Archive of Our Own

The room was dark, not that it mattered—there wasn’t much to see in it anyway. He had rented the house as cheaply as possible, telling himself there was no reason to spend more. Or at least, that was what he told himself. The truth was, the money Dr. Ahem had given him before he was killed wasn’t enough to afford anything better. He had cried for days after the battle when it finally sank in that the doctor was gone. He wasn’t sure why, but he had always believed that Acutarious would outlive them all. He should have known better—it was always the good ones who died.

It was his friend’s death that had finally shattered the walls he had built around himself, letting the grief in along with the tears. Slique couldn’t remember the last time he had cried this much. Had it been when Fred died? Possibly. Yet Fred’s death felt like a lifetime ago, almost as if it had happened to someone else in another life.

Life hadn’t been easy back then—being a miner never was. But everything that had happened since the cave-in made him miss it. He would have preferred to struggle in the mines every day rather than go through what he had endured. He had cried over that too. He had cried so much lately that it felt like he had no tears left. Or maybe it wasn’t tears he lacked, but energy. Energy and will.

He had made such a mess of his life, becoming a disappointment to everyone. He could hear his father’s voice echoing in his mind, calling him useless. Saying he had barely been fit to be a miner—so what made him think he could be anything else? As a child, all he had wanted was to escape the mines, to travel across Faeza as a famous musician. He had wanted to move people to tears and laughter with his music. His father had called him ridiculous, insisting that his life was meant for the mines, nothing more. Slique knew that his father had only given him his first lute because it was his dying mother’s wish. And Slique had wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong—to become great.

He had tried so hard. But his father had never been proud of him, no matter how well he played. Not that it mattered. He had never been able to make a living from music. He had once wished that something would happen to give him the chance to prove himself. Now, he just wished he had stayed a miner. No cave-in, no friends dying, no Infinights. Nothing.

Slique reached for his cup, only to realise it was empty. The cheap wine he had bought was gone. He closed his eyes and tried to muster a smile, thinking it was probably for the best. He would be even less useful if he became a drunk. He failed miserably. He wished he were drunk enough to forget everything—or at least enough to keep pretending he was happy.

People had always seen him as the smiling, joking, confident dwarf, the one who brought the energy to the party. Most had never glimpsed this side of him. He had pretended for so many years that he wasn’t even sure if anyone could see through the façade anymore. Worst of all, he felt as though he had lost himself along the way.

He had always dreamt of being more than a simple miner, yet he knew he should have said no when Felix and Luce had come up with their insane plan. They weren’t heroes. They didn’t know how to fight or protect anyone. The artefacts they received weren’t even theirs. But it had been so easy to get swept up in their lies and promises. And for years, he had believed them. He was Slique the Symphonius, not the loser Ostin Tashe.

Now he saw the truth—it was the opposite. Slique was the loser. He was nothing more than a fool and a liar. Ostin had just been a scared, lost, ambitious young man who had no idea what he was getting himself into. And now he was just an old, broken man. Or, well, he had a hard time calling himself Ostin these days. He wasn’t sure that side of him existed anymore. Using the name Ostin felt as foreign as Slique did—just in a different way. Everything about Slique had been a lie, but pretending to be Ostin again, as if nothing had happened, would be just another one.

He sighed again. Everything was so complicated, and he hated it. He had no idea what to do anymore, and he had no one to blame but himself. Worse still, his friends had either died or moved on. He was sad that Felix had passed away, but it didn’t hit him nearly as hard as Acutarious’ death. Because Acutarious had been innocent. He had had no idea about the lies they had built their lives upon. He had thought it was all true. He had joined them, fought for them, become their friend, all without knowing what they had done.

Slique hated that he had never truly apologised. He knew he had no right to feel sorry for himself—he was the one who had messed up. He wasn’t the victim here. He had no right to grieve the apology he had never given. A part of him knew that grief didn’t work that way. That he was allowed to mourn. But he ignored that part. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Acutarious must have felt in his final moments.

His fellow former Infinights had told him that the doctor had known they never meant for any of it to happen. That Acutarious had been upset, but he had still known they were good people, and he had loved them. Slique wasn’t sure if he agreed. He had been there when the doctor had learned the truth—when he had seen their past.

Not that it mattered what he thought. The others had long since moved on. They had found new purposes in life. He didn’t know if they felt guilt for what they had done, or if they were just better at hiding it. When he had confided in Spectril, the half-orc had simply shrugged and said, “It’s in the past. We can’t undo it.” And that was that.

Slique knew that. But the guilt was eating him alive.

He had preferred it when the new Infinights had hated him.

Bart had tried to comfort him, showing him more kindness than he deserved. But it was Kyborg’s words that rang loudest in his mind. Kyborg had said the truth. Even spat at him. And honestly, Slique had deserved so much worse.

And yet, after the final battle, they had all forgiven him. Even Kyborg.

Slique didn’t deserve their forgiveness. He didn’t even deserve their friendship. Maybe if he had found a way to give back, as the others had. Spectril was helping the Ishbjorns and Valrossians settle into life together. Grislee and Elleve were protecting the orphanage—Elleve healing the sick, Grislee finding peace in nature. But him? He had no idea where he fit.

Bart had, of course, suggested a tour. Slique had become a skilled musician, after all. Bart had even offered to let Slique join him on his own tour. But it hadn’t felt right. He couldn’t imagine how his music could help anyone. And after Ürbloom, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to play for a crowd again.

The others had insisted it wasn’t his fault. Even Luce had said that. And he had been under control—at least partly. But if he was honest with himself, he had liked it. He had liked the power his music held over people.

 And that was why he couldn’t play anymore. Music was supposed to bring joy, not terror!

Slique glanced at the lute in the corner. Dust had begun to settle on it. He had been happy when the new Infinights had given it to him. The gesture had meant more than he could ever express. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to touch it.

Maybe he never would.

Some old notes lay beside the lute, the ink smudged by tears. He had tried to write a piece in memory of Dr. Ahem, but it had been a miserable failure. Then he had attempted to compose something celebrating the new Infinights, thinking that a more joyful theme would be easier. It hadn’t been. He had failed at that too.

Not because he resented them for taking his place—on the contrary, he was glad. They deserved it. Their legacy wasn’t built on lies. They were real heroes. They actually helped people. He could think of no one better to carry the name of the Infinights forward. What impressed him most was that they managed to do it while staying true to themselves, each pursuing their own passions alongside their duty.

