Raen didn't sleep anymore.
Not because he couldn't. Because he wouldn't.
When his eyes closed, he wasn't met with silence or peace. He was dragged back into a screaming void—his soul torn between what was once human and what was becoming something else. He saw eyes stitched with stars, teeth made of gold, and thrones that bled names like wine. The sword—his cursed companion—always hummed beside him, hungrier than before.
The godmarked's death hadn't brought calm. It had brought echoes.
Raen now saw things in the corner of his vision—twisted silhouettes of gods whose names he had not yet learned. Their presence was thick, watching him. Waiting.
---
Lyra was healing slowly.
The house they sheltered in was a quiet ruin on the edge of the cursed town. Her bed was surrounded by protective runes. Raen sat beside her every night, sharpening his sword, not to prepare for battle… but to keep himself tethered.
Her eyes fluttered open. Pale. Strained.
"I dreamt of a garden," she murmured. "There was no sun. Only roots. And someone was waiting beneath them. A woman. She knew your name."
Raen's hands stopped. He turned.
"What did she look like?"
Lyra hesitated. "She wore bones. And her mouth was sewn shut. But she screamed when she saw you."
---
Raen stood, pushing open the door. Cold wind bit at him, dragging the rot of the dead town across his senses.
This wasn't just a cursed town. It was a wound in the world.
And something inside it had now seen him.
---
Later that night, Raen took Lyra outside. The fog was thinning, but the moonlight revealed nothing comforting—just more twisted architecture and silent homes filled with dried blood and memory.
"You shouldn't be out," he said, half-scolding.
She smirked, wincing. "And miss you sulking like a cursed prince in a dying town?"
Raen almost smiled. Almost.
Lyra looked up at the broken steeple of the church they'd fought in.
"You're changing," she said quietly. "I see it in your eyes. You hesitate less. You speak less. You feel less."
Raen stared at his hands.
"I have to. The gods don't die for the gentle."
"But if you lose everything that makes you human…" she whispered. "Then what are you fighting for?"
---
Before Raen could answer, they heard the whisper.
Not a voice. Not even a sound.
A name.
It wasn't spoken aloud—it entered them.
Both Raen and Lyra staggered.
The runes on her book flared, reacting violently. Her hands trembled. "It's not from the book. It's something else."
Raen's sword was already drawn. Its edge was black, reflecting no light.
The air folded.
A figure emerged.
No footsteps. No weight. Just a distortion, like a reflection that refused to obey the world's rules.
It was a girl.
No older than fourteen, draped in a white dress that floated in windless silence. Her eyes were hollow. Not blind. Not cursed. Just… void.
"I am the Remnant of Liorra," she said. "She who bore the First God's breath and was consumed by it. I was once a child. Now I am a name that was never meant to be spoken."
Lyra backed away. "Raen—she's godborn."
"No," Raen whispered, stepping forward. "She's less than godborn. She's what's left when a god forgets its own child."
---
The girl's head tilted. "You carry too many names, Raen Valor. You eat, and eat, and eat. And yet the throne is not yours. Why?"
"I haven't killed enough gods yet."
She giggled. "No. It's because you haven't killed yourself yet."
Raen's eyes narrowed. "You talk too much."
"So did you," she smiled, "before the Demon God broke you."
Her body rippled. The image split, multiplied. Three versions of her surrounded him now—each whispering a version of his own past: his first murder, his betrayal of a friend, his final scream before death.
Lyra screamed something, but Raen didn't hear it. His mind was being split open—each version of the girl dragging out his worst thoughts and turning them into reality.
Then she spoke a new name. One he had never heard.
His knees buckled.
This name wasn't just a sound—it was a wound. Spoken only once by the gods who forged memory into power.
"You cannot devour it," she said. "You belong to it."
---
Raen was on the ground, blood trickling from his nose. His sword clattered beside him. He couldn't breathe.
"Raen!" Lyra's voice cut through the fog.
She flung herself forward, holding the book aloft. The pages turned wildly, glyphs dancing across the air. She screamed a spell he told her never to speak.
Light. Black and silver. It exploded, burning the illusion.
The girl vanished.
Raen gasped, sitting up.
"You—" he growled. "You shouldn't have used that."
"I'm not letting you die," she snapped. "Not here. Not like this."
---
Later, inside the house, Raen stared at the floor while Lyra applied salves to his temple. The blood was still drying.
He didn't stop her.
"I remember now," she whispered. "When we were children… before the first god killed me. You protected me. Even then. Even when you were a monster."
Raen's jaw tightened. "That wasn't me. That was someone weaker."
"No," Lyra said softly. "That was someone human."
He met her gaze. There was something in his eyes now—not rage. Not pride. But grief.
He reached out, brushing a hand against her cheek. Just for a second.
And then pulled away.
"I'll kill the Remnant," he muttered. "Then I'll kill the god that abandoned her."
"You don't have to do this alone."
Raen stood. "But I will."
---
Outside, the fog shifted again.
In the distance, a man in robes stood atop the church ruins. He watched Raen's house with empty eyes and a bleeding mouth. The mark of a forgotten god pulsed across his chest.
He spoke no words.
But his presence echoed the same message the girl had:
Raen was no longer just devouring names.
He was becoming one.
End of the chapter 13