The road beyond Greyhaven was narrower than Lyra expected, more a suggestion of passage than a true path. It twisted through low hills and long stretches of grass that whispered as the wind passed through them. With every step away from the village, the weight in her chest grew heavier—not with regret, but with awareness. She was no longer simply leaving home. She was crossing into something unnamed.
Kael walked a few paces ahead of her, his stride steady and practiced, as though he had walked this road many times before—even if not this exact one. He said little, but his silence did not feel dismissive. It felt deliberate, like a man accustomed to listening more than speaking.
Lyra broke the quiet. "You said the Name draws attention."
Kael slowed. "Yes."
"How long before someone—or something—comes looking?"
He glanced back at her, measuring. "Sooner than you'd like. Later than you fear. Fate enjoys suspense."
She huffed softly despite herself. "That's not reassuring."
"No," he agreed. "But it's honest."
They walked on. As the sun dipped lower, shadows stretched across the land, deepening the colors of stone and sky. Lyra's wrist tingled faintly, the mark responding to something unseen.
"What is it doing?" she asked, rubbing the spot.
"Listening," Kael replied. "The Name binds you to the old currents. Places of power will recognize you."
That explanation unsettled her more than danger ever could. Being seen by monsters was one thing. Being recognized by the world itself was another.
They reached an ancient waystone just as dusk bled into night. It stood alone at the crest of a hill, cracked and worn, etched with carvings too eroded to read. Lyra felt it before she understood it—a pull, gentle but insistent.
Kael cursed under his breath. "We should not camp here."
"But this is where the road stops," Lyra said.
"For mortals, yes." He studied the stone. "Not for what's buried beneath."
Before she could ask, the mark on her wrist flared hot.
The ground trembled.
A low sound rose from the earth, like stone grinding against stone. The waystone split open, ancient blood seeping from its cracks—dark, shimmering, alive.
Lyra stumbled back. "What did I do?"
"You woke it," Kael said, drawing his blade. "By existing."
The earth ruptured, and something emerged—not fully formed, not fully dead. A guardian of forgotten vows, bound long ago to protect a god who no longer answered prayers.
Its voice echoed inside Lyra's skull.
Name the forgotten, or bleed.
Fear froze her limbs. Kael moved instantly, placing himself between her and the creature, his stance sure despite the terror in his eyes.
"Don't speak to it," he warned her. "It feeds on Names."
"But it's talking to me," Lyra whispered.
"That's worse."
The creature lunged.
Kael met it with steel and fire. Power surged from his blood, igniting runes along his arms as he struck. The air cracked with force, and Lyra watched in awe and horror as myth collided with flesh.
She felt useless—until the voice spoke again, softer now.
You remember us.
"I don't!" she cried. "I don't even know who you are!"
The mark burned, and suddenly images flooded her mind: a god kneeling, wounded; a vow sealed in blood; a promise abandoned when belief died.
Lyra raised her shaking hand. "I remember the promise," she said, though the words were not hers alone. "But I won't renew it."
The creature screamed—not in rage, but in release. Its form crumbled into dust, sinking back into the stone.
Silence fell.
Kael stared at her, breathing hard. "You spoke without giving your Name."
"I didn't know I could," she said, just as shaken. "It felt… right."
He sheathed his sword slowly. "You're not just marked," he said. "You're being shaped."
The realization settled between them, heavy and intimate. Kael looked at her not as a burden now—but as a force.
As they made camp under the stars, Lyra realized something had shifted. She was no longer a passenger in this story.
And Kael—warrior, bearer of divine blood, reluctant guide—was no longer just protecting her.
He was afraid of what she might become.