Alena’s hand drifted to the knife at her belt—not to draw it, but to feel the familiar weight. “Three years,” she said softly. “You’ve never once said my name.”
“Minna,” Theo said at last, turning. His eyes were hollow, twin furnaces burning low. “You fought well.”
And it was true. Across the shattered dais, the yuusha —the Hero—stood motionless, his blessed sword still raised to a sky that no longer needed saving. His name was Theo. And for the past three years, he had carried them: through the Molten Marshes, the Forest of Whispers, the frozen vaults of the North. He had taken the killing blow from the Demon Lord’s scythe for Elara, the cleric. He had split his last ration of bread with Finn, the boy they’d found half-dead in a goblin den. He had done everything a hero should do. yuusha ni minna
She turned and walked toward the broken archway that led to the outer stair. The others followed—Kael limping, Elara helping Finn, who was starting to shiver. No one looked back.
“And you were a hero,” Elara cut in, her voice gentle but not kind. “But we were more than your tools, Theo. We were people. You just… never saw us.” Alena’s hand drifted to the knife at her
Minna. Everyone. Not Alena, who’d picked the lock to the Demon Lord’s sanctum while a thousand traps sang around her ears. Not Kael, whose forbidden spell had stripped the Lord’s wards bare, shaving years off his own life. Not Elara, who had called upon her goddess so fiercely that her hair had turned white. Not Finn, who had taken a poisoned dagger meant for Theo’s back and now stood smiling with purple veins crawling up his neck.
But he had never once asked their names. His eyes were hollow, twin furnaces burning low
“You were a mage,” Theo said, frowning. “That’s what you were.”