Archive of Our Own

At night, Axon looked quite different from how it could be seen during the day.

During the day, the city drowned in the glow reflecting off the sand, sunlight, and the constant movement of its inhabitants, involuntarily growing quieter in the evenings, as if even it needed a short rest after the entire day. The farther away from the center, the fewer lights, voices, and people there were. There was only the sand, still warm after the entire day, and the sky.

The sky had much better visibility here. Without the city lanterns, the stars seemed almost unnaturally bright. Thousands upon thousands of them stretched across the desert, and between them one could make out bright streaks that were practically impossible to see from the center of Axon.

Sanctus sat on the sand, supporting himself with one hand behind his back, while playing with a bottle of cheap wine with the other. His head was facing forward, tilted slightly upward, admiring the sky and gently moving from side to side, as if he were humming some melody to himself in his head.

“You know I stole a horse today?”

Rasul looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Again?”

“You don't sound surprised.” Sanctus chuckled quietly, as if the other man's reaction amused him immensely.

“Because you always do it. Have you ever thought about buying one?” Rasul also rested his hands behind his back, sitting more comfortably and following the place Sanctus was looking at with his eyes.

“I don't need them that much. You know, it's only for… side quests.”

“Mhm.”

They sat beside each other, close enough to easily hear each other's voices despite the quiet rustling of the wind, but still without any physical contact. A few centimeters of empty space remained between their shoulders.

After a moment, Rasul let out a quiet snort of laughter, unable to resist the image of Sanctus stealing an animal that had nevertheless appeared in his head.

Sanctus playfully nudged him in the side with his elbow. “Are you laughing at me?”

“N-no…” The man tried to suppress the laughter that was perhaps caused by the growing soft spot he had for him, or maybe by the beer he had drunk.

“You are.”

“Just a little.”

They both chuckled, partly at themselves and partly because of the alcohol flowing through their blood.

“I knew it.” Sanctus smiled widely, and Rasul shook his head, though the corners of his mouth were still slightly raised.

After one beer, he definitely shouldn't have been drunk. And he wasn't. He still knew perfectly well what he was doing and saying. It was simply that something about him was less… serious that night. Maybe it was because of the desert. Maybe because of the late hour. Or maybe because of Sanctus, who had been telling him the most absurd stories from the past few days for a good dozen or so minutes.

“The worst part is that Tobias almost caught me then.” Sanctus continued. “Seriously, almost. He was literally right here. It was insane!”

“Where?” Rasul raised his eyebrows in confusion, not knowing what the man was talking about.

“Well… here.”

“You are truly very precise, Sanctus.”

The masked man threw his hands into the air, having set the bottle down on the ground beforehand, and leaned backward onto his back, lying down on the warm ground. “God, why do you never understand anything! I mean, I was trying to say that…”

He paused for a moment, as if trying to gather his thoughts again. After all, he was much drunker than Rasul. “He was close. Very close. He almost had me. He was right on my heels!”

Rasul nodded with feigned seriousness, then reached for the wine bottle. “Truly tragic.”

A comfortable silence fell between them once again, with one lying on the ground, staring at the cloudless sky, while the other sat, turning the bottle around and watching the remains of the dark liquid swirl at the bottom. After a moment, he brought the bottle to his lips to taste the drink. Nevertheless, as soon as the wine spread across his tongue, he immediately grimaced and put the bottle back in its previous place, next to Sanctus.

“Oh god it’s awful! It's so tart, how can you drink this?” Rasul wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if that would help him get rid of the taste.

“You just don't know anything about it, you're inexperienced.”

Sanctus shifted on the ground, making himself more comfortable, putting one hand beneath his head and holding the wine bottle with the other, the one Rasul had handed back to him, in which there was already considerably less than there should have been. He didn't care. In fact, very few things mattered to him at that moment.

The stars were so bright that for a moment he had the impression that all he had to do was reach out his hand to touch one of them. They seemed… magical. He blinked slowly, leaving his eyelids closed for a little too long, and whenever he opened them, everything seemed slightly blurred for a moment. He didn't know whether it was because of the alcohol or the exhaustion.

Probably both.