Kyborg had taken over Dr. Ahem’s lab, determined to continue his work at the HQ—of all people, partnering with Brinik. It was proof of how much the elf had grown and how big his heart truly was. He had also made his relationship with Lynn Merr work, and the dragon had become a welcome addition to the Infinight support team. Together with the people of Boulderay, they ensured that the Infinights were more than just adventurers—they were a beloved part of the town- always taking time to speak with the people they protected.

Bart had embarked on a tour across the lands, travelling with both his fathers as well as his mother and her crew. It was heartwarming to see how much time he devoted to his family, how deeply he valued them all. He never let a day pass without reminding them how loved they were—just as he did with his wife, Hops. Bart spread love wherever he went.

GumGum had poured his energy into the orphanage, protecting it while also travelling to teach magic to those willing to learn. His heritage had never changed him—not that Slique had ever expected it to. GumGum was too pure for that. Like Bart, he wanted to create a world where everyone felt loved.

And Mudd, settling down and running a café, was perfect. Despite being a hero and royalty, he had chosen a simple, peaceful life—far from the fame and glory that so many would have been eager to seize.

Yet none of them had become too busy with their new lives to stop helping those in need. They were the real deal. The Infinights as they were always meant to be.

Although he didn’t miss being an Infinight, he did miss feeling useful. He missed knowing who he was and what he should do. He had tried to figure it out—he really had. But being a musician didn’t feel right, and he was far too old to return to the mines. Besides, Brinik had more or less automated the cave now, ensuring that no one else would die in a collapse. The workers there were experts in handling the machines, and Slique had no talent for that.

He sighed. Maybe he should just slip away under the cover of darkness and disappear. That way, he wouldn’t be a burden to anyone. He wasn’t even sure if anyone would truly miss him. His friends claimed they would, but given how useless he had become to them, he wasn’t convinced.

Kyborg had stopped calling him a loser, saying he regretted how he had treated him—that Slique hadn’t deserved it. Slique didn’t agree. He had helped them during the final battle, and no one could take that away from him. But he didn’t doubt that they would have won without him.

The first rays of sunlight were beginning to crest the horizon. He should go to bed. Maybe some sleep would help him feel better.

He knew it wouldn’t. But he told himself it might.

Another lie.

It was all he had left as he closed the curtains and crawled into bed.

Slique had lost track of time, seeing little more than darkness. A part of his mind whispered that he was depressed. He could almost hear those words in Acutarious’ voice, as if his old friend were still trying to look out for him. He also heard the doctor urging him to talk to someone, and his gaze drifted to the letters Spectril had sent.

He hadn’t answered.

It hadn’t been long enough for his friend to truly worry—he knew that, at least. And Slique was happy for Spectril. He had found his place, and it seemed that he and Andi had grown closer. His friend had even admitted he might be falling in love with her, and that it terrified him. After everything with Yumi, that was understandable. Slique had planned to write back and tell the half-orc that it was okay to be scared—but that he shouldn’t let it control him. He deserved to be loved.

A part of Slique was genuinely happy for Spectril. Another part of him felt even more lost.

Had it been easy for the others to find their place in the new world? He wasn’t sure, but it certainly seemed effortless from where he stood.

That thought made his gaze wander to the unfinished notes beside the lute. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since Bart last visited. Long enough for Bart not to see how lost he had become, but not so long ago that he hadn’t written anything. Bart had encouraged him to continue, saying the lyrics were really good—even asking for tips on how to write something so moving. Slique didn’t want to feel like Bart was mocking him, but a part of his mind couldn’t help it.

Bart was a fantastic bard, and he had written more famous songs than Slique could ever dream of. So the fact that he had praised Slique’s two poorly written songs felt like mockery.

But Slique had just forced a half-baked joke and told Bart to write from the heart. The halfling had laughed with him, saying he looked forward to hearing the songs when they were finished.

Slique doubted he would ever finish them.

His eyes fell on the dead flowers GumGum had brought the last time he visited. He couldn’t remember their names, but the lad had been so excited about them, saying one of the orphanage children had helped him create them. They had been beautiful, bringing a fleeting moment of joy while they were alive.

But just like everything else around him, they had died.

He hadn’t wanted to throw them away. The thought of GumGum’s joyful face still brought a shadow of a smile to his lips—at least sometimes.

But not today.

Today, nothing could bring him joy.

The weather outside was perfect. He could hear the distant laughter of children. His room smelled of freshly baked goods Mudd had sent from his café, yet he hadn’t touched them.

Today was one of those days when the pain felt too real.

He felt exhausted by simply existing. He could almost sense Acutarious’ presence lingering, as though the man couldn’t forgive him for the lies they had told. The guilt wouldn’t leave him alone. And the knowledge that the other three former Infinights had moved on while he remained stuck felt unbearable.

It was as if his own mind refused to let him go, shackling him to the past. The face of a long-dead Acutarious haunted him, and not even the once-happy memories could chase away the guilt.

Because despite everything—despite the lies—there had been happy memories.

Slique knew they had done good in the world. The people they helped weren’t fake, and their friendships had been real. Their dinners, conversations, parties, and adventures had brought them together, leaving him with a million happy memories—if only his mind would let him focus on them. But today, it felt impossible.

It was almost ironic that, on such a bright and sunny day, the darkness felt more real and suffocating than ever. Slique felt like screaming, but instead, his hand clutched his tunic over his heart as his breathing grew unsteady. He could hear Acutarious’ voice in his head, calmly explaining that he was having a panic attack.

He was so lost in his thoughts that it took him a while to register the knocking at the door. At first, he considered ignoring it, pretending to be asleep or occupied—despite it being the middle of the day.

“Slique, are you in there?”

Kyborg’s voice.

He hesitated, torn between opening the door and staying hidden.

He liked the elf, he really did, but he didn’t have the energy to pretend that everything was fine. People seemed to underestimate just how exhausting it was to smile and joke when he felt this low. Some days, holding back tears was hard enough; forcing a cheerful tone and a grin on top of that felt impossible.

Then he realised that Kyborg might just break down the door if he didn’t answer. With a sigh, he glanced at the mirror, quickly trying to make himself look somewhat presentable—as if he had everything together.

He opened the door, offering a strained smile.

“Hello, Kyborg.”

“You alright, man?”

“It just takes time to get from the table to the door,” he joked. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and I certainly don’t have legs as long as yours.”

Kyborg gave him a questioning look, and Slique got the distinct feeling he didn’t believe him—but, for now, he let it slide.

“Getting old, huh? Good one. You’ve always been old.”

And useless, Slique added silently in his own head.

“Anyway, I haven’t seen you in a few days and figured I’d check in. Fancy a walk? That is, if your short legs can keep up.”

