During the three months I was unconscious, time didn't exist—no sun, no moon, no heartbeat, no sense of rising or falling. Only a still, suffocating darkness.
But during the week since I woke, time returned.
Every hour announced itself in the soreness of my ribs, the stiffness in my legs, the dull ache beneath the bandages across my torso. Every breath reminded me that I was alive, and that being battle came with a price.
Still… I preferred pain over the silence of the coma.
At least pain meant I could move.
I made my way through the Alderra medical facility, my steps careful but steady. The corridors here were impossibly clean—smooth white stone walls, polished floors, and tall arched windows that bathed everything in moonlight. Soft blue lanterns floated freely along the ceiling like drifting stars.
Alderra didn't feel real.
Or maybe it felt too real.
After everything that happened in Evervale—after the Hunt, the chaos, the screaming, the Imgrel—I had almost forgotten what peace sounded like.
My boots clicked lightly as I crossed the final corridor and stepped into the courtyard.
The air shifted instantly.
Cool. Calm. Pure.
The courtyard was small but beautiful—encircled by high stone walls and capped by a transparent dome that revealed the night sky above. A round fountain poured softly at its center, sending ripples of shimmering water across its surface. White benches lined the edges of the garden, tucked beneath trees with pale blue leaves that glowed faintly in the dark.
I breathed in slowly and felt tension unravel in my chest.
This place felt safe.
I followed the stone path to my usual bench beside the fountain and lowered myself onto it with a careful exhale. The moment I sat, my ribs protested—sharp enough to draw a breath from my teeth but dull enough that I could endure it.
My fingers brushed the bench's wooden surface as I leaned back and tilted my head toward the sky.
The moon looked enormous in Alderra—close enough you might imagine climbing one of the higher towers and brushing its surface with your fingertips. Soft, blue-white light fell through the dome, washing the garden in a gentle glow.
Like everything above the fifth layer was designed to be soft.
My eyes traced the rim of the dome, then the faint shimmering distortion above it—the gate between layers. Even when inactive, it pulsed faintly, a reminder of how this world was built.
Five layers. Five worlds. Stacked vertically like broken slabs patched together after a catastrophic event.
A thousand years ago, the stories say, the universe fought itself. Not a war between nations or kingdoms—something bigger, something cosmic, something that burned through worlds and left only fragments behind. The layers were formed in the aftermath, stabilized by forces long gone.
I believed those stories.
Everyone did.
Still… even with a thousand years of study, no one understood exactly how the layers worked. Or how the gates decided what passed and what didn't.
But one thing was certain:
People did not fall down the layers.
You didn't accidentally slip from the 3rd to the 5th. You didn't wander through a crack in the world. Those passages were closed, locked by physics and whatever remnants of the ancient war still held everything together.
And yet…
Isabella ended up in Evervale.
A girl from the 3rd layer.
Alone.
I frowned without meaning to.
How could she have fallen?
Before the thought could spiral deeper—
"Dagian!!"
Her voice cracked through the calm like a spark catching dry leaves.
I turned just in time to see a small blur of pale hair and flailing limbs careening across the courtyard. Isabella ran with all the restraint of a child sprinting toward something shiny—arms swinging wildly, coat flapping behind her, boots slapping loudly against the stone.
She nearly tripped twice. She did not slow down either time.
By the time she reached the bench, her cheeks were flushed and her breathing uneven, but her smile was so bright it nearly outshone the moonlight.
"I brought food!" she announced, thrusting a paper bag upward like she had stolen treasure from the gods.
I raised an eyebrow. "You always bring food."
"Yes, but this is different." She shook the bag urgently, like I wasn't grasping the importance. "Mari showed me which stall to go to! She said it's the best in all of Alderra. And if healers eat there, it has to be good."
Before I could respond, she plopped onto the bench beside me and tore the bag open.
A warm, sweet smell drifted out immediately.
