The road clawed ahead like a raw scab that refused to close up—ragged, stretched thin, always ready to tear open again. Nothing about it was smooth. Nothing about it was healed. Behind them, the Flats had dwindled to a smudge on the horizon, an ugly stain pressed so thin it almost looked like a trick of the light. That dead place hadn't let them go so much as spat them out, tossing them away like trash on the wind. But the land ahead was changing. Green was creeping back in where it didn't belong, soft and almost hopeful—but the color felt cheap, like a mask worn to fool the eye, like a trap stitched from paint.
Verek kept the lead, boots steady against the dirt, eyes locked ahead and hard. He didn't talk much anymore. Not since the last trial. Not since Caylen had shouldered that shard and the silence crept in behind it like a shadow closing. He stuck to the path like he was cutting it out with every step, like forward motion was the only thing holding this ragged world from falling apart. The others followed, but they followed him.
Ezreal rolled his shoulders behind him, trying to shift the weight of the pack without making it obvious. Nine shards rattled inside, banging like bones in a sack. Fire, lightning, silver, black, bronze, green—the others all blurred into one restless weight now. Sometimes he could feel a shard pulse, sometimes two, as if they were syncing with his heartbeat, but just slightly off-beat. Like they were learning how to beat for him instead. He didn't like that thought. Didn't say it out loud either.
No one had spoken in hours.
Caylen stuck to the center of the group, shoulders squared, eyes dragging over every tree, every break in the brush. Like he was daring something to spring out. His hand kept drifting toward his sword—not drawing it, just resting there. Not trust, not anymore. Habit. Dax brought up the rear like a thundercloud made of muscle and old regrets, boots landing heavy and slow. His scowl was locked in place, jaw twitching every time a bird called the wrong note or the wind shifted too fast.
Even their footsteps started to sound tired. Like the forest itself was sucking the noise out of them.
The silence didn't feel empty. It felt like a loaded gun, a door about to be kicked in.
They passed into a grove that never felt quite right. The light above bled weakly through crooked branches, pale and reluctant like it didn't want to touch the ground. Everything there twisted a little off—roots knotted too tightly, leaves too still, shadows moving when nothing else stirred. The air smelled like rot buried beneath something sweet, and beneath that was a sharp edge, like copper or hunger.
Verek was the first to stop.
He raised a hand, and the others froze without a word. That was all it took now. No orders, no commands. Just the way his shoulders tensed, the way his eyes counted trees like a slow countdown.
Then came the laughter.
Quiet. Almost lazy. But it dragged across the spine like wire. Low and scraping. Nothing joyful in it, just the sound of something enjoying itself far too much.
Two figures stepped out from beneath the trees.
A man and a woman. Both dressed like the forest had wrapped them up—bark-colored leathers, green-black cloaks, shadows curled into the curves of their spines. Their faces stayed half in shadow, but their eyes gleamed—not with light, but with knowledge. Like they had already read every page of the road ahead and knew the ending too well. Their smiles were too clean, carved in sharp, perfect lines, but missing the soul.
"You carry too much," the woman said. Her voice was soft, like a lullaby whispered in a rough throat. "Burdens no one asked you to bear. Chains you clicked shut around your own wrists."
The man tilted his head, the twitch of his smile widening. "But here, in the shade… maybe you find what you want. Or maybe you finally see what you deserve."
Verek stepped forward before Ezreal could speak. His voice came quiet, dry, and steady, but with an edge that didn't cut—it carved. "You'll speak plainly or not at all. We're done bleeding for riddles."
The woman took a slow step forward, and in her hand bloomed a black rose. Petals shimmered oily, wet, like ink spilled on water. The flower bled—not red, not anything real. Something darker, darker than fear.
"We're what you built," she said. Her voice curled around the words like smoke drifting upward. "Desire. Doubt. Pick your poison."
The man's footsteps whispered on the grass as he followed. His voice cracked deeper, all teeth and edge. "Mirrors. If you've got the stomach."
Caylen moved up beside Verek, hand tight on his sword's hilt now. His voice came rough, raw around the edges. "We don't have time for your games. Back off."
