Thojin had never been this far from the inner corridors of Drellhok. Even the ash felt thinner here, the scent of rot less suffocating. Buildings leaned like broken teeth around him, some etched with long-forgotten marks. Others had holes in their walls where stained-glass saints once watched.
He moved slowly, brushing one hand against a crumbled stone, the other clutching the hilt of Seren's dagger. The symbol he'd carved into his arm before still throbbed faintly—not with pain, but presence. It reminded him not of magic, but of memory. Of her.
He turned a corner and found what looked like an abandoned plaza. A fountain stood at its center, cracked open like a ribcage. Water still trickled from its mouth, murky and unnaturally dark. Around the edges of the stone basin, someone—no, many—had scratched names. Rebel names.
His breath caught when he saw hers. Seren. Faint but visible. It looked older than the others. Did she come here before?
He stepped closer and traced her name with his fingers. The symbol in his arm flared, just once. He looked down, expecting blood. None. But the skin felt warmer. A presence pulsed beneath.
Something moved in the shadow across the square.
Thojin turned, gripping the dagger tighter. A figure stood near the broken arch of a collapsed chapel. Wrapped in layered cloth, face half-covered. Their hands were bare, old, and stained with something not quite dirty.
"You carry it still," the figure said. The voice was dry, low, old voice. "That mark... It clings."
Thojin didn't lower the blade. "Who are you?"
The figure tilted their head slightly. "Ita's not who I am that matters. It's who she was."
His grip tightened. "You knew Seren?"
The figure didn't answer. Instead, they stepped aside, revealing the wall behind them. A pattern had been painted there—faint, hidden under layers of soot and age—but recognizable. The same seven-lined shape he'd carved into his own flesh.
"You think you made it," the figure said. "But the wound remembers before you do."
Thojin stared. The edges of his vision began to narrow, like the world was holding its breath. The air around him shimmered faintly, like heat rising off stone—but the wind was cold.
"Why do I feel this?" he asked. "Why here?"
"Because some voices echo louder than death," the stranger said, then leaned in. "And hers never stopped."
Thojin took a step back. "What are you saying?"
"I'm not saying anything," the figure said, already turning away. "But she left more than you think. And others will come to claim it."
"Wait—"
But the alley was empty.
He stood alone beneath a sky choked with fading ash. The wall still bore the sign. The air still held her name. And inside his arm, the mark pulsed again—once. Then quiet.
He looked to the horizon beyond the ruins. Something had changed. He didn't know what. But the next step felt heavier. Like it might break something. Or unlock it.
He adjusted his cloak, tucked the dagger close, and kept walking. Toward the edge of everything he thought he knew.
He moved through corridors of ruin, where the bones of the city jutted out like broken fingers. The deeper he went, the less familiar things became — walls half-melted, streets twisting into slopes that made no sense. It was like Drellhok was shedding its skin.
The mark on his arm remained quiet. But his thoughts didn't.
She left more than you think…
What did that mean? Was the mark really hers? Had she known what was coming? Had she wanted him to find it?
He passed what looked like an old checkpoint — scorched gateposts, banners burned to black. The emblem above the arch had been scratched out, but he could still make out part of it. A circle split into seven shards. He didn't know the symbol, but it made his stomach tighten.
Something about this place felt older than the city itself.
At the edge of the checkpoint, a structure stood half-buried in collapsed stone. Not a building. A bunker. He hesitated. Then moved closer.
Inside, it was dark and cold. Dust swirled in slow spirals. His footsteps echoed too loudly. But something on the far wall caught his eye.
A map. Faded. Covered in ash, but still legible. Paths. Tunnels. A network beneath the city he never knew existed. At the center: a mark. Circular. Not the same as his — but close.
Then, carved into the metal beside it, words:
"Those who remember cannot stay. Those who search must bleed."
He traced the words with his fingers. Then he looked at his arm again.
The mark wasn't glowing.
But somehow, it felt… aware.
He swallowed hard.
And kept going.