Rasul was still sitting beside him, supporting himself with one hand against the sand. At first, he was also looking upward. After some time, however, his gaze began to wander. At first only for a moment — a quick glance sent toward the boy. He looked at Sanctus, then immediately at the sky. A few seconds later, he did the same. Unfortunately, this time he couldn't physically force himself to look away.

Sanctus lay completely still, staring at the sky with that characteristic calm that only appeared in him when he stopped trying to be everywhere and do everything on his own. Usually unsuccessfully. His hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and individual strands fell onto his forehead, partially brushing across the material of his mask.

Rasul watched him in silence, not really knowing why. He simply…

He didn't look like he usually did.

Maybe it was because he was drunk.

Or maybe because, for the first time in a long while, Rasul was seeing him without the constant movement. Without running off somewhere, without talking, without that eternal need to do something that apparently either had to help him find magic or distract his thoughts from things he didn't want to think about.

Now he wasn't rambling endlessly about magic, giants, searches, and other expeditions. He was lying there calmly, as if he were relaxing.

Rasul's gaze moved over his figure, finally stopping on his face, or rather, on the mask. He sighed quietly, feeling a faint sense of disappointment settling in his stomach.

What a shame.

Really, what a shame.

Sometimes he wondered what Sanctus looked like underneath it. Not in any particular way. He was simply… curious. He probably had a pretty face.

I'm sure it would be beautiful.

Rasul furrowed his brows slightly and froze, even though he had been making minimal movements before.

What?

He turned his gaze toward the desert, as if something incredibly interesting had suddenly appeared there. What the hell was he thinking about? That annoying brat was probably hiding a face full of scars, just like his sister, or something. Whatever.

It was weird. Very weird. Frankly fucking suspicious.

Rasul rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and tried to focus on anything else. On the sand. On the wind. On the stars. On the fact that tomorrow he would probably have to return to the city.

On anything.

“Rasul?”

Sanctus's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, bringing him back to reality. The masked man was no longer looking at the sky like he had been before. This time, he was looking straight at him. Rasul felt something unpleasant tighten in his stomach.

“Hmm?”

Sanctus didn't say anything for a moment. His breathing was calm, though slightly absent-minded. The alcohol made everything in his movements seem a little slower.

“Can I say something?”

Rasul froze again. For one brief moment, his mind presented him with several absolutely idiotic possibilities.

He saw. He saw that I was staring. He definitely saw. Wonderful.

“Sure.” He replied, trying to sound completely normal. He swallowed and bit his lower lip in an act of desperation. He could actually try to talk his way out of it. After all, there were a few things that he… needed to get off his chest.

“Actually…” he began before he could change his mind. “I wanted to tell you something too.”

Sanctus merely nodded slightly, gesturing for him to continue.

“That mask really suits you.”

Sanctus snorted sarcastically and returned his gaze to the sky. “You don't have to flatter me after the last time you brought it up.”

“But I already apologized!” Rasul whined, running a hand through his hair.

“I never said I accepted your apology!” Sanctus replied with his usual arrogance. “You could apologize again, and maybe I'll consider it.”

Rasul sighed, genuinely unable to believe he was doing this.

“Listen, Sanctus… I'm kind of sorry about what I said last time. You know, when we went to the auction with Cyra. About your mask.” Sanctus remained silent, and Rasul lowered his gaze to his hands. “For using the fact that you wear a mask against you. You know what I'm trying to say. I said a few things then that… I probably shouldn't have said.”

Rasul began speaking faster and faster, feeling something unpleasant twist inside him again.

“And I know I already said back then that I didn't mean it, but now I just thought that, actually… well, fuck, I'm sorry. Really. It was an asshole thing to do. I know I wasn't supposed to bring it up again, because we've already talked about it, but it somehow kept sitting in the back of my mind and…” He cut himself off for a moment, taking a breath.

Sanctus still said nothing.

“Because I really didn't want to throw it in your face. I shouldn't have used it against you at all. I was just pissed off then and said something I knew would hurt you, and that's… well, shitty. I didn't want you to think that I consider your mask something to joke about or something I can use against you whenever we argue. Because it's not. And… yeah.”

Rasul fell silent, taking several deep breaths after his short rant. Only then did he feel himself getting warm. He could feel the tips of his ears turning slightly red.

