Laedra Linn’s cottage was silent now.


    But the silence inside was not just that of death…


    It was the echo of a night where oaths had been broken.


    Velmorian stepped over the threshold.


    The night’s chill brushed against his skin, but the cold within him ran deeper.


    Korrin followed, slinging his bag over his shoulder.


    The back door of the cottage was still ajar.


    No trace remained of which direction Nyla had gone.


    No footprints… no shadow… no sound.


    Velmorian walked for a while without looking back.


    The dirt beneath his boots slowly turned into a path laced with grass.


    “Should we try to find her?” Korrin asked softly.


    Velmorian didn’t stop.


    “No,” he said, his voice calm but resolute.


    “I made no vow to anyone. But I will never again betray my own beliefs.”


    Korrin bowed his head in silence.


    Then murmured, almost to himself:


    “Sometimes… following someone means losing your own path.”


    Velmorian was still lost in the memories he had seen through Laedra’s eyes.


    A wounded soul… broken, yet still healing others.


    He had taken a life, and yet… he didn’t feel like a murderer.


    And Nyla—she had orchestrated the kill like a game.


    “Whatever the end of this road may be,” Velmorian said,


    “I’ll reach it not by someone else’s truths... but by my own choices.”


    At the edge of the forest trail, they stepped onto the cobbled main path.


    The sky was shifting from violet to blue.


    A new day was about to begin.


    Velmorian didn’t take out the parchment.


    Not yet.


    This time… he would walk not for a name, but for a decision.


    Aldenora’s marketplace was brimming with colorful fabrics, the scent of spices, and the shouts of vendors.


    Korrin wandered between the stalls like a mischievous seagull.


    “Handmade soaps! Handmade pottery! Handmade... lies!”


    he mimicked loudly. A few vendors gave him stern looks, but couldn’t help smiling.


    Velmorian walked a few steps behind him.


    The sunlight struck his face, and the market’s hum clashed with the silence in his mind.


    Korrin stopped by a fabric stand, running his fingers along the velvet.


    “Look at this, Velmorian. If I wore this… I’d be the most stylish dropout of the Velshara Academy of Magic!”


    Velmorian allowed himself a faint smile.


    For a few seconds, a thread of peace touched his weary soul.


    But then…


    Beyond one of the stalls, he saw a silhouette.


    Her back was turned.


    Red hair danced in the light breeze.


    A green shawl draped over her shoulder.


    Her fingers were examining a piece of fabric.


    She said something to the seamstress beside her, then laughed.


    The voice was familiar. The laughter even more so.


    Velmorian’s swallow went unheard, but his throat tightened.


    Nyssara.


    Korrin kept talking, but Velmorian no longer heard him.


    A single sentence echoed in his mind:


    “I died because of her betrayal... and yet she’s still smiling.”


    As Nyssara’s hands moved over the fabric, Velmorian remembered—he once held those hands.


    But now… he was just a stranger.


    Nyssara suddenly lifted her head.


    As if she had felt a gaze.


    Her eyes scanned the crowd… but never found Velmorian.


    For a moment, time seemed to stand still.


    Then Nyssara turned back to the fabrics.


    She kept on living.


    Velmorian turned away.


    Korrin had fallen silent, watching him closely.


    "Your face... darkened all of a sudden," he said.


    Velmorian closed his eyes, and a thought rose from deep within:


    “Once, my existence was her whole world.


    Now, my absence goes unnoticed.”


    When Velmorian opened his eyes again, the market crowd was still the same.


    Colorful fabrics fluttered, spices filled the air.


    But the world inside him was quiet.


    Korrin stepped closer, his voice carrying its usual soft warmth:


    “Was it someone you knew?”


    Velmorian didn’t answer.


    But Korrin’s expression showed he already knew.


    “If I were in your shoes,” Korrin said after a brief pause, turning his face to some faraway point,


    “...I’d still walk over and say hello.


    Sometimes, final words don’t just free others—they free us too.”


    Velmorian shook his head slowly.


    “When I died, she kept on laughing with someone else.


    That’s an answer in itself, I suppose.”