“Mocking the elderly now, are we?” Slique tried to joke, but something in his tone must have been off, judging by the way Kyborg looked at him.

“Of course not. I would never do such a thing,” Kyborg said, grinning.

Slique had the feeling the elf was letting him off the hook—for now. He wasn’t sure why, but he was grateful for it.

“Alright, I’ll take you for a walk, young man. We wouldn’t want Kyborg the Mighty getting lost.”

“I would never get lost. I’m too good for that,” Kyborg smirked as they stepped outside.

Slique felt the remnants of his panic attack fading. Kyborg’s voice, combined with the fresh air, helped more than he wanted to admit. It even brought a small, genuine smile to his lips.

“So,” Kyborg said as they walked, “what have you been up to? Bart mentioned something about new songs—he’s excited to hear them.”

Slique unconsciously slowed his pace.

“Um…”

“Not wanting to share your process? Keeping it a secret like Mudd does with his cookie recipes?” Kyborg teased. “You spellcasters are all the same—secrets, secrets, secrets.”

Slique wasn’t sure how to respond.

His process wasn’t a secret, and neither were his spells. He just rarely spoke about them, seeing little point. Kyborg had never shown much interest in his magic before—except for that time after Ürbloom, when he had mocked him for being useless without his lute.

“I don’t know when they’ll be finished,” Slique finally admitted, trying not to think about the unfinished lyrics—or the past.

“Magic, lyrics, flowers… everything just takes too much time,” Kyborg mused. “That’s why I prefer backflips—so much easier.”

Slique shot him a glare. “Doing a backflip is not easier than casting magic.”

“Oh, right,” Kyborg said, dramatically sighing. “I forgot—I’m surrounded by people with absolutely no athletic ability.”

“We can’t all be raised alone in a forest, spending our days punching trees and perfecting backflips and barrel rolls,” Slique countered, his voice teasing—this time, not entirely forced.

“And that’s why none of you are as awesome as me.”

Slique rolled his eyes. “Mudd told me about the apothecary.”

“Where I helped him buy Gumbo and absolutely nothing else happaned!” Kyborg declared.

Slique actually chuckled at that.

Kyborg would never change. And he didn’t want him to.

He had taken a liking to the elf because he was honest, fiercely loyal, and protective of his friends. Sure, he could be obnoxious, but it was in a charming way—like GumGum’s innocence, Bart’s relentless flirting, and Mudd’s dry wit.

Slique had been just as obnoxious once. When he first met the new Infinights, he had immediately latched onto Kyborg, declaring him his best friend. He had played it off as a joke, but in truth, he had desperately wanted the elf to like him.

Spectril would always be his oldest friend, and he treasured him deeply. But Kyborg was different.

The elf brought something to his life that Spectril never could. Maybe it was Kyborg’s blunt honesty, or the fact that he never pretended to be anything other than himself. Maybe it was because, despite his bravado, he had a good heart.

“Did I lose you, old man?” Kyborg asked, knocking him lightly on the head.

“Huh?” Slique blinked, startled.

“I asked if you needed anything from town while we’re here.”

Slique hadn’t even realised they had reached the town square.

People were staring.

His chest tightened.

He knew it was probably just in his head, but all he could think about was how he had lied to these people for years. How he was a fraud. A liar. Useless.

How Kyborg shouldn’t be seen with him.

He doubted he could taint the elf’s reputation, but there were so many others who deserved to stand by Kyborg’s side. People who were actually worthy.

“I’m fine,” Slique muttered, forcing the words out just as he spotted Brink approaching.

“There you are, Kyborg!” Brink greeted them cheerfully before turning to Slique. “Hello, Slique.”

The dwarf gave him only a half-hearted wave.

Brink started speaking to Kyborg about something, but Slique barely registered it. He mumbled an excuse, turning away and heading back towards his house, missing the worried looks Brink and Kyborg shot after him.

“How bad is it?” Brink asked quietly, stroking Hannibal.

Kyborg didn’t hesitate. “Bad. I don’t know exactly how bad, but I’m worried about him.”

“We need to do something.”

“Bart and I have talked about it. He’s just as worried.”

Brink sighed. “I really wish Dr. Ahem was still alive.”

For a moment, both men exchanged a sombre glance.

“We all do,” Kyborg murmured.

Brink hesitated. “Maybe Luce knows something?”

Kyborg exhaled sharply. “Maybe. I’ll talk to the others first—see what they think.”

With that, he set off to contact his fellow Infinights.

Slique could tell something was going on. He didn’t know exactly what, but lately, the Infinights had been visiting him more often, and his old friends had been sending more letters than usual. If he had to guess, they were worried about him. He understood that they meant well, but to him, it was exhausting. Pretending everything was fine all the time—smiling, joking, and trying to keep up with their conversations—was becoming too much.

His mind felt overwhelmed. GumGum’s endless talk about flowers, Mudd sending him freshly baked goods, and Bart constantly asking to write a song together only drained him further. And when they left, he often found himself crying—if he wasn’t having a panic attack first. He tried to be his old self for them, to be the Slique they knew, the one they constantly sought advice from. But to him, it felt like yet another lie, another prison he had built around himself.

His old friends wrote to him about their lives, telling him how free they felt now that they had left the Infinights, asking about his own life in return. He had no idea how to respond. Lying felt wrong, but he had no interest in telling the truth. He couldn't bring himself to break their hearts with honesty, so, in the end, he didn’t answer at all.

The unopened letters had begun to pile up, now covering his unfinished lyrics. Just looking at them filled him with anxiety. The pressure of maintaining the façade was crushing him, and he felt himself teetering on the edge of another panic attack when a knock at the door startled him.

He ignored it. He couldn’t muster the strength for another evening of pretending. It was after dinner, so whoever it was would hopefully assume he had gone to bed. They hadn’t announced themselves, so maybe—just maybe—it was just a salesman or the landlord checking on something.

But he wasn’t that lucky.

A moment later, he heard the door unlocking.

His first instinct was that someone was breaking in, and his fingers twitched as he prepared a spell. But when the door swung open, it wasn’t a thief—it was Luce.

He glared at her. At least she was someone he didn’t have to pretend to be happy around.

“What do you want?” His voice was cold, but the question seemed to make her hesitate.

“The others asked me to talk to you. They think my power might have done some permanent damage.”

“A little late for that, if it did,” he said flatly, his voice dripping with bitterness.

Luce glared back at him. “I… I never meant for it to go that far.”

“Of course you did,” he snapped. “And if you’re here for forgiveness, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” she said, her voice steady. “The only two people whose forgiveness I want are already dead.”