Bread still soft from baking. Roasted vegetables seasoned with herbs. A round pastry dusted with something golden and crystalline.
She handed me the pastry before I could refuse.
I took a bite.
She watched me eagerly.
"…It's good," I admitted.
Her entire face lit up. "I knew you'd like it! The food here is so great! Like on the 3rd layer we had fancy meals sometimes, but they were always tiny. You'd pay a bunch of money, and then you'd still be hungry afterwards."
She spoke between bites, her legs swinging rhythmically as she ate.
I found myself relaxing without meaning to.
We ate quietly for a minute, just listening to the fountain and the faint wind outside the dome.
Then Isabella swallowed and sat up straighter, eyes widening.
"Oh! Dagian—can you summon Vireth now?"
The question cut deeper than my injuries.
My hand stilled around the pastry.
I looked down at my fingers—scarred, bandaged, slightly trembling.
I tried—again—to feel for the connection that had always been there.
A thread of energy. A bond. A weight. A presence just beneath my ribs.
Nothing.
Just emptiness.
"…Not yet," I said quietly.
Isabella blinked, the smile fading from her lips.
"What do you mean? Vireth's always with you."
"My pathways were damaged in the Hunt," I explained softly. "When the Imgrel hit me… everything inside snapped. The healers think my bond with Vireth was disrupted."
Her eyes widened with horror.
"D-Disrupted?? Like… gone??"
"Not gone," I corrected. "Just… out of reach. Until my body recovers."
"How long will that take?"
"A few more weeks," I said. "If everything goes well."
She looked down at her shoes, her shoulders shrinking.
"Vireth is part of you," she whispered. "I don't like when parts of you break."
Before I could respond, she suddenly perked up—like a match suddenly reignited.
"Oh! Oh! Then I'll show you something to cheer you up!"
She straightened her back, thrust her hands forward dramatically, and concentrated.
A soft hum filled the air.
Then—
Golden light burst to life around her arms.
Her power lit up the courtyard like captured sunlight, shimmering and swirling, clinging to her skin in delicate lines that pulsed with every heartbeat. The glow reflected in her eyes, giving her a warm, otherworldly look.
"Watch this!" she said proudly.
She wiggled her fingers. The light rippled.
She puffed her cheeks, trying to intensify the glow. The light sputtered.
She crossed her eyes and scrunched her face dramatically. The light spiraled upward in small golden wisps.
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped me.
She brightened immediately. "See?? You laughed! That means it's working!"
Her power radiated warmth—not physical warmth, but an emotional one. A sense of life.
"Dagiaaan!" she snapped.
I blinked. She was pouting again.
"You're doing the thinking thing! Stop thinking when I'm glowing! Look at my glow!"
"I am looking," I said calmly.
"No you're not! Your brain is like… fifteen miles away!"
"Sixteen," I corrected.
She puffed her cheeks harder. "See?? That's exactly what I mean!"
Her glow flickered.
Then faded.
She crossed her arms dramatically.
"You're impossible sometimes."
"And you're loud," I said.
She grinned.
Before she could respond, footsteps echoed across the courtyard.
Slow. Steady. Intentional.
Isabella froze beside me.
I turned.
A tall man stepped through the archway—coat long and black, hat in one hand, cane in the other.
Nairix Serath.
I stood—slow, careful, ignoring my ribs' protest.
"I'll be right back," I murmured to Isabella.
She nodded slowly, eyes wide.
I walked toward Nairix, who stopped a respectful distance away, his expression calm and unreadable.
"Is it time?" I asked.
He lifted his chin, removed his hat, and held it against his chest.
"It is," he said softly. "They want to see you."
My breath hitched.
"…They?"
Nairix's gaze held mine.
"The Ranks."
The words hit harder than any wound.
Behind me, I heard Isabella gasp.
Nairix stepped aside slightly, gesturing down the moonlit path deeper into Alderra.