Thank God he was wearing a hat.

For a moment, he sat in complete silence, looking somewhere to the side as if the empty stretch of desert had suddenly become incredibly interesting.

“Well.” he muttered finally, unable to stand the awkward silence any longer, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “That's it. And what did you want to say?”

Sanctus looked at him for a moment, still lying on the ground. Then, without any hurry, he lifted himself from the sand and sat up. The wine bottle rested loosely in his hand. He pulled out the cork, taking one long sip, and placed it back on the ground.

He tilted his head slightly, and a cheerful manner appeared in his voice, indicating that he was smiling faintly beneath the mask.

“You have very pretty eyes.”

Rasul blinked several times, wondering whether he was actually the one who had drunk as much as Sanctus.

“What?”

“They're pretty.”

The courier didn't answer, which only made Sanctus's smile widen.

“They reflect the stars beautifully.”

Silence.

Rasul stared at him, having absolutely no idea what to do with his face, his hands, or, more importantly, his thoughts. Sanctus, meanwhile, continued speaking, completely calmly.

“I could get lost in them.”

For the next few seconds, Rasul was so completely stunned that he couldn't even come up with a sarcastic response. He wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to do now. Laugh? Turn it into a joke? Pretend nothing had happened?

The problem was that Sanctus apparently didn't realize how strange what he had just said sounded. Or perhaps he did realize and simply didn't care.

Rasul rubbed his face with his hand.

Great.

He had drunk one beer.

One.

And yet he felt as if he were the one who had drunk all the remaining alcohol in the tavern for Sanctus.

I could get lost in them — the words repeated themselves in his head.

No.

He wasn't going to think about it.

Absolutely not.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he saw Sanctus twitch, his head jerking upward.

“Oh fuck.” Sanctus muttered.

“What?”

For a moment, the masked man didn't answer, staring at the sky with his eyes wide open behind the mask.

“Rasul, look! Shooting stars!” He shouted, not caring whether the other inhabitants could hear him. “Quick, make a wish!”

Indeed. One of the stars cut across the sky in a bright, short streak. A moment later, another appeared behind it, and then yet another. For a moment, the sky seemed to move, as if someone had scattered a handful of glowing sparks across it.

“Sanctus…”

“Come on, make a wish!”

“But that makes no sense…” Rasul sighed.

Sanctus looked at him with genuine disbelief.

“What do you mean, it makes no sense?”

“Because…” Rasul sighed and pointed toward the sky. “Those are shooting stars. A luminous phenomenon. Not magical fairies.”

“They are literally magic.”

“Just because you believe in it doesn't mean that's how it is!” Rasul rolled his eyes, not wanting to argue with the man.

Sanctus sighed, sitting back down on the sand, still keeping his gaze fixed on the sky despite everything.

“The stars listen to people.” Without taking his eyes off the sky, he blindly found the bottle and took another sip of wine.

“Fine, let's say you're right… what am I supposed to do with that?” Rasul asked, rubbing his temples with his hands, already feeling the headache coming on, heralding another argument between them.

Sanctus looked at him as if the answer were obvious.

“Make a wish? I already told you.”

“And then what?”

“Nothing.”

“Am I just supposed to wait for it to come true?” Rasul asked uncertainly. God forbid he should ever make wishes to a piece of falling, glowing rock far away in the sky.

Sanctus nodded, gesturing vaguely in his direction.

“See, you finally got it. It wasn't that hard, was it?” He chuckled, returning his gaze to the sky.

“I can't believe you're actually trying to convince me to do this.” He sighed, shaking his head in resignation.

“Because it works.”

“Whatever you say, Sanctus.” He muttered and also followed the man's gaze.

Another streak of a star flashed across the dark sky.

For a moment, he said nothing. It was ridiculous, completely devoid of any sense. And yet… maybe it was because of the atmosphere of that night, maybe because of the alcohol or Sanctus's earlier words.

Rasul closed his eyes.

Fine.

One couldn't hurt anyone.

He tried to think of something he truly wanted, but nothing for himself came to mind. No wealth, no answers, no great discovery. He was content with his life, with his work as a courier…

Instead, an image of Sanctus appeared.