Slique let out a slow breath, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He would never forgive her, but deep down, he knew she wasn’t the only one to blame. They had all agreed to become the Infinights. They had all accepted the stolen artefacts. He had to acknowledge his part in it. But what came after—that, he could never forgive.

Maybe, though, the real reason he couldn’t forgive her was because she had forced him to confront a side of himself he despised—the way his music could control people.

“So,” he said, voice quieter but no less sharp, “if it isn’t forgiveness you’re after, what do you want?”

“I told you. The others sent me.”

“Well, your power hasn’t done any permanent damage, so you can sleep guilt-free, Luce.”

She met his eyes, holding his gaze. “Have you forgiven yourself for everything?”

Slique’s throat tightened.

He refused to answer.

For a few seconds, silence stretched between them. Then, without another word, Luce turned and left.

As soon as he locked the door behind her, the tears began to fall.

He knew the answer to her question.

No.

He hadn’t forgiven himself.

Because he didn’t deserve it.

There was too much blood on his hands.

Exhausted, he sank into his chair, staring out into the darkness once more.

“Nothing seems to be working,” Bart stated, and all eyes turned towards the halfling. They had gathered at Infinight HQ a few weeks after their last discussion, but progress had been slow.

“Maybe we just need to keep talking to him,” GumGum suggested thoughtfully.

“Should we take him on an adventure?” Brink proposed, thinking that Slique might miss the thrill of being a hero.

“I say leave him alone. He’ll figure it out,” Luce muttered.

“Oh, like you figured it out?” Brink shot back, his voice laced with hostility.

“I took advantage of the situation just as much as you did,” Luce snapped, her glare sharp. “You didn’t even wait a few days after my father died before claiming his job, Mr. Mayor.”

“And whose fault is it that he died?” Brink countered coldly.

“Stop fighting, or I’ll conjure some animals to sit on you,” Mudd interjected, clearly unimpressed with their bickering. The meeting wasn’t about them.

“Have Spectril and the others said anything?” Bart asked, turning towards Kyborg, who had been uncharacteristically silent.

“Nothing helpful,” Kyborg admitted. “They’ve invited Slique to visit, tried telling him the same things we have, but he hasn’t taken them up on the offer.”

“Maybe I should ask Mum,” GumGum suggested with a hopeful smile. “She could make him happy!”

“I don’t think we should ask her to change him,” Bart said gently. “That wouldn’t be right.”

“But she could at least give us advice!” GumGum insisted. He hated this—hated seeing his friend like this. He didn’t fully understand why they were trying so hard to cheer Slique up; after all, he always seemed happy when he visited. But he trusted that the others knew something he didn’t.

“It would still be an invasion of his privacy if she figured out what he was feeling without his consent,” Mudd pointed out.

“Then she could just talk to him,” GumGum reasoned. “I always feel better after talking to Mum! And I know all of you do too, whenever you speak to your families.”

That made Kyborg look up from the drink he’d been idly swirling in his hand.

“Has any of us actually spoken to him?” His voice was calm but firm. “I mean, really spoken to him?”

Silence.

That was all Kyborg needed to know.

They had all tried to help Slique without really seeing him.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Kyborg announced, pushing himself up from his seat.

And before anyone could respond, he was already out the door.

Slique ignored the knocking this time. He didn’t have the energy to deal with Kyborg today. He just wanted to be left alone—at least for today. But, as expected, the elf wasn’t one to respect his wishes. It wasn’t long before Slique heard the familiar click of a lockpick at work.

“Slique?”

“I’m feeling a bit sick today. Can you come back another day?” He didn’t even hesitate to lie. He knew he should feel bad about it, but what did it matter? If Kyborg stayed, he would only have to lie more.

“No.” Kyborg shut the door behind him and walked over to the fire, settling into the chair he always occupied when he visited.

“What will the world say if I get one of the Infinights sick?” Slique joked as Kyborg sat down opposite him.

“What will they say if I leave my best friend alone when he isn’t feeling well?”

“They’d probably thank you if there’s an attack somewhere. The world needs Kyborg the Mighty!”

“I’ll send Smarsh—he knows how to fight,” Kyborg grinned, thinking of his other friend. “Right now, you need me more.”

“Taking care of a sick old man—that sounds a bit beneath Kyborg the Mighty, don’t you think?” Slique teased, forcing a weak smirk.

“For Kyborg the Mighty? Absolutely. But not for your best friend, Kyborg.” The elf gave him a warm smile, and Slique had to fight hard not to cry.

“So, how are you feeling?”

“I’m sure it’s just the flu. I’ll be better soon,” he lied, hoping the sniffle in his voice could pass as a symptom of illness rather than the lump forming in his throat.

“Slique…” Kyborg sighed. “I’m not good at this diplomatic, charismatic approach—that’s Bart’s thing. But I am good at knowing when my friends aren’t okay. I’ve been worried about you for a while… I just didn’t have the guts to ask. I was afraid I wouldn’t know what to do. And after talking to the others—realising that all we’ve done is bother you instead of actually asking how you’re feeling…”

Slique turned away, staring into the fire, unwilling to meet Kyborg’s gaze.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Kyborg continued, his voice softer now. “I can get one of the others if you’d rather talk to them. Would it help if I fetched Bart or Spectril?”

“No,” was all Slique muttered in response.

The room fell into silence.

Kyborg was here, actually asking how he felt. It was the first time in years that Slique felt truly seen. Yet, he had no idea what to say. Did he want to be honest? Could he be honest? He doubted Kyborg would mock him—those days were long gone.

A part of him wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Kyborg’s mocking had always echoed his own self-loathing, like a voice confirming what he already believed about himself. In a twisted way, it had made sense to him.

But this? This kindness? This friendship?

He had always wanted it.

He just wasn’t sure he deserved it.

 He really should forgive himself and let it all go. It was just hard. He had lived with guilt and self-doubt since he was young.

Kyborg studied the dwarf in silence, and guilt gnawed at him. How had none of them seen it before? Why had they spent so much time assuming what Slique needed instead of asking?

Bart had insisted on focusing on music, assuming it was Slique’s passion, rather than asking if he even wanted to play. The rest of them had done the same, offering what they thought would help instead of listening.

And now, Kyborg saw it clearly: all they had done was force Slique to pretend he was okay just to make them feel better.

It must have made him feel worse.

The realisation made Kyborg’s stomach churn. How long had Slique been suffering in silence? How long had he been carrying this alone?

