The trio emerged from the Temple of Murenga under a rainless thunderstorm—black clouds swirling, but no water falling. The magic in the air was thick, laced with something bitter. It wasn't just residue from the memory-wells. Something—or someone—had noticed them.
Kael wiped blood from under his nose. "Too many resonances. I can't stay close to those wells again."
Alaric, still disturbed by the vision of himself as a crowned tyrant, said nothing. The silence between them grew, but Nondo broke it.
"There's a name. One of the ancient spellforgers once inscribed it near the reliquary you saw. I remember now. It wasn't Gobinot's true name."
"What was it?" Alaric asked.
Nondo hesitated, then whispered, "Nzimbu-Mulika."
Kael stiffened. "That's not a name. That's a title… It means The One Who Reflects Nothing."
The Ritual of Return
To track the calepin's dark echo, they needed a ritual. A living link to the object. That meant Alaric had to give something personal—something woven with memory.
Alaric removed the strip of red cloth tied around his arm. It was all that remained from Lira's parting. Her goodbye had been cold, but this scrap held warmth, held pain.
He placed it on the altar. Kael carved sigils in the air, and Nondo bled into the basin carved into the stone.
A blue flame erupted. The echo of the calepin screamed into existence—a ghostly apparition of parchment and binding, spinning violently.
Then it snapped into a single direction—northwest. Toward the Shadowed Steps, a mountainous region spoken of in hushed voices even in Mbanza.
Alaric knew what that meant.
"Gobinot is preparing the awakening," Kael said. "He's not just using your memories. He's merging them with others. Stories rewritten. Truths inverted."
"And if he finishes?"
Nondo spoke this time, solemn: "He'll become more than a sorcerer. He'll become the memory that shapes all others."