I wake to emptiness. In my mind, I still hear Lira's silent cry as she fell. I taste Sov's fading breath on my own lips. I feel Branvel's last spark of fire snuffed out. Kett's broken threads hanging loose in the air. And the seal‑holders—gone, their runes extinguished in the Vault's heart. All gone in a heartbeat.
The morning light doesn't feel the same.
Not because it's unfamiliar—but because it is.
I sit by the shrine's cracked doorway, the ring hidden beneath my sleeve. It hums faintly against my skin—quiet, patient, watching. It knows I've done this before.
Because I have.
I remember Bereth's sneer. Marga's rasping defense. The roots. The errand to Stonefold. I remember walking that road barefoot and starving, chasing a name like it was something I had to earn.
But now I know better. That name was never something she could give me. It was always mine to take.
I rise before the village stirs. Darnem Hollow lies still under gray mist. I don't wait for Bereth's grumble or Marga's bitter herbs. I don't need them to recognize me—not anymore.
Instead, I slip into her hut silently. She isn't awake. I don't need her blessing. I place three silver coins beside her iron pot, knowing it will buy her enough to last until the next harvest—perhaps even into the winter. I lay down a small pouch of dried root bark I harvested myself, cured and clean, so that her joints might ache less with each passing day. And finally, I set down a delicate whistle carved from alder wood, hollowed so that its call carries through the hollows if she ever truly needs help.
That morning, Marga will wake to find more than payment for old favors—she will find a measure of care. I press my palm lightly against the edge of her table and whisper a vow: Your kindness will not be buried by my silence.
I turn away, leaving behind both coin and comfort, gratitude woven into every gift. Then I step outside and head not toward Stonefold's road, but down the forest paths most villagers avoid—those that frightened me before.
By noon, I'm kneeling at the roots of a sunken archway, brushing dust from stone symbols long forgotten. The ring pulses as I uncover them: curved lines, ancient letters—old power waiting. I press my palm to the center rune. The stone breathes warmth into my veins, and a hidden cache opens. Inside, gleaming steel: a blade untouched by rust, still razor-sharp. And beside it, a torn leather book, pages frayed.
I settle against the crumbled stone and read the first lines—words I couldn't comprehend five years ago, but now echo in my mind like a prayer:
"To walk unseen is not to be powerless. The quiet ones slip past death first."
By the time night falls, I have unearthed more than relics.
I have found a path I never dared before.
And this time… I will not waste it.