Masaki loses his identity first. His mask perishes in a whirl of claws, fangs, blades, elements. His tribe turns him away. His father is in the ground before he can come back home. He is not above mourning the ties he cut loose himself.

Then he loses his friends. One by one—Moenbryda, Minfilia, Haurchefant, Wilred, Papalymo, Ysayle—and his heart breaks and shrinks each time he witnesses an ally disappear into Death’s embrace. He grieves through snarls, sobs, screams. He grieves through nightmares and sleepless nights. But after grieving, one must pick oneself up again and move on.

He moves on because that is the way of the Xaela. He moves on to survive, to live.

He is not the same naive boy who left the Steppe when he faces down Wrath incarnate. That boy collected scars, learned to mend his own heart, and, eventually, grew up. There is a warrior in that boy’s place.

He goes to battle, fully prepared for death.

When he wakes up in the infirmary, he finds himself breathing and short of an arm. (Oddly fitting. Maybe he and Raubahn should have drinks over this.)

“It’s all over now.”

He blinks. Breathes. Smiles weakly. Victory has never tasted so bittersweet.

“How are you feeling, Masa—”

He shakes his head. With his whispery voice, he manages, “Mongke. Name’s Mongke.”

He is done hiding behind fake names.

Mongke disappears shortly thereafter. He cannot be tied down to any one place and roams freely as his heart desires. Though he is never fully accepted back into his tribe, he visits the Azim Steppe to catch up with friends and his mother. He visits graves often and leaves behind evidence of his visit with moongrass flowers. Sometimes he mysteriously shows up in cities to offer small light shows only to vanish the next day.

Maybe in this story he even finds love. Maybe he doesn’t.

In the end, he find his peace after his years-long journey throughout the realm. He returns to the Scions with his fanged grin and battle staff.