    Korrin smiled, but this time, the smile held more understanding than amusement.


    “My friend... sometimes the hardest goodbyes are the ones we never get to say.”


    The two continued walking slowly.


    Velmorian didn’t look at the parchment.


    None of the names had ever written pain like this one.


    And yet, it was one of the deepest.


    As the market crowd faded behind them, Velmorian remained silent.


    Nyssara’s silhouette clung to him like a shadow on his shoulder.


    Korrin didn’t break the silence—for a while.


    But then, noticing Velmorian absentmindedly lingering beside a fabric stall,


    he rolled his eyes and let out a small chuckle.


    “All right, that’s enough,” he said.


    “We’ve reached peak emotional collapse. Time for the rebound.”


    Velmorian looked at him, not with sarcasm—just weariness.


    Korrin, however, grabbed him by the arm.


    “Follow me. You’re about to meet Aldenora’s finest tailor—and her most impatient customer.”


    “What are you doing?” Velmorian asked, offering no resistance, though wary.


    “I’m bringing some color into your life, my friend. At least enough to wear.”


    He grinned.


    “We’re finally going to challenge your eternal brown coat and shirt obsession.”


    They stepped away from the crowd and into quieter, stone-paved streets.


    Through small arched alleys, narrow passages.


    Eventually, they stopped in front of an old shop, its roof crowned with a small wind chime.


    Faded golden letters on the sign read:


    “Maerin’s Needle – Forms May Change, the Soul Remains.”


    Korrin turned to Velmorian.


    “Ready to meet a coat with a soul?”


    The door to Maerin’s shop opened with a soft chime. Inside, the scents of lavender and aged fabric mingled in the air.


    Dozens of rolled-up fabrics lined the wooden shelves.


    On the walls, half-finished garments from various eras hung silently.


    In the center stood a long cutting table and a stitching station.


    When Velmorian stepped inside, he couldn’t understand why such a humble place was said to house the city’s best tailor.


    But when he saw Maerin, his opinion shifted.


    She was old, yet spry.


    Her hair was the purest silver-gray, tied into a tight bun.


    Glasses perched at the tip of her nose, scanning each customer from head to toe with a sharp eye.


    The moment Korrin stepped in, he threw his arms open.


    “Madam! I bring you a new customer—along with a soul begging to be stitched.”


    Maerin looked up.


    First at Korrin, then at Velmorian.


    “That soul… looks like a cloud of black fog,” she said.


    Then let out a short chuckle.


    “Come in, boy. Looks like whatever you’re wearing has been thoroughly punished by your enemies.”


    Velmorian entered as if he hadn’t heard the comment.


    His eyes wandered over the fabrics, but his mind was still caught in Nyssara’s gaze—a memory of a past long lost.


    Maerin began circling him to take measurements.


    “Fighter’s build… but with graceful movements. Perhaps a sword dancer in another life, hmm?”


    Velmorian said nothing.


    Maerin stared sharply.


    “Those who carry darkness tend to stay silent. No matter… I know what to do.”


    Korrin, curled up in a corner flipping through fabrics, chimed in:


    “Don’t make it too flashy. Then again, who am I talking to—you read people’s souls.”


    Maerin paused for a beat, then nodded.


    “Someone carrying this much trouble needs solid armor.”


    She turned to Velmorian.


    “A coat the color of midnight. A shirt in pale grey, with a high collar.


    Hidden pockets sewn into the sleeves.


    An overcoat that reaches the knees, slitted on both sides for silent movement.


    No visible stitching, but inner seams woven with symbols. It will speak of you.”


    For the first time, Velmorian felt something stir inside him.


    A tailor who didn’t know him… had somehow understood him.


    He simply nodded.


    Maerin smiled. “And the dagger?”


    Velmorian flinched again.


    “We’ll make a special place for it,” she said.


    “It must rest closest to your heart. Hidden—but always within reach.”


    Korrin grinned.


    “We’re literally stitching clothes to your soul.


    Anyway, I’m off to design my own colorful disaster.”


    Maerin stood in front of Velmorian.


    “When you’re ready, you’ll wear yourself.


