Mogwit watches Ryle grab the broom.
The house. The door he destroyed. The blood. The chaos.
He looks at the quickling's body. Small. Broken. Enslaved twice over.
"I'll help clean."
A pause.
"But first... rites. Proper ones."
He kneels beside the corpse again.
"Fey don't belong in the ground. Not like this."
His hand hovers over the seafoam green blood.
"Burial traps them. Makes them wrong. They're meant to return to the forest, to the air, to..."
He looks up at Ryle, then the others.
"Burning. Clean fire. Respectful. Releases the spirit back to where it came from."
His voice drops.
"It was cursed. Enslaved by thieves. Forced to attack us."
The gem pulses.
"Least I can do is let it go properly. Not leave it for the Liars to retrieve. Not bury it in cursed ground."
He stands.
"Outside. Small pyre. Won't take long. Then I'll clean. All of it."
He looks at the quickling one more time.
"Nobody deserves to die twice."
Mogwit carefully lifts the small body. Light. Too light.
"Outside. Need proper wood."
He carries the quickling out into the night air, away from the broken house.
Mogwit sets the body down gently in the grass. Then moves with purpose.
Sacred wood first.
He finds it in the woodpile - oak, ash. Good bones for a pyre. Arranges them careful. Precise. The way the forest taught him.
From his herbalism kit: lavender. He crumbles it over the wood. Cleansing. Purifying.
Around the pyre, he pours a circle of salt.
"Ward off what's left. The corruption. The chains."
His hands glow green - Lesser Restoration, but cast on the ground itself. Asking the earth to absorb the darkness. Turn it to soil. To life.
He kneels.
Pulls the gem from his pocket. Holds it.
Lissea, mellon." (Listen, friend.)
He speaks in Sylvan. To the forest. To the wind.
"Witness this. A quickling. Cursed. Enslaved by thieves. It died in chains."His voice cracks.
"But it goes home free."
He places the body on the pyre. Removes the iron shackle with care - that stays behind. Evidence. Proof.
Produce Flame.
Fire springs to his palm. Not wild. Controlled. Sacred.
He touches it to the pyre. It catches. Smoke curls - lavender-sweet.
The oak begins to burn.
Mogwit stands. Watches the flames rise.
"Ava care si. Lelya na coivierya."
(Don't stay here. Go to your life-awakening.)