The man laughed, short and mean, teeth too even and clean. "Then you really screwed up, boy. This forest is one long riddle. And you're the ones dragging the question around your neck."
Branches shifted overhead. The trees leaned in, just a little more, groaning like old bones that had been waiting for this moment.
Dax didn't move. Didn't blink. He stared straight at the pair, and when he spoke, his voice hit like a rock against a wall. "What do you want?"
The woman's eyes narrowed, sharp as broken glass. "To watch. To listen. To see where you break. To hear the things you don't say—the rot you pretend isn't there."
Ezreal felt it then. Deep in his ribs, curled tight like a knot. That ache that never quite left. Like a rope pulling inward, squeezing breath from him. The shards pulsed inside his pack—once at first, then twice, building in rhythm like waking pulses.
Verek stayed still, watching. Measuring. "If you know us so well," he said, "then you know we don't break the way you want."
The man tilted his head again, voice all sharp teeth now. "No. But we know where the cracks hide."
The woman held out the black rose toward Verek. It pulsed once in her hand. "Take it," she said. "Let's see what your chains are worth."
Verek reached out.
And then the world cracked—not with thunder, not with a crash.
With memory.
Ezreal was alone inside a maze of mirrors—tall and warped, spiderwebbed with cracks that bent his reflection sideways, wrong at the edges. One showed him walking away while a village burned, orange flames licking at screaming rooftops. Another held him standing over a dead man—a familiar one—with eyes dry and empty. A third reflected him clutching a shard to his chest, smiling as the world behind him crumbled.
"You run," one reflection said. Its mouth moved with his lips, but the voice didn't match. "You always run."
Ezreal clenched his jaw. No answer came.
Elsewhere, Caylen stood in a silver-lit field that was too clean, too quiet. Ahead of him, a boy laughed and ran—his brother.
Then the earth split open, fast and cruel.
The boy fell.
Caylen reached out.
He didn't make it.
The laughter echoed again, but this time it sounded like it came from inside his own chest.
"You failed," the wind whispered. It wasn't cruel. It just spoke plain.
Dax sat beside a fire that didn't burn right. Flames moved backward, curling against the wind. Around him stood ghosts—his old unit, maybe—faces stained with soot and blood. None spoke. They just watched.
"You chose," the fire whispered. "You pointed the way. Decided who lived. Who died."
He didn't flinch. Just closed his eyes.
And Verek—
He stood in a place with no horizon, no ceiling, just a void lined with faces. Every one he'd failed—men lost under his command, women who begged and were ignored, children vanished in the gaps between his choices. None screamed. None spoke. They only stared.
He didn't run. His heart beat like war drums. He didn't flinch or look away. He met every stare and let the weight settle onto his shoulders. Then he spoke, voice raw and human.
"I remember you. All of you. And I still walk because I have to. Because I won't make the same mistake twice."
The silence cracked open. The void trembled.
Then the air twisted. Shadows peeled from the ground, coalescing into something with too many limbs, too many voices—a creature born from every terrible choice, every swallowed scream, every truth they refused to speak aloud. Its voice came in layers—all of theirs tangled together.
It attacked.
This time, they didn't run.
Ezreal's magic tore through the air, jagged and hot, no flair—just fire and fury.
Dax met it head-on, no wasted motion. His sword carved weight into the shadow like every strike mattered.
Caylen brought light—not much, just enough to draw a line in the dark, enough to hold his ground.
And Verek—he stepped forward, into the creature, into the center. No blade drawn. No spell cast. Just his voice.
"I know what I am. I know what I've done. I won't let you use it against them."
The shadow cracked and split apart like wet bark, screaming with their voices. Then it scattered.
Ash fell.
The black rose dropped to the dirt and melted.
In the root beneath where the woman had stood, something glowed.
A shard. Gold-white veined with pale green. It hummed quietly in the stillness.
Ezreal stepped forward and picked it up.
His hands shook like he was holding something alive.
Caylen moved up beside him. Dax stood behind, breathing hard but steady. Verek nodded once, the only sound left in his throat.
No one said anything.
They didn't need to.
The forest eased.
No more laughter. No riddles. No watchers.
Just trees. Just breath. Just the road winding ahead.
The weight wasn't lighter.
It only had a name now.