    Clothing isn’t always a cover. Sometimes, it’s the shape of the path you walk.”


    <hr>


    The next morning, at the break of dawn, the shop door opened again.


    Maerin stood at the ready.


    “Your outfits are done, boys. Let’s see if your souls are awake this morning.”


    Korrin burst in, excited.


    “If I can dance in it, then yes, definitely awake!”


    Maerin turned her gaze to Velmorian, studying him.


    “Your outfit… it won’t hide you. It won’t shield you from blades.


    But it will carry you.”


    Velmorian stepped behind the curtain she pointed to.


    A few minutes later, the curtain slowly drew back.


    When he stepped out in his new clothes, even the light inside the shop seemed to settle differently on him.


    A coat in deep shades of night, appearing seamless but woven inside with symbolic patterns.


    It matched the pale grey shirt beneath it.


    The overcoat draped over his shoulders moved silently with each step.


    Korrin let out a whistle.


    “Is that Velmorian? Or a shadow come to stab our eyes instead of his own heart?”


    Velmorian stared at the mirror.


    For the first time, his outward appearance matched the weight he carried inside.


    Then Korrin stepped out from his own corner.


    He wore a dark navy jacket, lined with bright yellow accents, a vest decorated with golden buttons, and slim-cut trousers.


    His boots were sharp—eye-catching, but tasteful.


    Maerin raised an eyebrow.


    “That confidence radiating off you—some of it’s thanks to the fabric.”


    Korrin admired himself in the mirror.


    “Like this, I could deceive, charm, and possibly seduce three noble lords at once.”


    Velmorian tilted his head slightly.


    “You’re already in love—with yourself.”


    Korrin winked.


    “Sometimes, that’s the only relationship that actually works.”


    As the two stepped out of the shop together, the wind of the city brushed against their new clothes.


    With each step, one of them carried the shadow of the past…


    The other, the mask of the future.


    Aldenora’s streets were bathed in midday sun.


    Moving through the shade in their new outfits, Velmorian and Korrin tried to decide where to head next.


    Korrin’s eyes locked onto a craftsman’s shop in a narrow alley.


    “Those silver brooches... don’t they look a bit too noble for their own good?”


    Velmorian was about to respond when his eyes suddenly caught a familiar silhouette in the crowd.


    Just a few steps away, a woman in a thick cloak… Nyla.


    She was walking slowly, disappearing into a side alley.


    Velmorian’s body froze instinctively.


    Korrin noticed immediately.


    “What is it?”


    “No,” Velmorian said, his gaze locked on the silhouette. “Nyla... she''s there.”


    Korrin followed his eyes at once.


    “She’s definitely walking away. But why did she run in the first place?”


    Velmorian frowned.


    “I don’t know. But she might have the answers.”


    The two of them began to follow her in silence.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Nyla moved away from the crowd and entered quieter streets.


    She never looked back—almost as if she knew they were behind her.


    At the end of the street, she stepped into a narrow passage between stone houses.


    Velmorian and Korrin kept a bit of distance.


    Korrin whispered, “What are the chances this is a trap?”


    Velmorian didn’t answer, but his fingers lightly brushed the hilt of his dagger.


    The woman finally opened the door to an old stone house, its high walls wrapped in ivy.


    She slipped inside, and the door closed quietly behind her.


    Velmorian and Korrin stopped at the corner of the street.


    They stood in silence, eyes on the door.


    Korrin raised an eyebrow and murmured,


    “She might be working on something related to that temple she mentioned to Hogen.”


    Velmorian’s voice was low but firm.


    “There’s only one way to find out… we go in.”


    The door to the stone house opened heavily, but without a sound.


    As Velmorian took his first step inside, the air felt almost still.


    The scent was familiar.


    Not just the dry roots of herbs…


    But a subtle mix of lavender and toxic flower extracts.


    He had smelled this combination countless times leaking from Nyla’s alchemy bag.


    Korrin stepped in behind him, sniffing.


    “Yup. She brewed that purple stuff again, didn’t she?”


    Velmorian let his eyes wander through the house.


    On the table, an open notebook.