Kyborg thought back to Ürbloom—to the moment when Slique had lost everything. The dwarf had looked so destroyed back then, so utterly lost, and what had Kyborg done? Mocked him. Hated him.

Slique had not chosen to be mind-controlled. And yes, the Infinights had been built on a lie—but Kyborg had never been that angry at the others. He had spat on Slique and only Slique, despite Spectril standing right beside him. He hadn’t been mad at Spectril. He hadn’t even uttered a single complaint about the half-orc. But Slique? Slique, he had blamed.

He had treated him like dirt, just because he hadn’t been as useful as Kyborg thought he should be.

Luce had taken his weapon, and yet Kyborg had still called Slique a loser.

Kyborg knew he wouldn’t have been able to do much more himself if someone had taken his weapons.

Worst of all, Kyborg hadn’t even been sympathetic after Slique was tortured. He had just seen it as an inconvenience—another problem to solve. And then, when he thought Slique had died, he hadn’t even grieved the way he should have.

Because the truth was, he had felt guilty.

He had been angry, had looked down on Slique for so long… and yet Slique had saved them, despite being stabbed by Spectril. And what had Kyborg done? He hadn’t even bothered to look for him after they fell from the tree.

He had been such a bad friend—perhaps even worse this past year.

Not once had he truly asked Slique how he was feeling. Not in a way that mattered. Not in a way that told Slique he saw him, that he was there for him.

Instead, Kyborg had just carried on as if nothing had happened. Everyone else seemed fine, and Slique acted as though he was too. And even though Kyborg had seen that something was wrong, he had ignored it.

Because that was easier.

Because he had assumed that Slique would come to him if something was wrong.

But why would he?

The words left Kyborg’s lips before he could stop them.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being a bad friend. I’m supposed to be your best friend, and I couldn’t even be bothered to talk to you. And I was awful to you in the past—you didn’t deserve that.”

“I did deserve that. I lied to all of you.”

“All of you did. Yet I wasn’t as angry with the others as I was with you.” Kyborg exhaled sharply. “I made you feel worse, didn’t I?”

“Not really,” Slique muttered. “You just said what I was already thinking.”

“Damn,” Kyborg whispered, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, man.”

“There’s no reason for you to feel sorry,” Slique said, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Stop it, Slique.” Kyborg’s voice was firm. “This isn’t about me. I do not deserve your sympathy—I acted like an idiot, a cruel idiot. What you and the others did—stealing the artefacts, basing the Infinights on a lie—that was bad, yes. But you still helped so many people. You are a hero. And I should have treated you as such. And if I couldn’t do that? I should have at least seen you as the victim you were. I wasn’t mad at Elleve or Spectril for what Luce made them do. I was only mad at you, and I don’t even know why. I didn’t know you before. It wasn’t like you were my childhood hero, someone who disappointed me. I was just an idiot, and I bullied you for no reason. You didn’t deserve it!”

Slique let out a humourless laugh. “I tormented a whole city, Kyborg. I definitely deserved it.”

“Spectril and Elleve killed people,” Kyborg shot back. “Spectril literally wanted to commit genocide. And I forgave them! I even forgave Brink for betraying us. I forgave Luce for what she did. Yet I was so hung up on you that I punished you and made you feel worse! And in the end, we were able to undo what you did!”

Slique’s hands clenched into fists. “I liked it, okay?” he suddenly blurted out, his voice shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with one hand. “I liked that my music could influence people.”

Kyborg studied him for a long moment before replying.

“I bet you did,” he finally said. “Everyone likes knowing they’re good at something. You don’t think Bart gets excited when his music moves a crowd? You don’t think GumGum takes pride in the flowers he creates? Mudd loves when people beg for his cookie recipe. And me? I love landing every shot I take.”

Slique let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I terrorised people, Kyborg. And I liked it.”

“I don’t think you liked the terrorising part, Slique,” Kyborg said, his voice steady yet filled with warmth. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t feel bad now. I think what you liked was having a crowd—having people listen to your music. That you could perform, and that it wasn’t just something used in battle.”

He paused before adding, “And I’ve never told Bart this, but I actually prefer your music over his. Bart is great, but his songs are all over the place—typical pop music. Yours is classic, refined, and you can tell how talented you are.”

Slique blinked.

“No threat not to tell Bart?” he asked, managing a small, joking tone.

“No,” Kyborg grinned. “I’ll stand by my words.”

Slique fell silent again. Kyborg’s words should have made him feel better… yet they didn’t.

Why didn’t they?

“So,” Kyborg said, breaking the silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?

“Everything. Nothing. Something. I don’t know,” Kyborg admitted. “I told you I’m not good at this. This is Bart’s thing. Or GumGum’s, with his sweet innocent charm. Or Mudd, with his sharp observations. Me? I’m good at doing backflips or hitting things for you.” He leaned forward slightly. “But I’m here. I’m listening. And I don’t expect you to smile, or joke, or laugh just to make me feel better.”

That was all it took.

Slique couldn’t hold back the tears anymore.

He saw Kyborg tense slightly, clearly panicking a bit. Yet, true to his word, the elf didn’t leave. Instead, he walked over and hugged him, holding on tightly. He meant what he said. He wasn’t going to leave him alone.

And for the first time in a long time… Slique didn’t pretend.

He didn’t have to.

Slique didn’t know how long he cried, but after a while, Kyborg got up to fetch them some water and a blanket, which he draped over them both as they squeezed into the oversized armchair. It wasn’t comfortable. But Slique didn’t care. He was just grateful to have a friend there—someone to hug.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he admitted at last. His voice was raw. “Slique was built on a lie. Ostin disappeared a long time ago. The others moved on, and they’re doing great things. They’re helping people. Even without being Infinights.” His fingers curled around the edge of the blanket. “I’ve lost everything. And I have no one else to blame but me. I should never have agreed to Felix’s and Luce’s plan.”

“You did great things as Slique,” Kyborg said firmly.

“With the help of a stolen lute,” Slique muttered bitterly. “I was nothing more than a dancing monkey—just another attraction to bring tourists to Boulderay. And I loved it. People saw me. They needed me. They liked my music. I was their hero.”

His voice cracked. “And it was all a lie.”

“Slique—”

“I would be no one without that stolen lute,” he cut in. “You pointed that out plenty of times.”

Kyborg exhaled sharply.

“I shouldn’t have,” he admitted. “I was wrong. I know now that I wouldn’t be able to do anything without my weapons. Hell, I’d be able to do less than you—you can at least use magic. It’s not like I can defeat an enemy with backflips and barrel rolls. I’m not even charismatic enough to talk the enemies down—you could do that too.”