"Come, Dagian," he said quietly. "Your audience awaits."
**
Alderra at night looked nothing like Evervale.
Where Evervale groaned under age and neglect, Alderra thrived. Its streets were washed clean every morning, its lanterns replaced before they dimmed, its walls repaired before cracks could spread. It was a world preserved—tended like a sacred garden in the sky.
I walked beside Nairix through one of Alderra's upper districts, where the streets wound like veins beneath the pale-blue moon. Lanterns shaped like flowering vines lined the roads, their petals curled around glowing bulbs of ether. Trees grew in precise intervals—just wild enough to look natural, just manicured enough to prove someone checked on them daily.
The air was cool. Crisp. Lightly perfumed by flowers whose names I didn't know.
Alderra didn't smell like smoke.
Or sweat.
Or iron.
Or blood.
My chest tightened with the unfamiliarity of it.
"You've healed quickly," Nairix said as we walked, tapping his cane lightly against the cobblestone. "Far quicker than anticipated."
I kept my eyes forward. "It's Hunters have good healing factors."
"Oh trust me I know," he replied. "Just compared to other hunters, yours is exceptional."
"Or maybe their healing is just weaker."
Nairix breathed a soft laugh through his nose. "You remind me of someone I once knew."
I didn't ask who.
We reached a small plaza framed by narrow homes with curved rooftops and iron-framed windows. Their shutters were painted in deep blues and greens, matching the luminescent leaves of the nearby trees. A fountain poured from a sculpted stone wolf, its water illuminated from below.
People walked the plaza—hunters in uniform coats, civilians in layered clothing, medicine runners carrying satchels.
"You aren't used to quiet," Nairix observed.
"Quiet makes me suspicious."
"That's because you forget what normal sounds like."
I didn't respond. Maybe because I wasn't sure I disagreed. Or maybe because "normal" hadn't applied to me for a long time.
As we crossed the plaza, a pair of hunters passed us. Their boots echoed softly in the stone yard. One of them glanced at me—really looked—before whispering something to the other. I caught:
"…the Imgrel boy…"
"…he actually injured it…"
"…thought he'd died…"
I lowered my gaze slightly.
Whispers followed me too easily these days.
Nairix must have noticed because he said, "Attention is the natural cost of survival when survival wasn't expected."
"Yeah well, I'm not a big fan of attention."
That got a laugh out of him, "You wounded an Imgrel, get used to it."
Nairix tilted his head and looked back at me. "After all you proved something that night, anything that bleeds can die."
We kept walking.
The plaza ended, giving way to a long street that curved uphill. The buildings here grew more intricate—arched doors, statues built into the walls, overhanging balconies shaped like cages of metal vines. Moonlight dripped down the rooftops like water.
As we walked, I felt the weight of everything Nairix wasn't saying.
He had been quiet so far—too quiet. His cane tapped rhythmically in the silence, but his steps were measured with a purpose that felt heavier than the calm he wore.
"You wanted to speak about something else," I said quietly.
"I did."
Silence followed as we continued walking. I felt my mind clawing back at when I first met Nairix.
**
1 Week Ago
"What did you just say?" I repeat, quieter this time, like the volume might change the truth.
The man's smile doesn't fade.
"I said I'm a friend of your father."
My mind scrambles to process it, but my body is ahead of me. My shoulders tense. My fingers curl under the blanket. My eyes sharpen, looking for the shape of danger in him.
A friend.
That word doesn't make sense.
People who knew my father don't stroll into medical rooms with polite smiles.
I force my voice steady.
"And I'm supposed to believe that."
He chuckles softly.
"You don't have to believe anything," he says. "Belief is a luxury. I'm offering you information."
"I didn't ask for information."
"No," he agrees. "But your world has changed. And whether you asked or not, there are things you need to know."
I stare at him for a long second.
He glances at the chair beside my bed, then looks back at me as if asking permission.
I don't give it.
