Weeks had passed.
Niegal no longer flinched at the sound of dripping water or the whisper of wind through the hollowed tunnels. The underground had a rhythm, and in time, his body matched it. The low, constant hum of mana pulsing through the earth beneath Puerto Cuidad felt almost like a heartbeat. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast. Sometimes ominously still.
He'd grown used to the silence again.
Some days, he welcomed it. Let it wrap around his shoulders like the cloak he wore, a comfort found only in solitude. Other days, it clawed at his thoughts. When it did, he'd sing to himself—old war songs, battle hymns from his soldiering days, and lullabies he heard as a child, back before the Church had poisoned everything with fear.
On quiet evenings, the wounded arrived.
They came limping or carried in—rebels, villagers, exiles. Some with burns from holy fire, others with hex scars or missing limbs. He treated them all with the same quiet patience, his rare gift of healing whispered through cracked lips and glowing fingers. Word of his survival had begun to spread, though no one dared speak his name aboveground.
But in the hours between, when the torches burned low and the sea thundered outside, his mind returned to her.
The very first time he'd laid eyes on Elena Rosaria.
He was twenty-five then—young, prideful, and foolish in the way all men are when they've seen just enough of the world to believe they understand it. He had not yet been banished. Still heir to the Matteo estate, Niegal spent his days managing trade routes, traveling the coastal roads on horseback beneath the burning sun.
That particular day, he was headed toward a southern trading post. The forest along the cliff's edge had grown thick from the rains. Birdsong pierced the air.
And then—he heard sobbing.
He slowed his horse, dismounted, and followed the sound on foot, cautious but curious. It led him to a small clearing bathed in golden dusk. There, half-hidden by a thicket of flowering briar, a young woman knelt in the grass. Her back to him, her shoulders trembling. Her curly dark hair shimmered in the dying light like spun ink.
Blood smeared her knees—raw scrapes pressed with gravel and grit.
Niegal felt something strange in his chest, something he hadn't felt before. A pull.
He stepped forward gently, voice low.
"My lady…" he said, extending a hand. "Are you hurt?"
She looked up quickly, startled.
Her eyes—deep garnet, rimmed with tears—met his.
His breath caught in his throat.
The girl quickly looked away, dabbing at her face with the sleeve of her dress.
"I—I'm fine, kind sir," she said. Her voice was soft, unsure. She wouldn't meet his eyes again. "You shouldn't be here. Not unless you have business with the Church."
Niegal furrowed his brow, stepping closer, heart drumming oddly in his ears.
"I know how to treat wounds," he said gently. "May I help?"
She hesitated. Then, without speaking, she turned her knees slightly toward him, revealing the embedded gravel and angry red lines carved into her skin. There were tiny indentations—like she had been kneeling on rice and stone.
Punishment. He recognized it instantly.
His expression darkened, but he kept his tone calm.
He knelt beside her, removed his gloves, and whispered a short incantation. Soft green light glowed from his palms as he hovered his hands over her knees. The wounds faded slowly—skin knitting, bruises vanishing.
She gasped. "You're a healer."
He smiled. "Among other things."
Her hand reached out, rested lightly on his arm. "Can you teach me to do that?"
That's when it happened.
Their eyes locked.
Time cracked.
For a moment, the forest, the birds, the sunset—everything disappeared. All that remained were their eyes, reflecting something neither of them understood. Recognition. Longing. Echoes of something ancient.
Before either could speak, a voice rang out through the trees:
"Oye! Elenaaa! Elena?"
The girl flinched. Her eyes widened.
"I—I have to go."
Niegal reached instinctively, catching her wrist with a gentle touch.
"Elena," he repeated, tasting the name. "Is that your name?"
She nodded, then pulled away with a sad little smile. Her silhouette disappeared into the brush as if she had never been there at all.
A mystery.
Back in the cavern, Niegal opened his eyes.
The memory faded like steam on cold stone.
He reached for the tin cup beside the brazier and poured himself a measure of dark rum. It tasted sharp and bitter, but he didn't mind. He let the burn travel down his throat, anchoring him in the present.
That had to have been eight, maybe nine years ago now. Just before his exile. Just before Lee Rosaria had turned the full force of the Church's suspicion on him. The timing… it gnawed at him. Had Lee seen them that day in the woods?
Was that moment the thread that unraveled his entire life?
He had no answers.
Only the memory of her eyes.
And the strange ache that never left him.