That actually made Slique huff out a weak laugh. “No, but I’d pay to see you try.”

“All true,” Kyborg grinned. “But seriously—I was a bully, Slique. And I shouldn’t have told you any of that crap.”

Slique looked at him, expression unreadable.

“I always pretend to be this tough guy who has everything figured out. But I know I wouldn’t have handled the torture you went through in New Valros. And I couldn’t even see that. Then you fought with us, badly injured, trying to stop Spectril and help Andi. And I just—” He shook his head. “I like to pretend I could’ve done what you did. But the truth is? I wouldn’t have.”

“You would have,” Slique said quietly. “I’m nothing special, Kyborg.”

“Yes, you are,” Kyborg countered. “You might have gained extra powers from a stolen lute, but it was you who did those things. The lute wouldn’t have done anything without you. You could have given that lute to anyone else, and they still wouldn’t have done what you did. You wrote the songs. You learned the spells. You learned to fight. That wasn’t a lie.”

Slique looked away. He wasn’t sure how to process any of this.

“And you know what else?” Kyborg continued. “You’re the one who’s kept up a happy front for all of us this past year. We’ve just been too stupid or self-absorbed to see it.”

Slique didn’t answer him.

Kyborg let out a slow breath. “Slique, you’ve done so much for us. For Faeza. So what if the others have found new ways to help people? You’ve already done enough.”

Silence settled between them.

“No one expects you to go out there and fight for us,” Kyborg added. “Or to save us.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” Slique murmured. “I tormented a whole city. I have to pay for that. I have to do something to redeem myself.”

“You fought Entropa with us! You’ve done more than anyone could ask for. People have even forgiven Luce for what she did. No one is blaming you except you.”

Slique frowned slightly.

“I get it,” Kyborg said, his tone softer. “I blamed myself for years for not being able to save my family. I let Quadron kill them.”

“You were a kid, Kyborg!”

“Guilt doesn’t care about that. I blamed myself. Until I realised there was nothing I could have done. So I avenged them. And then… I moved on. I found something I wanted to do—it happened to be helping people and saving the world.” He grinned. “You did that too.”

Slique didn’t reply.

“You fought so hard because you felt guilty,” Kyborg continued. “Because you thought everything was based on a lie. But you still saved us—multiple times. You helped us defeat Entropa. So if you want to spend the rest of your days watching birds or drinking wine, you can. If you want to keep helping people, you can too. But you shouldn’t feel like you have to.”

Slique blinked. That thought had never crossed his mind.

He had spent so long feeling guilty for not finding a way to help people—he had never considered that the others helped because they wanted to.

Not because they had to.

“I don’t even know what I would do,” he admitted.

“Maybe you’ll figure it out if you start being kinder to yourself,” Kyborg said. “You’ve convinced yourself you’re useless just because you think you’re not helping people. But what does that even mean? This past year, you’ve faked happiness just to make us feel better—and guess what? It did help. Until we finally realised how stupid we were. But if you do want to help people, maybe try something that doesn’t make you feel miserable. Because if it just makes you feel worse, then you’re not really helping anyone, are you?”

Slique exhaled, shaking his head. “I never wanted to make any of you sad.”

“So you made yourself sad instead?” Kyborg countered. “You’re supposed to be the smart one here!”

That actually made Slique smile.

“Aha! A real smile!” Kyborg grinned triumphantly. “I knew I was good at this! Kyborg the Mighty is even good at feelings!”

“I thought you were just Kyborg here,” Slique teased.

“The best friend,” Kyborg corrected. “Don’t forget that title.”

“A very important one.”

“You fought hard for me to accept it, so you should be proud I actually use it,” Kyborg chuckled. “And if we’re still being honest... I’m glad to be your best friend. It means a lot to me.”

Slique’s smile softened. “It does to me too.”

Kyborg studied him for a second. “So... do you feel a bit better?”

Slique nodded. “I do. I know that one conversation won’t fix everything—but thank you.”

“Of course, old man,” Kyborg smirked, giving him a reassuring clap on the back. “Anytime. And we’ll talk more tomorrow, once you’ve had time to process everything. But for now? You seriously need sleep. You look like crap.”

“We can’t all be elves who just sit around meditating instead of actually sleeping,” Slique quipped.

“And that’s why I’m Kyborg the Mighty!” Kyborg shot back before heading for the door. “Goodnight, Slique.”

“How are you feeling today?” Kyborg asked as they walked along the city walls, watching Smarsh in the distance.

“Better. I didn’t start hating myself the moment I woke up.”

“That’s good,” Kyborg replied with a smile, genuinely glad to hear it. They had talked every day for the past few months.

He had never realised just how bad Slique had felt—he never could have guessed. And knowing it now only made him hate himself more for the way he had treated the dwarf in the past. There was no excuse for it, and he was just grateful that Slique had forgiven him. Kyborg had worked hard to repair the damage, making sure to tell Slique what he actually thought of him—that, when they first met, he had been intimidated by him, and mocking him had been his way of handling those feelings. And later, when that fear had settled, he had seen Slique as nothing more than a tool to help defeat Paralyte. When that plan failed, he had lashed out in anger, never once stopping to think about how Slique might feel. He had just wanted to use him—just like the former mayor had done.

Looking back, Kyborg realised what an insensitive idiot he had been.

“Have you touched the lyrics yet?” he asked after a moment.

“I looked at them this morning—that’s all I could muster.”

“That’s still a big step,” Kyborg encouraged. “Especially since you had to traverse a mountain of letters just to get to them.”

That made Slique chuckle. “And whose fault is that?”

“Spectril’s, Elleve’s, and Grislee’s, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Slique echoed, still smiling as they walked side by side.

He wasn’t there yet—he still couldn’t bring himself to write the songs—but wanting to was a huge step forward. And he knew he never would have made it this far if Kyborg hadn’t found the courage to reach out to him months ago.

Talking to the elf made him feel a little less useless with each passing day. It helped him accept that he didn’t need to be out there fighting or doing something grand to make a difference. It also helped him believe that people no longer hated him for the lies of the past. He still felt bad about them, but at least now he didn’t believe everyone despised him.

Dr. Ahem’s death—and the fact that he had lied to the man—was what he struggled with the most. That was why he needed to finish the song. Still, it helped knowing that Kyborg blamed himself for the doctor’s death too—they all did. Every one of them missed him every single day.

Kyborg had admitted that he had taken up the doctor’s work to feel closer to him, to make sure he was never forgotten. Brink had even created a holiday in his honour, which they would soon celebrate. Bart had written a song for him, and Mudd had crafted a drink in his name. GumGum had created a garden at the orphanage dedicated to his memory.