He sits anyway, smooth and unbothered.
Up close, he smells faintly of something dry and expensive—old paper, polished leather, and cold night air. His coat doesn't crease when he sits. His cane rests across his knees like a prop in a story he's already read.
I keep my gaze fixed on him.
"You're on your guard," he observes.
"Should I not be."
"Perhaps you should," he says, voice even. "But not because of me."
"That's a nice line."
He smiles again. "Not a line. Just the truth."
I wait for him to continue.
He does, but slowly. Deliberately. Like he's choosing the right order to place each word.
"I'm not a foe," he says. "I didn't come here to threaten you or take anything from you. I came here because I was asked to deliver something."
I don't respond.
He shifts his coat slightly and reaches into the inner pocket.
My muscles tighten reflexively.
He notices, of course.
"Relax," he says. "If I wanted to kill you, Dagian, I wouldn't have waited until you woke up."
I glare at him.
"That isn't comforting."
"It isn't meant to be," he replies, unbothered.
His hand emerges holding two things.
The first is small—thin and crimson, like a polished rod no longer than my finger. Its surface catches the light strangely, as if it's absorbing it rather than reflecting it. There are markings along it—tiny lines that almost look like writing, but the longer I look, the less my eyes can settle on them.
The second thing is an envelope.
Plain. Clean.
Too ordinary for the way my stomach tightens at the sight of it.
Nairix holds both up calmly.
"A gift," he says, lifting the crimson rod slightly. "And a note."
My throat tightens again.
I let out a short breath, almost a laugh, except there's no humor in it.
"A note," I repeat.
"Yes."
I stare at the envelope like it might bite.
I don't think I've ever received anything from my father in my life.
Not a letter. Not a message. Not a hand on the shoulder.
Nothing.
The fact that something exists now doesn't feel like comfort.
It feels like insult.
I keep my voice flat.
"And you were 'sent' to deliver this."
Nairix's smile softens—just a fraction.
"Not sent," he corrects gently. "Asked."
"That's the same thing."
"It isn't," he says. "But I don't think that distinction matters to you right now."
It doesn't.
"What is the gift," I ask, nodding at the rod.
He rotates it between his fingers. It looks weightless in his hand.
"This," he says, "is something your father wanted you to have."
I don't reach for it.
"And the note?"
Nairix holds it out.
"Also from him."
For a moment, I can't speak. My jaw tightens too hard.
Then I finally say, "If he told you to give me a note, then tell him I don't care."
Nairix doesn't react like he's offended. He reacts like he expected it.
"I won't take that personally," he says.
"I'm not trying to insult you."
"Good," he replies. "Because I'm not the one who needs insulting."
I stare at him, expression hard.
He continues, voice calm.
"You don't have to read it now. You don't have to read it ever. But I was told to deliver it, so I will."
He places the envelope down gently on the bedside table, right within my reach.
The movement is controlled, respectful.
Then he lifts the crimson rod again.
"And this?"
I keep my gaze on it.
"What about it."
He holds it out toward me, palm open.
"Take it."
I don't move.
Nairix's smile returns—small, patient.
"You're thinking I'll tell you to swallow it," he says.
I blink once, slow.
"That was going to be my next assumption."
"Then you've met too many people who enjoy dramatic orders," he replies. "No. I'm not telling you to consume it."
I narrow my eyes.
" So what are you telling me."
Nairix's tone becomes slightly more serious.
"Hold it close," he says. "Keep it with you. It will activate when it's needed."
I stare at him.
"…Activate."
"Yes."
"That's vague."
"It's meant to be," he says. "Your father didn't want this explained in full. He wanted you to have it first. The rest comes when the time is right."
I let out a small breath through my nose.
"And you're just okay with speaking in riddles."
"I'm okay with following instructions," he replies.
The rod is still held out in his open palm.
I finally reach out, slow, and take it.
The moment my skin touches it, warmth spreads up my fingers.
