Dawn came reluctantly, veiled behind sickly clouds. The sky above the forest bled orange and gray, but no sun ever broke through. Dorian opened his eyes to the cold bite of wind and the distant rustle of corrupted birds. He shifted gently, careful not to wake Rhea, still curled at his side under the thick tree roots.
For a moment, he watched her sleep.
So young. Too young for this kind of world.
He had seen too many like her die—burned, bled, consumed. And yet, she was different. Not just because of her lineage, but because of her resilience. The Pale Line wasn't a myth after all. It lived in her bones. In her glow. In her silence.
He stood slowly and limped a few paces into the clearing. His leg throbbed—a rhythmic, pulsing reminder of mortality. He crouched and reached into his satchel, pulling out a jar filled with embalmer's oil and bone ash. Not ideal, but enough to slow the rot.
He unwrapped the binding on his leg and hissed. The wound had turned a deep shade of black-vein blue. He scooped out the salve and packed it into the wound, muttering curses with every breath.
"You're dying."
He looked up.
Rhea stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed tightly around her thin frame.
"Not yet," he grunted. "Still got a few chapters left in me."
"You need real healing."
"You think I don't know that?" He tied off the cloth and stood, testing his weight. "There's a camp. Two days west. Resistance outpost, if it's still standing."
"Resistance?"
He nodded. "They call themselves the Ember Pact. Survivors. Fighters. Runaways. The Choir wants them dead."
"And you're part of it?"
"No. I'm worse." A small smirk tugged at his lip. "I'm the reason they exist."
Rhea stared at him. "I heard you in the cathedral. Talking to the dead. You didn't sound like a hero."
"I'm not."
She hesitated. "What are you, then?"
Dorian met her gaze, tired and unflinching. "I'm a man who lost everything and made a deal with death to keep it from happening again."
They moved through the forest in near silence. Rhea asked few questions, and Dorian offered even fewer answers. He used a carved bone talisman to ward off the lesser shades that drifted between the trees, their bodies long gone but their souls still caught in the Prophet's echo.
By midday, they found a ruined village—just a few broken cottages overgrown with moss and boneweed. Dorian searched the area cautiously while Rhea explored a collapsed well.
She called out, "Something's down here."
He rushed to her side and peered over the edge. There was a ladder, ancient but intact. Thirty feet below, a corpse lay slumped beside an old pack.
"Stay up here," he ordered, and descended slowly.
The smell hit him halfway down. Not rot—this was older. Preserved by magic. He reached the bottom and examined the body: a woman in red leather armor, long dead but untouched by decay. A sealing rune glowed faintly on her chest.
Dorian knelt and whispered the necromancer's rite.
The corpse shuddered, then opened its eyes.
"Who… speaks?" The voice was dry as parchment.
"Dorian Vale."
"The Pale Flame… must burn…"
"What does that mean?"
The corpse stared at him with milky eyes. "The Prophet saw the spark. He feared it. He built the Choir to silence it."
"Rhea?"
"The last. Protect her, or all will fall to silence."
Then, the corpse crumbled into ash.
Back above, Rhea waited, brow furrowed.
"What did it say?" she asked.
"That you're more important than I thought."
She sighed. "That never ends well."
He tossed her the pack he'd recovered. "There's food and some charms. Keep them close."
As they prepared to move again, the air grew cold.
Dorian stiffened.
A chorus began—distant, but rising.
The Choir was near.
"Move," he snapped. "Now!"
They ran, darting through the underbrush as the singing swelled—beautiful and terrible all at once. The notes twisted the air, and Rhea stumbled, clutching her head.
"It's in my mind—!"
He turned and drew a circle in the dirt with his bloodied finger. Glyphs flared, and a skeletal guardian erupted from the earth, snarling and roaring into the woods.
"Run, dammit!"
They didn't stop for hours.
By nightfall, they reached a ridge overlooking a deep ravine. Below, nestled between jagged rocks, burned the faint glow of torchlight.
"The camp," Dorian panted. "We made it."
Rhea collapsed beside him, trembling.
He looked down at her. "Tomorrow, you'll meet people who still believe in something."
She looked up, tears streaking her ash-stained cheeks. "And what about you?"
He paused.
"I stopped believing a long time ago," he said. "But maybe you'll remind me how."