Knowing that the others missed him and blamed themselves too made it easier for Slique to deal with his own guilt.

“Everyone will be coming here to honour Dr. Ahem in a few weeks,” Kyborg said as they stopped to pet Smarsh, who wagged his tail happily. “Will you take part?”

Slique hesitated. He wanted to, but he didn’t want to make a promise he might not be able to keep. Even if it did help knowing the others felt guilty too, it wasn’t always enough.

Kyborg knew that.

“I’ll try,” he said finally.

“I’ll keep a chair for you,” Kyborg replied with a small smile, but he didn’t press the matter.

His hands trembled as he carefully touched the parchment. The letters weren’t as neat as his usual handwriting, but that didn’t matter—the lyrics were finished. He had done it. At least this part.

He still hadn’t dared to touch the lute; that felt too overwhelming for now. But, as Kyborg often reminded him, one step at a time. And finishing Acutarious’ song was a huge step.

The tears had streamed down his face as he wrote, but it felt good—pouring all his emotions and regrets into the song, saying everything he had wished he could say before the doctor died. It was his final farewell.

It had been hard, but he was proud of himself for doing it. He needed to do this. The guilt and sorrow were still there, but lately, he had been able to focus more on the happy memories. Thinking of Acutarious no longer made him only cry—more often than not, it made him smile.

He would need to rewrite the text so he could read it more easily, but that wasn’t important now!

His eyes drifted to the lute. He hadn’t touched it in over a year. Dust clung to the strings, and he knew it was out of tune. But for the first time in a long time, he felt the urge to hold it. Carefully, with shaking hands, he reached for it.

The weight in his hands filled him with both guilt and joy. His mind whirled in turmoil, and he knew this was all he could manage for today—anything more might tip him over the edge.

“Well, look at you,” Kyborg said as he entered, this time without knocking.

Slique tore his gaze from the lute and glanced at the clock.

“Yeah, yeah, you were late, so I decided to walk over instead,” Kyborg continued. “Guess I forgive you for standing me up—almost forced me to hang out with Brink by myself.”

“I finished the song,” Slique said quietly, but it was all Kyborg needed to hear.

The elf walked over and pulled him into a hug. No words were needed—they both knew how big this was.

Simply seeing Slique holding the lute nearly brought Kyborg to tears. Being a bard was such a huge part of who Slique was, yet he had almost given up that part of himself after Ürbloom.

Kyborg knew he could never truly understand what it had been like for Slique—to have his music twisted into a weapon. But he had always told him that he wanted to hear him play again—this time for himself. Not for a fight. Not because someone was forcing him. Just for the joy of it.

Still, he had never pushed. He never wanted to make Slique feel uncomfortable. He only wanted him to want to play again.

“Shall we celebrate with a few drinks?” Kyborg asked after a while.

“If we can do it without Brink,” Slique replied. They had originally planned to meet Brink at the tavern—not for a meeting, just for drinks between friends. But Slique wasn’t as close with Brink as Kyborg was, and he didn’t want him there for this.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Kyborg smirked as Slique set the lute down.

And together, they went to celebrate.

Slique had kept to the background all day. He had wanted to pay tribute to Acutarious, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand at the centre of it all.

They had all shared stories about the doctor—both the old Infinights and the new ones—alongside the townspeople. Brink and the former Infinights had given speeches, reminiscing about Dr. Ahem. Bart had sung his song, GumGum had let flowers rain down over the crowd and onto Acutarious’ grave. Mudd had surprised them all by handing out a book he had written in the man’s honour, and Kyborg had arranged a beautiful firework display. Even Luce had taken the stage, speaking words in a language none of them understood, but Slique knew Dr. Ahem had.

Now, most people were making their way to the tavern, giving Slique the opportunity to be alone by Acutarious’ grave. He gazed at the headstone, closing his eyes as a few tears fell.

“Hi, Doctor,” he murmured. “I should have visited a long time ago.”

He sat down on the bench in front of the grave, placing the lyrics beside him.

He knew them by heart, but he wanted to leave the parchment behind. The lanterns hanging around the graveyard cast a soft glow over the title—The Lantern of Boulderay.

With his lute in hand, he took a shaky breath, his fingers nervously strumming a few chords before he finally began to sing in a low, steady voice.

“In halls of stone where shadows lay,

A spark was born to light the way.

Through glass and gears, through sparks and steel,

He shaped the world with wit and will.

A mind so vast, a heart so kind,

A guiding star for those left blind.

Not with swords, nor force nor fight,

But with wisdom, he gave us sight.

Oh, Doctor, do you hear me still?

Does the wind whisper through the hills?

Do the stars reflect your amber light?

Oh, Ahem, you shine so bright.

The Infinights stand, but not the same,

Without your voice, without your name.

No blueprint drawn, no wheels that spin,

Can bring us back to where we’ve been.

A lantern bright in darkest tide,

The city’s hope, the Infinights' guide.

Through wire and words, you built our fate,

A hand unseen, yet never late.

The world still turns, the embers fade,

But the echoes of your name remain.

A scientist, a friend so true,

Boulderay’s heart still beats for you.

Oh, Acutarious H. Emeritusian,

Your light will never wane nor dim.

Though wheels may rust and flames may fall,

Your name is carved inside us all.

So hear me now, one last goodbye,

Though heroes fall, their stars still rise.

Oh, Doctor, we will tell your tale,

A fire that time cannot curtail.

The lantern flickers, but never dies,

For in our hearts… you still rise.”

He whispered those final words, letting the song fade into the quiet night.

Tears streaked his cheeks as he suddenly heard movement behind him. Turning around, he found his friends standing there. Bart and GumGum were crying, while Mudd stood with his eyes closed, looking up at the sky. Brink and Luce leaned against each other, grief evident in their expressions. Spectril and Andi held each other, as did Grislee and Elleve, while Sorto kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Further away, Lynn Merr and Hops gave them all space, allowing them their moment.

Kyborg walked over to him without a word and sat down beside him, pulling him into a hug.

No words were needed—the song had said it all. They remained there for a long time, paying tribute to Dr. Ahem.

Brink, Luce, and Sorto were the first to leave, heading towards the tavern, soon followed by Lynn Merr, Hops, and Andi. Mudd finally lowered his gaze from the sky, squeezed Slique’s shoulder, and silently walked away with Gumbo. GumGum handed Slique a flower and placed another one on Dr. Ahem’s grave before he, too, left. Bart approached last, wrapping his arms around him.