His figure on the boat, his voice, his mask. The way he always got himself into something he shouldn't be doing, something everyone warned him about, including his sister and Rasul himself.

Let Sanctus be safe.

He opened his eyes and exhaled, returning his gaze to the stars.

“Okay.”

“You made a wish?” Sanctus looked at him and adjusted the folded collar of his shirt.

Rasul pulled his legs up against his chest and rested his chin on his knees.

“Yes. But I'm not telling you what it is.”

“You have to tell me.”

He growled in disapproval and buried his face in his hands.

“What did you come up with this time?”

Sanctus moved a little closer, clearly completely absorbed in the matter.

“The more people hear the wish, the greater the chance it'll come true.”

“What?”

“Well, think about it. If only one person knows about the wish, the stars might ignore it!” Sanctus blurted out, firmly convinced of his own infallibility.

“What the hell are you talking about? The stars can't—”

“But if you tell someone else, then suddenly two people are waiting for it to come true.”

“Sanctus…”

“And then the stars will be under more pressure.”

He sounded terribly proud of his conclusions.

Rasul started laughing, unable to endure the man's rambling any longer.

“More pressure?”

“Yes.”

“Are they afraid they'll let people down?”

“Exactly.”

Rasul covered his face with his hand, unable to believe how badly the alcohol must have gone to his head. He would have to talk to Cyra about this.

“I can't believe I'm actually having this conversation.”

“It makes sense!”

“It doesn't, Sanctus. It doesn't.”

They both fell into a comfortable silence. When he thought about it, they had started spending quite a lot of time together lately. Who would have thought they would end up like this, when at first they couldn't stand each other… Of course, they still argued, their squabbles were just as childish, but… they no longer made up 100% of their interactions.

“I'm still not telling you.” Rasul chuckled quietly, allowing himself to relax for a moment.

Sanctus sighed theatrically and exaggeratedly clutched his chest.

“You're awful.”

“I'll survive.”

“But what if it doesn't come true because of you?” The man continued, stubbornly sticking to his point. How much longer was this going to last?

“I'll survive.”

Sanctus stared at him disapprovingly for a moment, then apparently decided that continuing the argument was pointless.

“Fine.”

Sanctus turned his gaze back toward the sky.

“Then I'll tell you mine.”

Rasul raised an eyebrow and sighed, slowly feeling the exhaustion taking over him. “You don't have to.”

“But I want to.”

For a moment, Sanctus was silent. His earlier enthusiasm had faded somewhat. He was still drunk, still speaking more freely than usual, but now there was something more sincere in his voice.

“I wish I could finally discover magic.”

The courier's faint smile disappeared.

Sanctus stared straight at the stars, as if nothing else in the world mattered besides magic. Nothing and no one.

“Really. I want to understand it, to find out how it works. Where it comes from and why it is the way it is.”

For a moment, he turned the wine in his hand, playing with the neck of the bottle.

“I just want to… finally know. I want to learn.”

Rasul didn't answer, as if he had suddenly run out of the words that had come to him so easily only moments before. Instead, he simply stared at the sky, as if trying to find some answer in it that he couldn't put into words. For a moment, he seemed more thoughtful than usual, as if Sanctus's words had struck him harder than he would like to admit.

“That is my wish.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Sanctus's house was a mess. Not the kind that could be fixed in a few minutes. Things were lying everywhere — on the table, on the floor, on the chairs, and even on the windowsill. Several books had been left open on random pages, with maps, notes, and scraps of paper covered in hurried handwriting scattered between them. In the middle of the room stood an open bag, into which Sanctus was tossing more things without much thought.

Ropes, food, several bottles of alcohol, a map, a kitchen knife, spare clothes. Everything that might come in handy.

Rasul stood leaning against the doorframe and watched him in silence for several minutes, saying nothing. He tried to find the right words, even though there were no right words to be found.

“Are you really going to do this?”

Sanctus didn't even look up from packing. “Mhm.”

“You know this place is dangerous. Worse than Koya or any of the other places you've been to so far. Places we've been to so far.”

“I know.”

“No, Sanctus, you don't.”

Sanctus stopped for a moment, holding another item he intended to pack in his hand. Despite that brief hesitation, he clenched his teeth and returned to what he was doing.

