The citadel doors loomed before them—massive slabs of carved obsidian etched with ancient runes that shimmered faintly, as though alive. Two armored guards stood sentinel at either side, their skeletal masks blank and unreadable.

They didn’t speak.

They simply stepped aside when they saw Cinder.

Miles, still hovering a few inches off the ground like a confused magical marshmallow, drifted beside her. “Do they recognize you, or do they just move for anyone in pink?”

Cinder gave a nervous giggle and adjusted the ribbon around her scythe. “They recognize me.”

The doors groaned open.

The hall beyond was massive.

A vaulted ceiling arched high above, supported by pillars carved to resemble spiraling bones and blooming flowers. Black marble tiles gleamed underfoot, the air cool and still. The place had the hushed reverence of a cathedral—equal parts holy and haunted.

Down the corridor, lining both walls, were towering portraits.

Each painting was framed in black silver, and each depicted a reaper in full regalia—some regal, others monstrous, a few ethereal. Their eyes seemed to follow them as they passed.

Miles drifted closer to one, inspecting a sharp-jawed woman with antlers and blue fire for eyes. “Okay, no offense, but all of these look like they’d murder me just for breathing too loud.”

“They probably would,” Cinder said quietly.

“Are you gonna get a portrait?”

“Only if I ever take my father’s place.”

“Yeesh. That’s a lot of pressure.”

She nodded, her voice a little small. “It’s… a big legacy to live up to.”

Miles looked back at one particularly terrifying figure—robed in shadows, surrounded by ghost wolves.

“Do they all come from your family?”

“Most,” Cinder said. “Every Grimm Reaper is chosen from the lineage. But not all of us are suited for it.”

“Speaking of not-suited,” Miles said, floating backward with a grin, “what was up with Mothzilla and Edgy McEyebrows outside?”

Cinder smiled awkwardly. “They’re my cousins.”

Miles blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

“Draven and Nyx. We all trained together when we were younger. But Nyx became my father’s official apprentice two years ago.”

“What about you? Why not you?”

She hesitated. “He said… it would be favoritism. So I train with my aunt instead.”

Miles frowned. “That’s messed up. What, your cousins get thrown into combat drills and power upgrades while you get sent to the magical equivalent of weekend ballet class?”

Cinder didn’t laugh. “It’s… complicated.”

Miles tilted his head, but didn’t push. Instead, he looked around and muttered, “Big castle. Weird family. Giant portraits. Definitely not intimidating at all.”

Cinder chuckled softly.

Then she stopped beside a set of arched glass doors.

The courtyard doors opened with a hush of enchanted air, revealing a quiet space untouched by the rest of the citadel’s heavy grandeur.

There, bathed in the muted light of a fading sky, stood the Soul Tree.

Its bark was silver-veined obsidian, smooth and crystalline, like glass shaped by time. From its branches hung not leaves, but delicate ribbons of light—some flickering like dreams, others pulsing gently like heartbeats. The ground beneath it glowed with scattered fragments of memory: a child's laugh, a dog barking, a first kiss, a final goodbye.

The light wasn’t warm.

It felt… fragile.

Cinder led Miles toward it, her voice quiet and sad.

“This is the Soul Tree,” she said. “Made from memory, hope, and dreams. All the pieces that don’t get washed away in the Ocean of Passing.”

Miles hovered lower, eyeing the way the light trembled in the still air. “It’s… beautiful. But it looks…”

“Sick,” Cinder finished, her voice tightening. “It’s dying. I don’t know why.”

Miles blinked. “But… you’re a reaper. Shouldn’t you know how souls work?”

Cinder sat cross-legged on the moss and looked up at the tree.

“A soul is granted by an angel,” she began gently. “They choose a host and send it down to the Middle Plains. That’s where it begins. From there, fate takes over—deciding how long the soul will stay, and what kind of life it will lead.”

Miles sat too, listening carefully now.

“Over time, the soul gathers memories, choices, mistakes, love, pain—everything. It fills with a kind of energy no magic can replicate. A priceless, cosmic fuel. Once it’s full… it’s our job to remove it.”

“Remove it?” Miles echoed.

“We call to it,” she said. “Gently, if we can. Sometimes… suddenly. The soul leaves the body and returns to the universe. Its energy is spent, its time complete.”

“And then?”

“It becomes empty again. Pure. The angels take it back, ready to place into a new vessel.”

Miles looked up at the drifting ribbons of soullight above them.

“What happens to all those memories?”

Cinder’s face fell. “They’re lost. It’s the only way for someone to be reborn. You have to leave yourself behind.”

Miles frowned. “That’s kind of… sad.”

“It is,” she said softly. “But the Soul Tree remembers. It keeps the pieces we can’t. The fragments that would otherwise disappear. That’s what it was made for.”

“But now it’s… broken?”

She nodded. “Something’s wrong. The dreams are dimming. The lights are going out before they should. We don’t know if it’s because of Limbo thinning, or… something worse.”

Miles was quiet for a moment.

Then he asked, “What about you? And angels? Do you get reborn?”

Cinder hesitated.

“For reapers and angels… it’s different. Our souls are older. We weren’t born in the same way mortals are. We don’t cycle. We persist.”

“So you don’t get to forget.”

She shook her head. “No. We remember everything. Every death. Every goodbye. Every soul.”

Miles looked up again at the ribbons of flickering light, now seeming more sacred than ever.

“I think that’s worse.”

Cinder smiled sadly. “Sometimes… I think so too.”