Not burning. Not painful.
Just… alive.
Like something recognizing me.
My breath catches despite myself, and I hate that it does.
I close my hand around it tightly.
"What is it," I ask quietly.
Nairix watches my reaction without pressing.
"A gift," he says again. "For now, that's all you need to call it."
I glance toward the envelope on the table.
Then away.
I don't want to touch it. I don't want to read it. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing his words reached me.
My fingers loosen slightly and I set the envelope aside, pushing it away like it's nothing.
Nairix doesn't comment. He shifts slightly in the chair.
"So," he says, voice turning lighter. "How does it feel to be awake."
I snort.
"Terrible."
"That's honest."
"My ribs feel like they're cracked in six places."
"They were."
I glance at him sharply.
"…How would you know that."
He smiles faintly. "Because I asked."
"That's not an answer."
"It is," he replies. "Just not a satisfying one."
I study his face.
"Why are you really here," I ask.
He doesn't hesitate.
"Because after the Imgrel appeared," he says, "your world shifted. Evervale suffered catastrophic loss."
I stare at him.
"How much."
Nairix's voice is quiet, careful.
"Thirty-two percent."
The number doesn't land at first.
Then my chest tightens.
Thirty-two percent.
Nearly one out of every three people.
A third of the district.
Gone.
My grip tightens around the crimson rod without me thinking.
My throat feels dry again.
"…That's not possible," I say quietly, but there's no conviction in it.
"It is," Nairix replies. "The Imgrel's attack devastated multiple districts. The safe haven held, but outside it…" He pauses. "You saw what it did. You know what it was capable of."
I swallow hard, my mind flashing to black beams carving through buildings like paper. To screams. To rubble.
To the sensation of the sky splitting.
"And now," Nairix continues, "Alderra is being used as temporary shelter."
I blink slowly.
"Alderra."
"Yes."
My voice comes out quiet.
"So people from Evervale are here."
"Many," he confirms. "More arriving each day. The gates are open. The facility you're in has been preparing for weeks."
I stare at him, chest tightening again.
"My mother," I say, the words instinctive.
Nairix nods.
"Your mother and Isabella are fine."
The relief hits fast, sharp enough that my eyes sting for a moment. I hate that too.
Isabella is fine.
My mother is fine.
I breathe out slowly, trying to steady my pulse.
"…Where are they."
"Safe," he says. "Although I was tempted to take the girl back to the Third Layer."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
Then my mind catches up.
I narrow my eyes slightly.
"Wait." My voice sharpens a fraction. "You said 'Isabella.'"
Nairix's smile returns.
"Yes."
I sit up a little straighter, ignoring the stab of pain it causes.
"How do you know about her."
He doesn't look surprised by my suspicion. If anything, he looks amused.
"I know a lot about what happens in Evervale," he says calmly.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you get right now."
My grip tightens on the blanket.
"No one knows she's from the Third Layer," I say quietly. "No one. Not the hunters. Not the officials."
"Like I said, I know a lot." Nairix says gently.
My jaw tightens.
Nairix watches me for a long moment.
"You did well keeping her hidden," he says.
My eyes harden.
"How."
He smiles faintly.
"You're still on guard," he notes.
"Answer."
He tilts his head.
"Let's call it… professional curiosity," he says. "And access."
"To what."
"To information," he replies smoothly. "To reports. To records. To people who speak when they shouldn't."
I stare at him, the suspicion in my chest sharpening again.
"You work for the Ranked King," I say quietly.
Nairix's smile widens just slightly.
"I work with many people."
"That's not denial."
"It's not confirmation either."
My ribs ache as I shift.
"And if you know about Isabella," I say slowly, "then someone else could know."
Nairix's expression softens—subtly.
"Not yet," he says. "You've kept her safer than you realize. The chaos of the Hunt buried many details. And I have… ensured certain things remain quiet."
