by that dog, so I don't know if that was wisdom or a complaint."
The faint humor broke almost as soon as it came.
His eyes burned.
He kept digging until the hole was deep enough.
Then he turned back to Leopold.
For all his sharpness, all his tricks, all the ways he could move through shadows and fool enemies, Klaus lifted the bones like they were made of glass.
Careful.
Too careful.
A rib shifted, and he froze as if he had hurt him.
"Sorry," he whispered.
Piece by piece, he carried the remains and placed them into the earth.
Leopold had not been Klaus' real father.
Blood did not tie them.
Name does.
Leopold had been the first person to look at him and see something more.
A child.
A student.
A person worth teaching.
A person worth saving.
Klaus placed the skull last.
His hands shook.
The tears fell before he could stop them.
One struck the bone. Another darkened the soil.
He bowed his head.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
This time, there was no joke to hide behind.
No clever tone.
No shadow.
Only the boy he had once been, kneeling in the dark before the man who had given him a name, a reason to stand.
He wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand.
Then he froze.
The cave shifted.
Klaus' expression hardened.
"So you followed me, old Eason."
A thin rift opened behind him, cutting through the cave air like a vertical wound. Soft light leaked from it.
Eason stepped out, cane first, then polished shoes, then his mild old face.
"Do not hate me, young man," Eason said softly. "I trusted you enough to let you come. I merely wished to see my old friend one last time."
Klaus stared at him.
His eyes were red, but his face had already closed.
"You call that trusting?"
"I call it a compromise between respect and unbearable curiosity."
"Old people are shameless."
"Only the successful ones."
Eason walked toward the grave.
His steps slowed when he saw the bones.
Then his gaze settled on the black mark burned into Leopold's ribs.
For the first time, his easy expression faded completely.
"So," Eason murmured. "You truly used it, old friend."
There was no humor in his voice now.
Only grief, old and carefully folded.
He knelt beside the hole, moving slower than before. From his storage ring, he took a single flower. It was pale blue, fresh despite having come from nowhere, its petals soft against the gloom of the cave.
Eason held it for a moment.
Then tossed it gently onto the bones.
"This is farewell, Leo," he said. "I shall see you soon."
Klaus looked at him sharply.
Eason did not explain.
Instead, the old man stood, dusted one knee, and restored his smile with effort.
"You may cover him now," he said. "He might catch cold."
Klaus stared at him.
Then, despite himself, let out a faint breath that was almost a laugh.
"Idiot old man."
"Grieving old man," Eason corrected. "There is a dignified distinction."
Klaus turned back to the grave and began covering it.
This time, Eason did not interrupt.
Dirt fell over bone. Slowly. Softly. Klaus worked with the same care he had used to lift the remains. Each handful felt final. Each layer made the cave feel colder.
When it was done, Klaus pressed the soil flat with both hands.
His throat tightened again, but he forced himself to breathe.
Eason, meanwhile, had walked to the other corpse.
The armored one.
He looked down at it without tenderness.
Then he kicked it.
The bones shifted with a dry clatter.
He bent and pulled a gold tag from the corpse's neck. Dust fell from the chain as he lifted it into the dim light.
His eyes moved to the skull.
There was a hole in the head.
Clean.
Deliberate.
Eason looked from the hole to Klaus.
For once, he seemed almost impressed.
"You really did it, kid."
Klaus continued smoothing the grave.
"I already told you."
"You did."
"You never believed me."
"I believed the possibility," Eason said. "That is not the same as believing the act."
Klaus stood slowly.
His hands were filthy beneath the shadow. Dirt clung to his palms, under his nails, along his sleeves. He looked at the grave for a long moment.
Then he drew an exquisite dagger from beneath his storage ring.
It was too fine for the cave. Silver-edged, black-handled, with small engravings along the guard. Not a weapon meant for killing. Not anymore.
Klaus stabbed it into the ground at the head of the grave.
A marker.
A symbol.
A memorial.
He stepped back.
"Rest in peace, father," he said quietly. "I'll handle the rest."
Eason stood beside him, gold tag in hand.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
The cave held their silence.
Then Eason turned toward the exit.
Klaus pulled his hood back over his head. The shadow returned, covering his face piece by piece.
Together, they walked out of the chamber.
Behind them, the dagger remained planted in the earth, catching the faint light like the last promise left for the dead.