    Familiar handwriting sprawled across the pages.


    Plant sketches, mixing ratios… and a note scribbled in the margin:


    “Swallowwort + blood-stained crocus. Doesn’t sedate—distorts awareness.”


    In the corner, Nyla’s signature purple concoction sat in a glass vial, still steaming.


    Just then, a creak came from the wooden stairs above.


    Footsteps slowly descended.


    Then a figure appeared.


    Nyla.


    Her face wore the usual half-mocking, half-indifferent smile.


    “So… you really came,” she said, stepping down the stairs.


    “If I’d known you’d fall for such a simple trap, I would''ve tied a red ribbon to the door.”


    Korrin rolled his eyes.


    “Did we walk into a trap, or did you just… come home?”


    Then chuckled softly.


    “Judging by the decor, you missed this place.”


    Velmorian said nothing.


    But his hand was drifting toward the dagger at his belt.


    The smiling woman’s eyes moved from one of them to the other.


    “There’s only one question left for me to ask…” she said.


    She took one more step down.


    “…Did you really believe it?”


    As Nyla descended the stairs completely, even her footsteps echoed against the walls.


    The dark coat she wore looked more composed than before—


    but it couldn’t hide the expression in her eyes.


    Velmorian’s hand was resting on the hilt of his dagger, but he hadn’t drawn it.


    “Believe in what?” he asked, voice cold.


    Nyla tilted her head slightly, her smile unchanged.


    “Weren’t you the ones walking beside me? Making decisions together?


    And now your hand rests on a blade… oh, how quickly friendship fades.”


    Korrin raised his hands, as if searching for middle ground.


    “Friendship doesn’t fade, Nyla.


    But when you vanish and draw us into a dark house… a little suspicion is natural, right?”


    Nyla let out a short, sharp laugh—


    high-pitched, and just a little unhinged.


    “Suspicion… yes. Just like the kind you feel when you learn someone might stab you in the back.”


    Velmorian’s brows drew together.


    The silence was becoming too heavy to bear.


    “Why did you run?”


    Nyla walked calmly into the center of the room.


    As she passed the table, her fingers trailed across the open notebook.


    “Run? I simply… realized certain things a little earlier than you.”


    She stopped in the middle of the room. Her eyes locked on Velmorian.


    Her fingers still hovered over the notebook.


    “And what I realized…” she said with chilling calm,


    “…was that you were going to come here to kill me.”


    Velmorian’s eyes narrowed.


    “Who told you that?”


    Nyla tilted her head slightly.


    “This city… carries whispers in its walls.


    But the real whispers were inside your own thoughts.


    I merely walked a few steps ahead of them.”


    Korrin raised his eyebrows.


    “All of this cryptic talk is making me more nervous, not less. Speak plainly, Nyla.”


    At that moment, she smiled.


    Her smile…


    was cold. Flawless.


    And then… it changed.


    In a blink—


    her body twisted, her silhouette rippled—


    and Nyla’s face vanished.


    In her place stood… Laedra Linn.


    Red hair flowed down. Her eyes turned to a chilling shade of ice blue.


    “Did you really… think you had killed me?”


    Her voice was identical to Nyla’s—


    but now layered with an echo,


    as if two voices spoke at once.


    Velmorian’s throat clenched. His eyes widened.


    He understood, in that very moment, the mistake he’d made.


    He had never looked at the parchment.


    With a trembling hand, he reached into his pocket.


    He pulled it out.


    Korrin stepped back.


    “This… how is this even possible?”


    Velmorian scanned the parchment.


    His eyes darted over the lines.


    The first three names were erased.


    But the fourth?


    It was still there.


    “Laedra Linn.”


    The parchment felt heavier in Velmorian’s hand—


    no longer just a message, but the weight of guilt itself.


    “Then…” he whispered,


    “…the one I killed…”


    Laedra took a step forward.


    “You thought killing a self-proclaimed king made you powerful, Velmorian?”


    Velmorian staggered slightly.


    His eyes flicked to the notebook, to the plant mixtures, to the familiar scent in the air.


    Everything…


    had felt like Nyla.


