The days that followed were wrapped in a silence none of us could break—not really.
We left the wreckage of the carriage behind, our footprints the only scars across the endless dunes of Azareth. The sun beat down without mercy, painting our shadows long against the golden sands. The wind whispered through the dunes, but even it felt hollow, like it knew something was missing.
Or rather—someone.
But no one spoke of Rowan.
Not once.
Not around the campfires.
Not during the long, endless stretches of walking.
Not when we passed the rocks where he—she—had stood, smiling at us with a face we thought we knew.
It was like if we ignored it long enough, it might disappear.
But it didn't.
Not for me.
Because Veylara wouldn't let me forget.
"Ah, the silence of denial," she purred in the back of my mind, her voice smooth and syrupy sweet, slithering through my thoughts like a shadow that had learned how to speak. "It's almost endearing, really. The way they pretend he was never there. Like a bad dream they've woken from."
I clenched my jaw, keeping my gaze on the endless horizon, where the sands finally gave way to the faint outline of the next continent—a distant shadow against the sky.
Veylara laughed softly. "Does it bother you, Noctis? That they won't talk about him? Or is it because you can't stop thinking about it yourself?"
I didn't respond.
Because she was right.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Rowan's face—the way he'd looked during quiet moments around the camp, sitting in silence, sharpening his blades, always watching.
But now…
I wondered if he'd ever really been there at all.
The others tried to fill the space with meaningless chatter.
Lucian was the first to break the fragile quiet on the second day. "You know," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow, "I really miss having a carriage. My feet are going to stage a rebellion soon."
Callen snorted. "You'd still be complaining even if we had one."
Lucian grinned, his usual charm a little more forced than usual. "Yeah, but at least I'd be complaining while sitting down."
Alaria didn't laugh. She just walked ahead, her gaze locked on nothing, her daggers tucked away but her fingers always twitching, like she didn't know what to do without a fight.
Elaris stayed close to me, her silence heavier than the others'. Every so often, she'd glance at me, like she wanted to say something—but the words never came.
Because we both knew.
They weren't just mourning Rowan.
They were afraid.
Afraid of what he'd really been.
Afraid of what that meant for the rest of us.
Afraid of what it meant for me.
On the third night, as the fire crackled low and the desert wind whispered around us, Veylara's voice came again, softer this time.
"You know, I rather liked her."
I didn't answer.
"Velka."
The name sent a chill down my spine.
"There's something beautiful about gods pretending to be mortal, isn't there? So fragile. So… desperate to be loved." She sighed dramatically. "I wonder how long she watched you before she decided to play her little game."
I clenched my fists, staring into the fire.
"You interest her, you know."
I closed my eyes. "Shut up."
No one heard me.
Or if they did, they didn't say anything.
On the fourth day, the sands finally gave way to the rocky cliffs that marked the edge of Azareth.
Ahead of us, across the narrow sea, lay the next continent—its jagged mountains rising like teeth against the sky.
The wind carried the faint scent of salt and something colder.
But even with a new land in front of us, even with the promise of new battles, new answers—
Rowan's absence was still there.
Like a shadow that refused to fade.
And Veylara's voice was still in my head.
Waiting.
Watching.
Whispering.
The shoreline was jagged, dark cliffs crumbling into restless waves below. The sea stretched out like a vein of liquid glass, dark and endless, reflecting a sky bruised with shades of purple and gray as dusk crept over the horizon.
We stood there for a long time—no one speaking, the salty breeze brushing against sweat-soaked skin, mingling with the faint scent of dust and blood we hadn't washed away since Azareth.
The next continent lay just across that narrow stretch of sea, its outline sharp against the fading light. Vaelor.
The Icy Peaks.
A land colder than anything we'd faced, carved from glaciers and jagged stone, where the wind itself could kill as easily as a blade.
Lucian let out a long, slow breath, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. "I don't suppose there's a nice little tavern waiting for us on the other side?"
Callen huffed, adjusting the battered shield strapped to his back. "Yeah. Maybe one run by friendly frost giants with a 'no murder' policy."
Alaria didn't laugh. She just kept walking, her crimson hair whipping around her face as the wind picked up. She hadn't smiled in days—not really. Not since—
No one mentioned Rowan.
But his absence followed us like a shadow stitched to our heels.
Elaris lingered beside me, her gaze distant, her fingers brushing the edge of the pendant she always wore around her neck. I could feel her wanting to speak, the weight of words gathering like storm clouds behind her lips.
But she didn't say anything.
No one did.
Except for her.
"Still pretending he never existed, hmm?" Veylara's voice coiled around the edges of my mind, smooth and velvet-soft, like silk wrapping around a blade. "How fragile they are. If they don't speak his name, perhaps they think it will hurt less."
I clenched my jaw, my fingers twitching with the familiar sting of Rift energy buried beneath my skin.
"But not you," she whispered, her voice soft, almost tender. "You remember him. You feel the gap he left, even if you don't say it out loud. That's the difference between you and them, Noctis. You can't lie to yourself."
I exhaled sharply, trying to push her voice to the back of my mind, but it stayed there—like an echo trapped in the hollows of my thoughts.
We reached the edge of a rocky outcrop where a narrow, rickety dock jutted out into the water. A single, weathered boat was tied to it, its hull scarred and faded, but seaworthy enough to carry us across.
Lucian grunted as he threw his pack down. "Well, it's not much, but it floats. That's all I care about."
Callen moved past him, testing the boat with a hard stomp. It groaned but held. "Barely."
Alaria didn't stop. She just stepped onto the dock without hesitation, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains, as if something out there was calling her, pulling her forward.
Elaris hesitated beside me. I could feel her glance, the unspoken words pressing against her tongue, but she swallowed them like she had for days now.
Until finally—
"Noctis," she whispered.
I turned slightly, meeting her eyes—those familiar lavender eyes, filled with things she'd been trying to bury since the dunes of Azareth.
She hesitated, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest second. "When we cross…" she started, then stopped, shaking her head. "Never mind."
But I knew what she was going to say.
She was going to ask if I was still me.
And I didn't know how to answer.
"Oh, she feels it too," Veylara murmured in the back of my mind. "She knows I'm still here, wrapped around your soul like a lover's embrace. Does that scare her, I wonder? Knowing she shares you with me?"
I shoved her voice aside, focusing on the cold wind, the smell of salt and ice ahead.
Lucian was already untying the ropes, Callen loading supplies onto the boat, and Alaria was perched at the bow, her eyes sharp, distant.
We climbed aboard in silence, the wood creaking beneath our weight, and soon we were adrift, the shoreline shrinking behind us as the sea carried us toward the next chapter—Vaelor's Icy Peaks.
The waves rocked us gently at first, but the deeper we went, the colder the wind grew, carrying whispers that didn't belong to the living.
And through it all, Veylara remained.
"You're getting closer, Noctis," she whispered softly. "Closer to the truth… to me. But tell me—when you finally find what you're looking for, will you still recognize yourself?"
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't sure I would.