"You wrote something so beautiful. I could never," the halfling said, wiping away his tears. "Thank you for sharing it with us all."

Then he to walked towards the tavern.

“We will never let his memory die!” Grislee declared.

“We will forever tell his story!” Elleve agreed, before the two women followed the others.

“He would have loved it,” Spectril said with a warm smile. “And he would be proud of you, Ostin.”

“Thank you, Leonard,” Slique replied softly, watching as the half-orc turned to leave. Soon, only he and Kyborg remained.

“How are you feeling?” Kyborg finally asked.

“Better. Happier.”

“Good. You deserve to be happy, Slique,” Kyborg said sincerely.

They sat in silence, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon and the moon began its slow rise.

“Are you coming?” Kyborg asked eventually.

“No,” Slique replied, and Kyborg raised an eyebrow, sensing something unspoken in those words.

“I think I need to leave Boulderay for a while. I need to find out who I am again—now that the guilt isn’t as strong.”

“Will you be alright?”

“You’re wondering if I’ll disappear and never return?”

“Something like that. Or if I’ll have to ask Mudd to turn into a mastiff and track you down?”

Slique chuckled. “No, I’ll return—unless you send Mudd after me. Then I might have to use some of my secret magic to disappear.”

“Will you write, at least?” Kyborg asked, struggling to keep his emotions in check. He had never been good at farewells, even if Slique promised it was only temporary.

“Of course. I can’t let my best friend worry about me.”

Slique hugged him before reaching for his backpack, which had been leaning against a nearby tree. He slung it over his shoulder while gripping his lute in one hand.

“You forgot this!” Kyborg pointed to the parchment resting on the bench.

Slique smiled, picking it up and folding two parchments. He placed one on Dr. Ahem’s grave and handed the other to Kyborg.

“Open it later,” was all he said before slipping into the shadows.

Kyborg blinked. Had he just used an invisibility spell? It reminded him of the way Bart used to vanish.

“Magic users…” Kyborg muttered, shaking his head as he looked down at the parchment. Open later, Slique had said.

Well, he hadn’t specified how much later.

Technically, it was later.

Kyborg slowly unfolded the parchment. His eyes skimmed over the words, realising it was a song—but not the one Slique had sung to Dr. Ahem.

He started reading the lyrics.

Knights of Infinite Light - A song of legacy and new beginnings

Once we stood, the four of us strong,

With stolen stars to light our way.

We walked a path not wholly right,

Yet still we fought, we still held sway.

The banners flew, the crowds would cheer,

They called us legends, heroes bright.

But even myths will fade with time,

And new stars rise to claim the night.

So take this torch and bear it high,

Let it burn against the sky.

New hands will write the tales to come,

And we will fade, but not be gone.

For in your steps, our echoes stay,

The Infinights will never fade.

We bent the rules, we played our part,

Built a dream on borrowed days.

And though the past is laced with lies,

The good we did won’t wash away.

Now you stand where once we stood,

Your hearts unburdened, free and true.

Not bound by shadows of our past,

But shining with a brighter view.

So take this torch and bear it high,

Let it burn against the sky.

New hands will write the tales to come,

And we will fade, but not be gone.

For in your steps, our echoes stay,

The Infinights will never fade.

You—who once called me rival, foe,

Have shown me something I did not know.

That honour’s not in name or blade,

But in the bonds that time won’t fade.

To you, the steady hand, the flame,

I leave this song, I speak your name.

A warrior bold, with heart so wide—

My brother now, stand by their side.

So take this torch and bear it high,

Let it burn against the sky.

New hands will write the tales to come,

And we will fade, but not be gone.

For in your steps, our echoes stay,

The Infinights will never fade.

And when the time comes, when you must stand,

To pass the torch with steady hand—

Remember this, remember well,

The name you guard, the tales you tell.

For though we go, though years may wane,

The Infinights will rise again.

Kyborg tried to find Slique at once, but he couldn’t, and he cursed him. If this was a farewell, he would demand that GumGum speak to his mother so she could bring the dwarf back—only so he could kill him himself!

He took a deep breath as he felt his own tears streaming down his cheeks.

“You’d better return, Slique!”

Nearly a year had passed when Kyborg heard familiar words. The melody was unfamiliar to him, but he knew the lyrics by heart. He had read them so many times that he could almost recite the song backwards.

He had shown it to the others, and Bart had offered to create a melody for it if Kyborg wanted. But Slique hadn’t, and it felt wrong. He wanted Slique to create the melody—or there would be no melody at all! So for a year, the song had remained unfinished. Stupid Slique! Kyborg couldn’t even attempt to sing it off-key—he was many things, but a bard wasn’t one of them. Instead, he had been forced to simply speak the words, which he did.

The others had quoted the song before battle, but he never did. It didn’t feel right. He wanted to say those words to Slique for the first time.

He knew that Slique had been out there, staying true to his word and writing. Lucky him! Lynn Merr had often teased Kyborg, saying he loved Slique more than her, but he always insisted it wasn’t that kind of love. Slique was his best friend. His family. She was part of his family too, just like the other Infinights, but Slique was more than a friend—he was like a brother. Bart and GumGum had understood that, having a similar bond themselves.

Kyborg had also heard rumours of a traveling bard who played in dark streets, far from fame and glory, yet whose songs were better than those of the most renowned bards. His music had spread across the world, beloved by many, yet no one knew who he was.

Or almost no one. He knew. They knew.

So when Kyborg heard the words of Knights of Infinite Light – A Song of Legacy and New Beginnings, he froze, his heart pounding. His gaze darted around as he searched for his stupid best friend, who had the audacity to hide from him!

It didn’t take long to find him.

Slique sat at Dr. Ahem’s grave, on the same bench where they had last seen each other a year ago. He wasn’t really hiding at all. As soon as Kyborg approached, Slique turned to face him.

“Hello, Brother,” Slique said softly.

Kyborg ran forward and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“Hello, Brother,” he echoed. “Are you alright?”

“Never better,” Slique answered with a smile before he resumed singing the lyrics, inviting Kyborg to join in as best he could.

As the final words faded into the night, Slique let out a breath, content. He was home again, with his family. The guilt of his past no longer weighed him down. He had found a way to enjoy music once more—without the burden of fame, without the risk of awakening his anxiety.

Singing in dark streets, concealing his identity but letting his music speak for itself, had brought him more happiness than he had ever known.

Well, until this moment.

Until he had finally come home.

Until he had been able to call Kyborg his brother—and hear it back.

This was where he belonged. With his family.

And with his new life.