    But she wasn’t.


    It was all… an illusion.


    “Then where is Nyla?” Velmorian asked.


    Laedra only smiled.


    “Wherever your dagger struck last... that’s where she is.”


    She stood tall within the shadows.


    There was no rage in her eyes, nor fear.


    Only the calm of an actress stepping into the next act of her performance.


    Korrin was still trying to grasp what was happening,


    while Velmorian held the parchment in his hands,


    slowly absorbing the weight of his mistake.


    Laedra broke the silence.


    “The night you came to kill me,” she said softly—her voice brushed the ears like a whisper,


    “I saw you approaching the cottage. The dagger’s darkness walked ahead of you.


    But you made the mistake I expected.”


    Velmorian lifted his head. His eyes didn’t flinch from hers.


    “You were impatient.”


    Laedra stepped forward, letting her fingers brush along the notebook’s edge,


    as if every truth was already written on those pages.


    “While you were drawing near the cottage, I had already incapacitated Nyla.


    Loyal, angry, ambitious Nyla…


    Her ambition clouded her vision so much, she forgot I was a shapechanger.”


    Korrin’s brow furrowed.


    “What does that mean?”


    Laedra turned her gaze to him. Her eyes glinted.


    “Turning her into an unconscious panther wasn’t difficult.


    She became your victim without even knowing it.


    Her mind… swallowed by darkness.


    And I… took her face. Her voice. Her mannerisms.


    And you… never questioned it.”


    Velmorian felt ice spread through his veins.


    The dagger…


    It had struck the panther.


    Laedra stepped closer, continuing:


    “When you burst inside, the panther’s roar was still shaking the walls.


    And I… became the one who fought by your side.


    The one who guarded your back.


    And you… trusted me.


    You struck her with the dagger.”


    She let out a laugh.


    Not one of joy.


    Not of sorrow.


    But of serene pride.


    “The dagger showed you memories, just as if you had killed me.


    But that was part of the plan, Velmorian.


    Because you only saw what you wanted to see.”


    Velmorian stepped forward.


    His eyes were burning,


    but his voice was ice.


    “Nyla… did I kill her?”


    Laedra bowed her head slightly.


    “Yes. You did.


    But I don’t blame you.


    If someone had played such tricks on me, I probably would’ve fallen for them too.”


    Korrin turned his eyes to Velmorian.


    There was anger in them, disappointment—


    but above all, a silent mourning.


    Velmorian’s dagger trembled slightly in his hand.


    Laedra took one final step forward, then stopped.


    The look on her face held no triumph—only tragedy.


    “Now do you understand?


    Why my name is still written on the parchment?


    Though I had assumed you’d checked it by now…


    I was wrong.”


    The shadows moved.


    Velmorian’s fingers clutched the parchment tightly.


    Laedra’s voice echoed from the ceilings—


    and in that moment, something snapped.


    Korrin glanced sideways at Velmorian.


    “This ends now,” Korrin said, his voice sharp as ice.


    Laedra smiled.


    “You’re ending it… yet you don’t even know who you’re truly fighting.”


    She snapped her fingers.


    The walls trembled.


    The light filtering in twisted, bent.


    When Velmorian took a step forward, the shape of the room shifted.


    Mirrors emerged—some real, some reflections.


    And in each, a different face:


    Nyla’s smile.


    Nyssara’s tearful eyes.


    His own reflection—


    as a child.


    Velmorian staggered.


    “What... what is this?”


    Laedra’s voice reverberated.


    “Your past. Your sins. Your weaknesses.”


    For a moment, Velmorian was frozen where he stood.


    But just then, Korrin traced a sigil into the air.


    His fingertips flared with light—then vibrated.


    A warm pulse spread through the room.


    Mirrors cracked.


    Several illusions shattered.


    But Laedra’s face… was still everywhere.


    “Enough!” Velmorian shouted.


    He drew his dagger.


    A cold hiss followed—


    not of metal, but of a soul’s anguish.


    He lunged like a shadow.


    Laedra shifted suddenly—taking on Nyla’s face.


    She recoiled.