“This is another expedition in search of magic. Seriously, does this one have to end like the others too? Not the way you planned?”

“No expedition ends exactly the way you plan it.” Sanctus shot back, unwilling to let Rasul have the last word.

“That's not what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“Then stop!”

Sanctus stopped for a moment and looked at him over his shoulder. His gaze was heavy, as if he were weighing every word Rasul said. For a moment, he said nothing, only watching him in silence. “Stop what?”

“Packing, for fuck's sake! Just stay!”

Rasul raised his voice, feeling his blood boil. He pushed himself away from the doorframe, as if only now deciding that he couldn't stand there any longer, and slowly took a step forward, pulling his back away from the wood that had given him a false sense of support only moments ago.

“Listen to me for a moment.”

“I've been listening the whole time.”

Rasul slowly began moving closer to the man. “Stay this time.”

“Why?” Sanctus asked, genuinely not understanding why Rasul was yet another person who cared so much about clipping his wings.

“Do I really have to explain this to you?” Rasul sighed and rubbed his face in frustration. “Because it's dangerous. Because you don't know what you'll find there, because you don't even know whether you'll find what you're looking for at all. Because every time you go somewhere, you come back with another problem. Will you even be able to make it home? Will you find your way back?”

“I've always managed to come back.” Sanctus defended himself, continuing to pack the things he needed.

“This time you might not.”

Silence fell over the room, and Sanctus lowered his gaze, seeming for a moment as though he was genuinely considering Rasul's words, as if something inside him hesitated for a fraction of a second — but then, almost stubbornly, as though trying to drown out that moment of hesitation, he picked another thing up from the floor and returned to packing.

“Sanctus. You have everything you need here.”

Sanctus snorted sarcastically. “No, I don't. I have nothing.”

“You have a sister.”

Sanctus froze at the courier's words.

“You have a home, people who worry about you.”

“Rasul—”

“You have me.”

Sanctus tightened his fingers around the fabric of the item he was holding, as if trying to hold on to the last remnants of the calm that was slowly slipping away from him, while Rasul continued speaking, his voice losing certainty with every passing moment and becoming increasingly tense, as if his emotions were beginning to break through the carefully maintained control.

“You can stay here. With Cyra. With me. You don't have to keep running somewhere all the time. You don't have to keep searching for another clue about the giants, another legend, another place where magic is supposedly hidden. You can just stay.”

“Just stay, huh?” Sanctus turned around, something sharp appearing in his mind.

“Yes—”

“And what then? I'm supposed to sit here and watch everyone else do something with their lives? Watch Cyra work herself to the bone at several jobs just to support me? Watch people look down on me?”

“Better that than you dying!”

Rasul raised his voice, and his words hung in the air, heavy and tense. Sanctus remained silent for a moment, staring at him in absolute silence, as if trying to understand whether what he had heard had really been said.

“Ah.”

“Sanctus…”

“So that's what this is about.”

“What are you talking about, I—”

Sanctus laughed shortly, but there was nothing amusing about it. “I thought you were different.” The masked man's words effectively silenced Rasul. “I really thought you were different from them. But you… you're exactly the same.”

“Sanctus, I just—”

“Cyra wanted me to stay too. She kept telling me that it was dangerous. That I wouldn't make it. That I should stay here because it was safe here. That I'd let her down if I left and didn't come back.”

Sanctus turned away and began packing his things again.

“Sagarika said exactly the same thing.”

“That doesn't mean anything—!”

“And now you.”

Rasul clenched his jaw, as if trying to hold back the words that were forcing their way to his tongue. Frustration and helplessness were visible in his eyes, because he knew that no matter what he said, Sanctus had already made his decision.

“Because maybe they're right.”

Sanctus stopped moving and slowly turned his head. “What?”

Rasul immediately regretted those words, as if he had spoken them before he had even had time to understand them himself.

“I didn't mean it like that…” he added quickly, more quietly, as if trying to pull the words back out of the air, but Sanctus only looked at him coldly.

“That is exactly what you said.”

“I said maybe they're right about you needing to be careful! I'm fucking worried, is it really that hard to understand?”

“I don't need you to worry about me.”

“Then what the fuck do you need?!”