That makes my stomach twist.
"You ensured," I repeat.
He spreads one hand, casual.
"I'm not your enemy, Dagian," he says again. "If I were, I wouldn't be telling you this."
I stare at him.
There's a pause.
Then Nairix stands.
He adjusts his coat, then taps his cane lightly once against the floor.
"I should let you rest," he says. "The healers will complain if you're overworked, and I'd rather not argue with them again."
I watch him, wary.
"You're leaving."
"For now."
He steps toward the door, then pauses.
"I'll be keeping in touch," he says. "And I'll come by again soon. There are things we need to speak about that… require you to be more awake than you are right now."
I glance at the envelope on the bedside table.
He notices.
His voice stays gentle.
"You'll read it when you're ready," he says. "Or you won't. Either way, the decision will be yours."
He turns toward the door.
Then, as if remembering something, he adds over his shoulder:
"Keep that rod close."
I glance down at it in my hand.
"What happens if it activates."
Nairix smiles, "Then you'll be glad you didn't throw it away."
**
The memory loosens its grip on me as we keep walking.
Alderra's streets slide back into focus—clean stone beneath my boots, the faint glow of lanterns overhead. Nairix walks beside me with the same unhurried pace, his cane tapping lightly against the ground.
We don't speak for a while.
The road curves upward, gradually narrowing, and the architecture around us shifts. The buildings lose their warmth, their curves. Stone grows darker. Edges sharpen. The greenery thins, replaced by black iron railings and towering pillars carved with symbols I don't recognize.
Ahead, the street opens into a massive courtyard. The cathedral rises from the stone like a monolith carved from night.
Its walls are black, not dull but deep, swallowing moonlight instead of reflecting it. Tall spires claw upward, disappearing into the dark sky above, each one etched with faint silver lines that glow softly, like veins beneath stone. Massive stained-glass windows line the sides, their colors muted and somber—crimson, gold, and a pale, ghostly blue.
It doesn't feel like a place of worship. Instead, a place of judgment.
Dozens of figures stand motionless along the path leading to the entrance.
Eidolon Knights.
Their armor is obsidian-black, polished to a mirror sheen, seamless and imposing. Their helmets are smooth and faceless, marked only by a thin vertical line where a face should be. Long spears rest against the ground before them, blades faintly glowing with restrained power.
They do not move as we approach.
My shoulders tense.
Nairix slows beside me.
"This is as far as casual conversation goes," he says quietly.
I don't look at him. "I figured."
He stops walking. I take one more step before realizing it and stop too, turning back slightly.
Nairix adjusts his coat, then rests both hands on the head of his cane.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
I inhale slowly.
Am I ready?
To be honest, I wasn't sure.
I don't understand why I survived the Red Moon.
I don't understand why the world bent, even for a moment, when I raised my weapon against something that should have crushed me without effort.
And I don't understand why I'm here now.
I nod once.
Nairix's mouth curves into a faint smile—not proud, not pleased. Just… knowing.
"Good," he says. "Then go."
I step forward.
The Eidolon Knights do not turn their heads, but as I walk between them, the pressure intensifies. It crawls across my skin, slides along my spine, presses into my chest.
I keep walking.
The massive doors of the cathedral loom ahead, carved with overlapping symbols—crowns, blades, fractured circles. The stone beneath my feet feels colder here, as if it remembers things the rest of the city has forgotten.
And then I see them.
Three silhouettes stand before the doors.
Their forms are indistinct in the shadow of the cathedral, but their presence is unmistakable. Each one radiates a quiet gravity that pulls at the air around them, bending it slightly inward.
I slow my steps.
I don't understand how I ended up here.
I don't understand the power I felt.
But I know this—
Nothing that happened was an accident.
I take one final breath, steadying myself, and step toward the waiting silhouettes.
And under my breath, so quietly that only I can hear it, I murmur,
"I'll be seeing you soon, Father."