Morning crept through the seams of the shutters, casting long, pale fingers across the wooden floorboards. The light was thin and cold, more a presence than warmth, as though the sun itself remained reluctant to rise. Within the modest inn room, Liam stirred, eyes flickering open with the sluggishness of one whose mind had not yet decided whether to greet the world or retreat from it.
He lay still for a moment, the rough linen sheets clinging to his limbs, a faint chill in the air pricking at his skin. The wooden ceiling above bore the same unchanging texture as it had the night before—no cracks, no blood, no illusions. Reality held, for better or worse.
"I'm still here," he muttered to no one.
The silence that followed was not oppressive, only indifferent. He pushed himself upright, rubbing at his face, the white of his hair falling into his eyes. Outside, the town had already begun to move. He heard distant voices, the low creak of wagon wheels, the occasional bark of a dog. Redfern Hollow, for all its obscurity, woke early and without ceremony.
He rose, stepped barefoot across the creaking floorboards, and drew aside the curtain.
The street below was narrow and damp, lined with aging buildings that leaned slightly with time. Smoke climbed from chimneys. A few vendors were already unpacking crates, their breath visible in the cold air. It was, by all appearances, an ordinary morning.
Yet Liam could not shake the feeling that he was standing inside a story the world had forgotten to finish.
He dressed without hurry. The coat he'd borrowed—plain wool, patched at the elbow—fit awkwardly at the shoulders. The revolver he hid beneath it settled against his side with a weight that reminded him this world played by rules different from Earth. He adjusted the strap of his satchel, the edge of a steel dagger peeking out, and cast one last look around the room before stepping into the hall.
Downstairs, the scent of garlic and cured meat greeted him first.
Meera was already behind the counter, wiping it down with a damp cloth. She looked up, unsurprised, and smiled as he descended the stairs.
"Well, the lost prince awakens," she said. "I thought I'd have to drag you down myself."
Liam nodded politely. "Good morning, Big Sis."
She gestured to a table near the hearth. "Sit. I'll bring your plate. Don't go starving before your so-called walk."
He did as told, watching the flames twist within the hearthstones while Meera disappeared into the kitchen. His thoughts wandered—to the world beyond Redfern Hollow, to the road ahead, and finally to the rumor that had re-emerged in his mind the moment he recognized this town.
[The Easter Egg].
He had almost dismissed it as a curiosity. A remnant from the game's sixth arc. A piece of half-broken code that had slipped past the developers and turned into myth. Only fifty players, out of two hundred millions, had ever claimed it. None had shared the reward. Only the method to begin the sequence had survived.
[Bread. Birds. Stillness].
Liam wasn't certain it would exist here in this living, breathing version of Elyndra. Yet something about the silence beneath the surface of Redfern Hollow made him believe it might.
And that was reason enough to try.
Meera returned with a plate and a pot of tea. The breakfast was simple: thick garlic bread, two slices of roasted bacon, and a poached egg with a soft yolk. She poured the tea herself before sitting opposite him.
"Off to poke around the market today?" she asked casually.
"Something like that," Liam said, lifting the cup.
She narrowed her eyes a little, but said nothing more. He could feel the weight of her gaze, not suspicious, but curious. Protective, perhaps. The kind of wariness that came from seeing enough young men wander off with grand ideas and return with none.
When he finished the last bite, he thanked her again. She waved him off with a grunt, but there was a softness in her expression.
Outside, the sky had cleared slightly. The clouds broke apart, revealing veins of blue like light seeping through old parchment. Liam took a quieter route through town, avoiding the main street. The path he followed curved between stone walls and abandoned alleyways, forgotten even by the locals.
The chapel came into view, half-collapsed, its once-grand tower now leaning precariously like a relic burdened by memory. He passed beneath its shadow, boots muffled by wet moss and fallen leaves.
Behind the chapel lay the well.
Time had not been kind to it. Cracks split the stone lip. Moss clung to every surface. It was overgrown, half-swallowed by ivy. The symbol at its center had faded almost entirely, but Liam could still make out the outline—a droplet suspended in flame.
He knelt.
From his coat he drew a few hard crusts of bread—scraps from last night's meal. He broke them, placing one piece each at the cardinal points around the well. Then he sat back and waited.
The wind shifted.
Moments passed. Then came the birds.
A red robin alighted on the chapel's ruin. A blue jay fluttered down from the eaves. A pale dove landed silently upon a headstone. Last of all, a one-eyed crow descended from the sky and perched atop the well itself.
Each took its piece. None made a sound.
Liam stood.
The well remained still.
But the air changed.
A hum, faint as breath on glass, began to rise from beneath the stone. The moss stirred. Ivy withdrew. The symbol beneath his feet burned faintly with a pale blue light.
Without a word, Liam pressed his palm against the stone.
The sensation was immediate. A coldness flooded his arm, not painful, but ancient. The symbol brightened, then vanished.
The ground shifted.
And the world gave way beneath him.