Sanctus opened his mouth as if he had something to say, but no words came out. He was silent for a moment, his face hardening as if he had suddenly locked away everything he no longer wanted anyone to see.

“I have to find it. I have to find the magic.”

“I'm afraid you're going to die, Sanctus. I'm afraid you're not coming back.”

“That's your problem.”

Rasul raised his eyebrows as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard, then simply stared at him in silence for a moment, a mixture of shock and disbelief on his face, as if Sanctus had said something that simply didn't fit inside his mind.

“Really?”

Sanctus didn't answer, and for a moment they both just stared at each other in silence. Finally, Rasul let out a heavy breath and spoke quietly: “So you're really leaving.”

“Yes.”

“And there's nothing I can say or do that will stop you?”

“No.”

Rasul nodded in disbelief and anger. “Fine. Fine, fuck.”

Sanctus moved toward the door, his bag already slung over his shoulder, as if every step he took had been carefully considered and yet was completely instinctive at the same time. When he passed Rasul and found himself right beside him, he suddenly slowed, then stopped for a fraction of a second, so brief it would have been easy to miss, but long enough for something inside him to crack. For a moment, he looked as though he were arranging sentences in his head that would never be spoken aloud.

Maybe he wanted to apologize, even though he wasn't entirely sure what for. Maybe he wanted to say that he would come back, even if he wasn't sure whether it was a promise or merely a wish. Or maybe remind him of that night in the desert — the silence, the sand, and the sky so full of stars that for a moment it seemed the world wasn't so heavy after all. But none of those words made it past his throat.

Instead, he simply clenched his jaw, looked away, and continued walking, as if stopping for any longer might make it impossible for him to leave at all.

“See you soon.”

Rasul didn't answer, because he couldn't find anything within himself that wouldn't sound like yet another failed plea. He only watched as Sanctus left, as he took his bag, as he disappeared into the hallway, as the door closed quietly behind him, far too quietly for something that was supposed to change everything.

And then he was left alone in the room that only moments ago had been full of movement, words, and tension, and now suddenly seemed unnaturally empty — maps lay scattered like abandoned trails, books were open in the middle of sentences, as if someone had interrupted their lives halfway through a thought, and Sanctus's things, still warm from his presence, looked like proof that he had really been here and had really left.

Rasul stood motionless, staring at the closed door as if he could force it open with nothing but his gaze, and only then did it fully sink in that he hadn't said anything that could have stopped him; or that he had said too much, or too little, or everything wrong all at once. And for the first time, it wasn't merely an ordinary worry, not just a thought somewhere in the back of his mind, but something heavier, more real, that tightened inside him when he realized that this time Sanctus really might not come back.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Rasul sat on Sanctus's bed, staring at the piece of the mask held in his hand.

It was small. Broken unevenly at the place where it must have been torn away from the rest. The edges were sharp, stained with sand in places, and on the surface, there were still tiny traces that Rasul didn't want to recognize. He slowly turned the fragment between his fingers, almost mechanically, as if the movement of his hand itself held something soothing.

It didn't.

He stared at it for so long that he had practically stopped seeing the mask itself. All that appeared before his eyes were memories. Sanctus sailing with him on those damn boats. Sanctus laughing at his jokes while they drank alcohol. Sanctus lying in the desert and staring at the stars. Sanctus asking him several times whether he really didn't want to tell him his wish.

Rasul tightened his fingers.

The mask dug slightly into his skin.

He didn't let go.

The room was quiet. So quiet that he could hear his own breathing and the faint creaking of the fabric beneath his weight with every slightest movement. It seemed to him that if he sat still long enough, something would change.

That the door would open. That Sanctus would come back.

He would throw his bag onto the floor, start telling him something, probably gesturing exaggeratedly again, and pretend that the entire expedition hadn't been nearly as dangerous as everyone claimed. That he had finally proven to everyone that they were wrong, and that he could do something for himself.

Rasul wouldn't even have to answer him. It would really be enough for him to come back.

But the door remained closed.

Rasul looked at the fragment of the mask again.

“You were supposed to come back,” he whispered.

His voice sounded unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else. He swallowed and looked away, but after a moment, he looked at the mask again. He couldn't stop.

That was all. This one piece. This was all that was left of him.

