Vescrutia: Legacy

He didn’t speak at first. The silence that followed Inariel’s words was not born of hesitation but of respect — a stillness he reserved for only the most solemn of truths. The air around them had shifted. The room, once washed in the calm blue of his screens, now pulsed with the deep thrum of blood. Primordial. Red. Ancient.

It was not a power to be overlooked. Not a display to be dismissed. The kind of mana that spoke not in words, but in instincts — the kind that whispered to the marrow and made lesser men bow from some forgotten memory of fear.

But Zeik didn’t flinch.

He let the pressure press into him, weigh against his ribs and lungs, and simply... breathed it in. Not out of arrogance, but because he understood something others didn’t — that fear could be a teacher too.

“Inari…”

His voice was gentle, touched with the tremble of reverence, but steady.

“You wield a storm that most would never dare name aloud. And yet, you stand here speaking softly, not as a god made of war, but as the man beneath it all. I suppose that’s what makes you dangerous. Not the blood… not the wings… but the clarity with which you wear them.”

He let his eyes drift toward the fading veil of red.

“That magic... it’s unsettling. Beautiful, but... wrong in a way that’s hard to explain. Like it’s singing in a language older than morality. And still, it doesn’t scare me.”

He looked at Inari then — truly looked.

“You say I’m disgusted with the flame inside me… maybe that’s true. But I’m not ashamed of it. Just tired of being devoured by it. Tired of watching everything I touch turn to smoke. You… you’ve learned to walk with your fire. I’m still learning not to drown in mine.”

Zeik stepped forward once, unafraid, the heat of Inari’s presence brushing against his skin like the edge of a blade.

“If you intend to teach the Guardians… then they’ll have the guidance of someone who has survived his own abyss. That’s more than most can say.”

A pause, then a small, wry smile.

“And no, I’m not satisfied. But I believe you.”

He turned back toward the screens, letting his hand ghost across one of the images — a still from their battle, frozen in time.

“That’ll have to be enough... for now.”

“You wield a storm that most would never dare name aloud. And yet, you stand here speaking softly, not as a god made of war, but as the man beneath it all. I suppose that’s what makes you dangerous. Not the blood… not the wings… but the clarity with which you wear them.”

Inari scratched the side of his cheek, the rough skin of his fingertips briefly breaking the intense line of sight between them. Zeik’s gaze was… unnerving, not in a hostile way, but with an unnerving depth. It felt as though the words Zeik spoke, even unspoken, had an unwinding effect that reached down and tugged at the very threads of Inari’s being. It forced genuine sensation through one's spirit, a sensation usually dulled by centuries and shifting forms, as if Zeik could peel back the illusions and see the raw, beating core of what made you, you.

It was a fleeting vulnerability Inari allowed, the scratch a momentary shield against the penetrating scrutiny. Then, resolve hardening his features once more, he returned to meet Zeik’s gaze. In a detached, analytical part of his mind, he supposed that he had grown to some extent to tolerate, even appreciate, being seen in such a fluorescent light, especially by a man like the Vesta Crown. The title itself carried weight, a resonance that echoed through the unseen realms, a testament to Zeik’s power and the burden he carried.

Part of him, the part that had learned to value connection in the fleeting human world, wished… that he could alleviate Zeik’s burden. To share the weight, to offer a respite from the crushing responsibility that seemed to press down on the human’s shoulders. But as Zeik had stated, with a quiet finality that brooked no argument, it was his storm to weather. Solitude, it seemed, was the crown’s most persistent jewel.

While other storms were now gathering on his own horizon, darker and more insidious ones, the knowledge that he had an ally, an unexpected ally, in Zeik emboldened him to tread this rigorous path further.

The silence stretched again, thick with unspoken understanding, before Inari finally broke it. He drew a breath, the air cool and still in the magically sustained room. “When we next meet,” he began, his voice carrying a deeper resonance than usual, “I hope your head is well above the waters.” He paused, letting the significance of his words hang in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the turbulent times they both faced. “Please, take care of my family.”

It was a request that carried immense weight, a trust laid bare. Inari, a creature of instinct and power, rarely spoke of 'family' in human terms. But the network of connections he had fostered, the fragile web of human lives he had come to… protect, they were precious to him in a way he was only just beginning to comprehend. As well as those of the Myotis. And to entrust them to another, especially a human, was a profound gesture.

He followed his words with a slight bow, a stiff and unfamiliar movement. He had observed that this dipping of the head and shoulders was a human custom, a physical manifestation of respect… even reverence for others. It felt… odd, in his ancient form, but somehow right. And Zeik, this singular human who had seen into his depths, who bore the weight of a crown he did not ask for, had earned such things from him. At least, within the veil of human flesh he currently wore, Zeik had.

“And for what it’s worth,” Inari said, lifting himself from the bowed position and standing upright once more. The formality dropped away, replaced by something warmer, something akin to genuine… affection? He wasn’t sure he could name it, but the rigidity in his posture eased, his shoulders relaxing. His eyes softened, losing their usual arrow-like sharpness, and reflecting Zeik’s quaint smirk with one of his own, a rare and genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“I believe in you, Zeik.”

The words were simple, yet they held a deep conviction that resonated throughout the room, shaking the air with the unspoken weight of Inari’s centuries of experience, his honed instincts, his understanding of power and resilience. It was not a casual affirmation but a pronouncement, a bolstering of spirit from a being who rarely offered such things.

With that finality, a somber crimson light emanated from Inari’s form, starting as a faint glow at his core and rapidly spreading outwards. It bathed the study in a warm, blood-red hue, casting long, dancing shadows. Zeik watched, unwavering, as Inari’s shape began to dissolve, edges blurring, solid form fracturing. In moments, the crimson light intensified, and then, with a rush of air and a rustle like dry leaves, Inari was gone, replaced by a litany of bats that poured from his dissolving form. They scurried like shadows towards the open window, a black tide against the dying crimson glow, and vanished into the gathering twilight outside.

The study was silent once more, save for the renewed hum of the wards. Zeik remained standing, the faintest ghost of Inari’s smile still mirroring his own. He was left alone with the echo of those final words; The air still thrummed with the residual energy of Inari’s departure, a phantom heat on Zeik’s skin.

Outside, carried on the wind, the distant screech of bats faded into the night. It was time. Time for Inari to prepare. The next storm was brewing on his horizon, a tempest far grander and more perilous than any he had weathered. Grueling battles awaited him, fought not only with claw and fang, but with cunning, strategy, and the weight of ancient obligations. And as he soared through the night sky, a single, crimson-eyed bat leading the swarm, Inari carried with him the strange, unexpected comfort of Zeik’s steady gaze and the quiet strength of their shared, unspoken understanding. He was ready. Or, he would be. He had to be.