"Pay your dues in time."
The note glistened with blood.
There was no doubt in Mihel's mind. This was the work of madmen, or worse.
The message was simple, crude, and unmistakable. This was about money.
But something else unsettled him far more.
'How had the killer managed to bite off an entire shoulder?'
Mihel crouched closer. The victim's eyes bulged grotesquely, frozen wide with terror. His mouth was stretched open, jaw strained as if he had tried to scream but never finished.
Shock.
Whatever attacked him, the man had seen it coming.
"Poor guy," Riche muttered.
Mihel scanned the surroundings, eyes darting between the trees, the ground, the shadows. Nothing felt right. The forest was too still.
Footsteps pounded behind them.
Velis arrived first, one hand flying to her mouth. Meria and Nathene followed close behind.
"O Lady of Life," Nathene whispered, bowing his head. "Grant this poor soul passage into thy habitations."
"When we came to call you, Mihel," Meria said, already reaching into her pouch, "We saw the knife pointing toward the forest. We rushed immediately."
She knelt beside the body and drew a triangle in white chalk over the man's chest. Within it, she traced three concentric circles, careful and precise.
Nathene knelt beside her, head bowed.
"Destiny," they whispered together.
Warmth washed over the clearing.
A pale green light seeped into the air, flowing gently around them like mist touched by moonlight.
The Destiny swirled for a moment before gathering at their outstretched palms.
Mihel felt it instantly.
His body reacted as if remembering something long forgotten. Every cell seemed to stir, responding to the familiar presence of his parents' Destiny. Memories surfaced.
Childhood illnesses. Gentle hands glowing green. Healing.
Meria's voice trembled as she prayed.
"Oh Lady, who watches her people from a throne of mercy, hear us once more."
"Sanctify this body with thy spirit," Nathene continued, "and open its mysteries to thy humble servants."
"Oh Lady," Meria whispered, "appear once more."
"And bless us again," Nathene finished.
They lowered their palms into the triangle, which represented the body, soul, and mind.
The air snapped.
Meria's eyes rolled back, and she collapsed without a sound.
Nathene clutched his head, screaming.
"NO—FORGIVE ME—AAAGHHH!"
He fell moments later. A flash of lightning.
Rain started pouring heavily, thunder was heard in the distance.
"Mother!" Mihel shouted, rushing forward.
Riche knelt beside them, fingers pressed to their necks. He looked up, voice tight.
"They're alive. Barely."
Velis was biting her nails, panic flooding her face. "Take them inside. Quickly. Come on."
Mihel lifted his mother into his arms. As he carried her, she coughed violently, blood splattering across his shirt.
Inside the Malant household, Meria and Nathene were laid onto beds, warm cloths pressed to their foreheads.
Mihel stood frozen, guilt clawing at his chest.
'What did that ritual do to them?' he thought. 'I've never seen anything like it.'
Velis returned with a steaming cup, hands shaking. "I'm not a Healer," she said quickly, "but my grandmother kept recipe books. This one's for headaches. It might help."
Mihel accepted it with a faint smile. "Thank you."
Riche turned to his mother. "They should stay here tonight. Tomorrow, Mihel and I can go with Mentor Cilluh to the Exousia branch."
Velis nodded without hesitation. "Yes. That's good."
She glanced at Mihel. "You can stay in Riche's room tonight."
She ruffled her blond hair and lowered herself into a chair beside Meria, sadness settling into her eyes.
"I'm sorry, boys. I panicked," she said softly. "I'm alright now. Go to sleep. I'll try feeding them a little more, then I'll rest as well."
The boys climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Ornate paintings lined the walls, each one heavy with age and meaning. Mihel slowed instinctively.
He had seen them many times before, yet they always pulled at him.
'Riche's father was a historian,' Mihel thought. 'Obsessed with uncovering the truths buried before the Fourth Period. These were his works.'
Riche noticed his gaze.
"Mi," he said quietly, "I know I tell you this every time, but Mother says these paintings are wrong. My father realized it too." His voice lowered. "That's why he left. To find the real truth."
'He never came back.'
The gloom thickened, pressing down on the corridor.
Mihel stood transfixed.
A burning sun crashed down upon a pillar shaped like a hammer, its rays piercing a land of gold. A black pentagon floated in the heart of a white sea, darkness bleeding outward, staining purity. A man knelt with arms outstretched, wrists bound in chains above him, white light encasing his body. A round, black figure loomed over a castle, spear in hand, watching. And many others.
The images felt… alive.
Riche shook him lightly. "Hey. You good? You always get lost in these."
Mihel blinked, eyelids heavy, and shook his head as if clearing water from his ears.
"Yeah. I'm fine. Sorry."
'Something in those paintings speaks to me,' he thought. 'Something I don't understand yet.'
The room was modest. Three simple cots stood against the walls, each covered with thin cloth.
They lay down without another word.
Riche drifted quickly into peaceful sleep.
Mihel did not.
He was haunted by a nightmare.
-----------------------------------------------------------
He saw himself.
But something was wrong.
The figure looked hollow, emotionally crushed, eyes drained of life. Torn black cloth clung to his body, riddled with holes, hanging loose on a frame that looked starved and broken.
It was Mihel, stripped of hope.
Then the sensation changed.
Mihel was floating.
His arms were stretched wide, weightless.
He looked down.
His own dead face stared back at him.
The wind roared.
Without warning, Mihel was hurled downward, plunging toward himself with murderous force.
Just before impact, the world collapsed into black.
Smoke curled around him, thick and suffocating. It rolled slowly, swallowing sight and sound alike.
Then it thinned.
The scene returned.
The same place. The same body.
Only now, the version below was even more exhausted, more wasted.
Once again, Mihel rose into the sky.
Once again, he fell.
The cycle repeated.
Again.
And again.
And again.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Riche woke to the sound of grunting and wood creaking.
Still half-asleep, he turned his head.
On the other cot, Mihel was twisting violently, body contorting as if fighting invisible restraints. His fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles white, breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Mihel…?" Riche murmured, sitting up. "You alright?"
He swung his legs over the bed and moved closer, eyes still heavy with sleep.
"AAAAGHHHH— I'M SORRY— SAAAVE MEEEE!"
Riche froze.
That voice.
It wasn't Mihel's.
Dread crept into Riche's bones. A shadow seemed to fall upon the atmosphere.
"That was my father."
He turned sharply.
Mihel was awake.
Wide-eyed. Fully alert. Unaware of what he'd been doing moments before.
"Come on," Mihel said urgently. "We need to go downstairs. What time is it?"
Riche forced himself to move, checking the moon dial near the window. "Near 1 eos."
Mihel nodded and jumped from the bed without hesitation.
Another scream ripped through the house.
"TAKE ME— PLEASE— NOT HER!"
They ran.