Cyra and Atlas had another fragments, Rasul knew that. Everyone had something that could remind them of Sanctus. Little things, memories, things he had touched. Sagarika and Cyra had made sure that at least he would remain in people's memories.

But this? This was the only thing he had left.

Rasul laughed quietly, though there wasn't the slightest trace of amusement in it.

“You were supposed to be safe.”

His gaze wandered toward the window. The sky was almost completely black. Plenty of stars broke through the night, exactly the same as back then. Exactly the same. Rasul felt something tighten in his throat.

“I told you it doesn't work.”

He was silent for a moment.

“You insisted that it did.”

He clenched his jaw so tightly that he felt pain in it, as if he were trying to hold back everything building up inside him that way. For a moment, he remained silent, staring into the darkness beyond the window, then let out a trembling breath through his nose, his entire body visibly tense.

“Fucking stars.”

He stared at them through the window as if they could really hear him, as if they were responsible for what had happened, as if all he had to do was tell them everything loudly enough for them to finally understand that they had made a mistake.

“You promised.”

His eyes began to burn, but he didn't even blink, as if he were afraid that the slightest movement would shatter whatever he was still holding inside. He clenched his jaw and stubbornly stared ahead, allowing tears to gather in the corners of his eyes, though he didn't yet give them permission to fall.

“I told you my wish.”

No.

He hadn't.

That was precisely the problem.

Rasul lowered his head.

The memory returned with terrifying precision. Sanctus sitting beside him on the sand. His voice as he tried to convince Rasul that the stars really did grant wishes. That entire absurd conversation about how the more people knew the wish, the more pressure rested on the stars.

Rasul had laughed at it then, treating it like another one of his naive theories. And yet, somewhere between the joke and the silence, he had made a wish — only for himself, without words, without witnesses, as if its mere existence would be enough.

Let Sanctus be safe.

He hadn't said a single word of it — maybe that was the mistake.

Rasul looked at the mask.

“If only I had—”

His voice broke, but he cleared his throat and tried again.

“If only I had said it out loud…”

Maybe then the stars would have heard him, maybe it really would have worked — maybe the problem was precisely that he had kept it to himself, locked it inside his thoughts instead of saying it aloud, as if silence itself could protect something.

Sanctus had said his wish without hesitation, without fear, as if he believed the world was really listening to him. He had said what he wanted, clearly and simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He had said it out loud.

Rasul had been too proud, too embarrassed, and at the same time too “reasonable” to believe in something as naive as wishes whispered to the shooting stars. He believed such things had no right to work, that they were nothing more than childish illusions that couldn't change reality. That's why he hadn't said anything aloud, only thought his wish in silence, closing it away somewhere deep inside himself, as if speaking it aloud could destroy it.

And the stars… the stars had remained silent, as if they had never heard him, as if his thought had never existed.

“It's my fault,” he finally whispered, the words leaving him almost soundlessly, fragile and empty, as if they were afraid of their own meaning. He looked at his hands as if searching for an answer in them that he couldn't find anywhere else.

“I should have said it.”

His fingers tightened around the piece of the mask even more, until his knuckles turned white, as if he were holding onto the only thing that still connected him to someone who was no longer there.

Eventually, he placed the fragment of the mask on his knee and ran his thumb over it, very carefully, as if he were holding something that could fall apart from the slightest touch. As if even his own thoughts could damage it.

He didn't understand why he was still holding onto it.

Why he was even trying to find some meaning in it.

Because it made no sense.

And yet, somewhere beneath his skin, the same question stubbornly kept returning — if he had said it aloud back then, would anything have turned out differently.

Did it really work that way.

Were the stars really waiting for words.

For a plea.

For a spoken wish that was meant to be like a key.

Was all he had to do… was ask.

And could Sanctus come back then.

And the longer Rasul sat in that silence, the more obvious it became — there was no sign, no answer, no movement in the sky that could pretend something was still going to happen.

He stared upward for so long that the stars stopped looking like promises and became nothing more than distant, indifferent points of light.

None fell.

None moved.

Not one even pretended to listen.

None of them answered — as if the entire sky had looked away at precisely the moment he needed someone to finally hear him most.

Because the stars were not fair.