"…Who are you?" Ralme asked, voice cautious.
Fedran glanced over his shoulder, calm again. The madness was gone, buried—for now.
"I thought you'd go for one of the classics," he said with a dry scoff. "'What are you?' That kind of thing."
Ralme didn't flinch. He wasn't entertained.
He bent down, retrieved his sword from the mud, and raised it again—pointed not directly at Fedran, but close enough to make a point.
"I'm not here to play Asepha's games. Or yours," Ralme said, his voice like ice. "And I'm not here to make friends. Who. Are. You?"
Fedran didn't move. His gaze sharpened, but he showed no fear.
"I'm not here to be your enemy either," he said flatly. "So how about you shut your trap and stop acting like I'm one of your toy soldiers? Watch your fucking tone, boss."
The silence stretched between them—tense, but grounded. Fedran's words sank in.
Ralme held his stare for another moment…
Then within an instant, he turned around.
With a swift slash he beheaded both of the Mayfrost soldiers.
Then slowly lowered his sword, swiped off the blood, and slid it back into its sheath.
"Under better circumstances," Ralme said, "I'd have a lot of fucking questions about what I just saw. But right now, I need to find my sister. She must be close. Asepha used her body—she has to be alive."
Fedran nodded. He took a few slow steps toward Ralme, not in challenge, but solidarity. A quiet gesture of alliance.
"Fedran," he said, walking beside him now.
Ralme tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, appraising him.
"My name is Fedran," he repeated. "I'm from Murke."
Ralme nodded once. Quietly. Firmly.
They walked in silence, but no longer alone.
Through the murky path, one slow step at a time.
Ralme walked slightly ahead, eyes sharp, nostrils flaring as he tried to catch any trace—any familiar scent in the damp, sour air. Every few steps, he called out.
"Arya!"
No answer.
Fedran followed closely, eyes narrowed, scanning both sides of the path. The forest pressed in from all directions—wet, silent, heavy. Tension clung to their skin like sweat.
Somewhere nearby, beneath layers of earth and stone, Arya lay chained in the crypt.
Her body was cold, naked, and broken from stillness. Her lips trembled. Her breath was shallow.
She heard it—faint but real. A voice. His voice.
Her brother was calling for her.
Her heart surged, but her body betrayed her. She couldn't move. Couldn't even lift her head. Her throat locked, choked by the sudden cry rising from within.
She gasped, drowning in her own tears.
With all the strength she had left—all the fury, all the fear, all the hope she refused to abandon—she drew in a single, jagged breath and let it tear out of her.
"RALMEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
Her scream ripped through the darkness like fire.