——The gates draw near——
The trees began to whisper.
Not with wind or wing, but with the breath of something older—something watching.
It was the day of arrival.
By dusk, Fort Dawnrise would rise before them—its stone towers like judgment carved into the bleeding sky, the last bastion before the eastern swamps gave way to fevered godlands. But the path leading there had already begun to erode—not from time, but from truth.
For Arkeia, nothing had been right since yesterday.
The sun no longer followed its celestial path. It staggered, drooped, then leapt without warning. Shadows twitched against their masters, sometimes pausing behind them longer than they should—lingering like guilt. Sound arrived late or early, warped by distances that hadn't existed seconds before. Even her own footsteps seemed to echo a second behind her—like her body moved before her will could catch up.
And worst of all… her men were changing.
Not in flesh, but in certainty.
They were still Crusaders of the Pillar Flame—devout, stubborn, pious. But now, some forgot hymns mid-verse. Some stared too long at the shape of Balfazar's shadow, blinking as though caught in a memory they had never lived. One had wept in the night and claimed it was joy.
Arkeia had seen war-broken minds before.
This was not that.
This was infection.
This was reality buckling inward from a presence it could no longer contain.
⸻
They walked slowly that morning.
Elissa whispered riddles again, her gait unsteady, but her voice disturbingly clear. Her eyes fluttered open now and then, but they did not see—they remembered.
"Do you hear it?" she murmured, clinging to Galeel's side.
"The One who comes… who hums through the marrow of stars…"
Galeel said nothing.
But the trees leaned as he passed. Boughs creaked and dipped—reaching, not in fear, but in mourning. Leaves rustled without wind, and the bark of a nearby tree split open—not violently, but slowly, as though exhaling a name it had not spoken in an age.
"He remembers nothing. But the forest remembers him," Elissa whispered.
And in that moment, Galeel felt the Void again. Not as horror, but as origin. A low ache bloomed at the base of his skull—old, sacred, raw. He could feel the memory not in mind, but in bone.
And the forest bent in answer.
⸻
Overhead, Voidstor glided through the air like a lazy omen. He trailed behind Balfazar like a celestial thread—melting in and out of mist, reappearing in loops. Once, he hovered briefly above Arkeia's head, tail brushing her temple like a question.
When addressed, he spoke only to Balfazar and Aethon. His words were not spoken aloud, but felt—like thoughts that didn't belong to the thinker:
"Balfy, walking among kindling again…
always a game of chess, why not sleep…
Why not food?"
Below, Vharn strummed his lute softly, though his hands did not move. The strings played themselves. A tune emerged—fractured and haunting. It was not a melody. It was a warning that forgot its words.
He turned to Arkeia and gave a crooked smile, then began to hum—matching the rhythm of her breath, her tension, her unraveling.
Voidstor meowed once, in harmony. A lullaby in a language no one taught.
⸻
Caelinda walked nearby, her steps impossibly measured. The mist coiled around her, slow and thick, but it did not cling. It worshipped. Her hood was drawn low, her veil shimmering like a boundary between dreams.
Around Balfazar, the mist behaved strangely—gathering and dispersing like memory. It curled through his fingers, brushed against his chest, then darted off into the woods like a creature afraid of what it adored.
⸻
Aethon, ever close, slithered beside Edmun with a crooked smile.
"You've been marching long, haven't you?" he said. "Isn't your back sore… from carrying all that righteousness?"
Edmun's jaw twitched.
He cast a glance toward Arkeia—toward the way she lagged behind the men. The way she stared too long at Balfazar. The way she forgot, sometimes, to pray before meals.
This is not what she was.
He didn't speak it. He only thought it. But the silence after his doubt felt heavy, like something had heard it.
"I do not speak with vipers," he snapped.
Aethon grinned wider. "No, no. You fight them.
But here you are—beside me."
Edmun glanced away. In frustration, he tried to whisper a prayer to Mar'aya. But—
"—Mar… Mar—"
The name caught in his throat, thorned and dry.
Aethon chuckled, tilting his head. "Having trouble speaking, soldier? Don't worry. Your gods will understand. Silence is the first step to belonging."
⸻
Ahead of them walked Arkeia.
Her stride was steady, but her mind was slipping.
She thought she'd heard Elissa's voice already.
She thought she'd already passed this tree.
She thought she'd said those words before.
But not in this life.
⸻
She had tried to stay distant.
But every hour spent near Balfazar unspooled something in her.
He walked just ahead, shadows swaying around him like mourners. Robes of folded void revealed emerald runes pulsing in a rhythm that did not belong to creation.
The trees bowed in his passed.
Not dramatically. But enough. Enough to be noticed. Enough to unsettle.
She thought she could ignore it.
She couldn't.
When she fell behind—unintentionally, she told herself—he noticed.
He always did.
"You're straying," he said.
His voice was soft, but her breath arrived a second late—like a word spoken before it was thought.
She turned.
"You left."
"I did," he said. "Purely of concern, Caelinda might have done something drastic… if you stayed too close."
She scoffed. "What, and what would she have done? Whine in tongues? Stare daggers from under her veil?"
"She's possessive," he said. "Jealous."
"She's already punished Elissa… for what you nearly did."
She blinked. "What I nearly did?"
His eyes gleamed faintly.
"She touched the in in undivine. Took what was not hers."
"She begged for my essence. And Caelinda—jealous, spiteful—gave her more than she could endure."
Arkeia's lips parted, but no sound came.
"You were close last night. Very close."
"…I wasn't—"
"You were."
"And I didn't mind. But she would have."
She stepped back. The ground tilted, as if forgetting it was solid.
"You call this a warning?"
"A kindness," he smiled
"And one you should treasure."
Then, suddenly—softly:
"My rose."
She froze.
Her mouth opened—but before she could speak, the air filled with petals. They were not real. Not quite. But she saw them—soft white blossoms drifting on an unseen breeze. One landed on her shoulder, then vanished like breath on glass.
"What did you call me?" she asked.
"That's what I call you," he said, smiling.
"Don't you remember?"
She trembled.
"Stop," she whispered.
⸻
Far behind them, Edmun called out. She didn't hear what he said. Her heartbeat was too loud.
The swamp banks curved around the bend ahead. Salt hung thick in the air. Her legs moved, but her mind lagged behind.
Then—
A breath.
A hiss.
A fracture.
"Oh," came Caelinda's voice, sharp as bone.
"So she's your rose now?"
It wasn't spoken through air.
It came through marrow.
And something—somewhere in the woods—collapsed. A tree fell, silently. A Crusader forgot what day it was.
⸻
The mist parted.
And at last—Fort Dawnrise emerged.
Its towers shimmered with the light of the setting sun. Blood-orange and ancient. Banners of holy flame fluttered. The gates stood tall and sealed. Its silhouette was carved with centuries of sacred defiance.
Arkeia stared.
"…I was saved here," she whispered.
"Trained beneath those spires. It was the only place untouched by your family's poison.
My home…
away from the curse of the Rex name."
Balfazar said nothing.
But the mist knew.
It gathered beneath their feet, rising like a curtain. It was not welcome here.
It was remembering.
"I'm not sure if it's memory or prophecy," Arkeia thought, "my knees feel heavier the closer I get."