    Velmorian hesitated, eyes narrowing.


    “Not this time… you won’t fool me.”


    He swung the dagger.


    Laedra barely dodged.


    The fight had begun.


    With every strike, Laedra changed faces.


    She showed him Nyla—


    then Korrin—


    even the visage of Death itself.


    But Korrin stayed calm.


    He slipped between two illusions, whispering another spell.


    “Burn the false!”


    One of Laedra’s forms caught fire.


    It roared—morphing into a panther.


    Velmorian leapt at it with the dagger,


    but the panther turned into smoke—


    and from another corner, Laedra emerged once more.


    “To think you could defeat me this easily… such arrogance.”


    Velmorian was out of breath.


    He drove the dagger into the ground.


    “I won’t fight your games anymore,” he said.


    “I’ll find the real you.”


    He closed his eyes, gripping the dagger tightly.


    This time, it didn’t show memories—


    but emotions: fear, guilt, regret.


    The dagger turned toward Laedra’s true presence.


    And when he opened his eyes—


    he saw her.


    Behind him.


    He stepped forward.


    He turned.


    And struck.


    Laedra’s body suddenly stopped.


    Her eyes locked onto Velmorian.


    A heartbeat of silence.


    Then—


    the illusions collapsed.


    The walls returned to their normal shape.


    The mirrors cracked.


    The faces melted away, one by one.


    Until only Laedra remained.


    The real one.


    With trembling lips, she whispered:


    “I only wanted... to protect them.”


    Velmorian stepped back.


    The dagger still trembled in his hand.


    He pulled out the parchment.


    The name…


    was beginning to fade.


    Laedra dropped to her knees.


    Tears didn’t fall from her eyes—


    memories did.


    Childish laughter, crayon drawings,


    hopeful words flowing across her face.


    Her final breath came like a quiet plea:


    “If there was no world to feed them...


    I would build one.


    But I failed.”


    And she collapsed.


    All that remained was a small, torn scrap of paper,


    written in a child’s handwriting:


    “Big sister Laedra will never leave us.”


    <hr>


    Velmorian stepped back, his eyes still fixed on Laedra’s fallen body.


    But the dagger...


    kept trembling.


    Then—suddenly—


    A spark exploded in his mind.


    Darkness fell.


    Wind howled.


    For a heartbeat, he heard nothing.


    And then—


    the whispers of memories began.


    <hr>


    First Vision:


    Laedra in a small orphanage.


    Dusty shelves, cracked windows, wind slipping through the walls...


    But inside—joy.


    A little girl draws with a stubby crayon.


    “Look, Laedra! This is you! And we’re all around you—we love you!”


    Laedra smiles.


    An old herb book in one hand,


    a wooden spoon in the other, stirring food,


    telling stories to the children.


    <hr>


    Second Vision:


    Laedra in a hidden cellar.


    Shelves full of alchemy books and herbal concoctions.


    She’s examining a parchment covered in complex symbols—


    the map and key to the Lost Temple.


    “These formulas… if placed in the correct order, with the right symbols…


    the Temple will open.


    And the gold inside—


    it will be theirs.


    None of them will go hungry again.”


    A shadow appears behind her: Nyla.


    <hr>


    Third Vision:


    Nyla and Laedra at the same table.


    Laedra speaks with excitement, filled with hope.


    “Look, if we work together we’ll be faster.


    Your poison formulas are strong—


    but if we restructure them—”


    Nyla listens, but her eyes spark.


    Neither truly trusts the other.


    A mistake is made.


    One of Laedra’s formulas is stolen.


    <hr>


    Fourth Vision:


    Laedra realizes Nyla’s true plan.


    She sees now—


    Nyla only craved power,


    not the children’s future.


    Late at night, she sits in her cottage, alone.


    “I should’ve been more careful.


    But now...


    it’s too late.”


    The path to the Lost Temple is complete.


    But Laedra walks it alone.


    <hr>


    Fifth Vision:


    Laedra watches Velmorian and Korrin from afar.


    In her arms, Nyla—


    still unconscious in her panther form.


    Laedra takes her face, copies her voice.


    A tear rolls down her cheek.


    “Forgive me, Nyla…


    but I have no other choice.


    This is… for the children.”


    <hr>


    End of the Visions.


    When Velmorian opened his eyes,


    his hands still clutched the dagger.


    Sweat traced down his face.


    Korrin stood in silence,


    realizing something had changed.


    Velmorian whispered:


    "She... truly wanted to help."


    "She found the path into the Temple. She wanted to give the gold to the children.


    But... Nyla abandoned her halfway."


    Korrin dropped his gaze to the ground.


    "Sometimes… the wrong thing is done with the right intention," he said,


    but his voice lacked conviction.


    A silence settled over them.


    The dagger no longer trembled.


    But Velmorian did.


    Night had fallen over Aldenora’s edges.


    The city slept, unaware of Laedra’s death—


    but its echo followed the steps of two men.


    Velmorian walked in silence.


    Korrin wanted to say something, but held his tongue.


    Because in that moment, words were useless.


    Laedra’s memories still turned within Velmorian’s mind—


    that small drawing in the orphanage,


    the alchemical formulas,


    a friend who had become a panther,


    and a hope that had died at the tip of his blade.


    Then something happened.


    The parchment in his pocket stirred.


    Velmorian stopped.


    Suddenly, the wind stilled.


    The shadows bent inward—


    as if called to an unseen center.


    The temperature hadn’t dropped,


    yet every breath turned to mist.


    And then came the voice.


    Death.


    “Have you realized how much easier it is to kill someone… than to understand them?”


    No footsteps were heard.


    But suddenly—it was there.


    The white robe did not shine in the moonlight—


    it absorbed the darkness.


    Its voice… not a single voice—


    but a single thought spoken through many mouths:


    “The parchment has fallen silent.


    Because you silenced it.”


    Velmorian didn’t answer.


    “You stabbed a soul whose name was never written.


    You severed a fate that was never yours to decide.”


    Korrin, unaware, kept walking.


    Death spoke only to Velmorian.


    “You were the bearer of this path.


    But now… the scales of balance have tipped.”


    Velmorian looked straight ahead, unblinking.


    His voice was slow, but clear.


    “Her face was Nyla’s. Her voice, her hands… I—”


    Death cut him off.


    “—You didn’t kill her for what she was.


    You killed her for what you wanted her to be.”


    Silence again.


    Then, Death turned its gaze to the parchment.


    It had no eyes.


    But still—it saw.


    “This mistake cannot be ignored.”


    Velmorian’s dagger grew heavy.


    He dropped to his knees—


    his arm aching under its weight.


    The blade was no longer metal.


    It was shadow.


    But the echo within it... was anger.


    Velmorian knelt,


    the dagger vibrating in his hand.


    But this time,


    it did not guide him.


    It accused him.


    Death moved closer.


    Its robe did not drag—


    it flowed across the ground without touching it.


    It did not raise its arms—


    but its words tore through the sky like thunder:


    “This world does not belong only to the living, Velmorian.


    The dead, too, have their rights.”


    Suddenly, the parchment unfurled on its own.


    There was no wind—


    yet its pages turned.


    The fourth name had vanished.


    Below it—


    a blank space.


    And in that space...


    A charred black scar appeared.


    No letter.


    No name.


    Only a burned, blackened wound.


    Velmorian squinted,


    but the more he looked,


    the deeper it pulled him in.


    “This,” Death said,


    its voice now echoing from somewhere deeper than the earth,


    “is the mark left by the sacrifice of an unchosen soul.”


    Another whisper spread.


    “That mark… will not fade.”


    Velmorian wanted to look away—


    but he couldn’t.


    And Death—


    vanished in the blink of an eye.


    Swallowed by nothingness.


    Velmorian remained where he was.


    That burned mark had etched itself not just into the parchment—


    but into the soil beneath his knees.


    From a distance, Korrin called out:


    “You falling behind, Vel?


    Aren’t we moving on?”


    Velmorian lifted his head.


    “We’re going,” he said.


    But deep inside,


    another voice echoed:


    “But even you… no longer know where you''re walking toward.”