They did not speak for most of the morning.
The wind was light, and the trees whispered to themselves in a language older than voices. Elijah walked behind the others, his thoughts empty but heavy. Every few steps, he glanced back, as if expecting the sky to tear open again.
It hadn't.
The Wound was gone.
Or maybe it had simply closed.
He didn't understand how this world worked — only that it bled where it wasn't supposed to, and people kept walking anyway.
Ahead, Mara raised a hand, signaling to stop. They were moving along an old stone path that climbed through a sparse forest of dry pine. Here and there, the ancient road cracked with frost or vanished entirely under creeping moss. Even nature looked tired.
"There's a stream nearby," she said. "We rest. Refill our flasks. Then head east before nightfall."
Kell dropped his pack with a groan. "I think my soul's leaking out my ears."
"No one's soul leaks," Derin muttered. "Not like that."
"You'd be surprised," Kell replied. "I've seen stranger things than leaking souls."
"Name one."
"A bird that talked. Had opinions on politics. It died choking on a nail."
Elijah sat on a smooth rock, listening to them bicker. It was strange how normal they sounded — like last night hadn't happened. Like the village hadn't vanished. Like they hadn't seen the sky rip apart and monsters crawl out of it.
Maybe that was how they survived.
Derin moved a few paces away and drew his short blade, practicing slow, quiet forms. Mara was by the stream, running water over her palms. Kell laid flat in the grass, staring at the clouds like they might reveal something worth knowing.
And Elijah… just watched.
He didn't know what he was supposed to be.
When he looked inward, he didn't feel power. No burning core of energy. No divine echo. No whispers from ancient gods. Just… confusion. And the hollow weight of having survived when others hadn't.
He hadn't even known the names of the villagers who died.
That bothered him more than it should have.
Mara sat beside him after a while, her hands wet from the stream, her eyes watching the trees.
"Your voice is clear," she said. "No tremble. No accent I recognize. You carry yourself like someone used to silence."
Elijah stayed quiet.
"You don't have to tell me where you're from," she continued. "But you should know… the world doesn't take kindly to strangeness. The gods give their Graces only to those they favor. Anyone else — anyone without a clear Path — is suspect."
"I didn't ask for this," Elijah murmured.
Mara nodded. "None of us did."
She stood. "We'll reach the old tower by dusk. It's abandoned, but solid. And higher ground. We'll sleep there."
The tower was barely visible through the trees — a crooked shadow on a low hill, choked in vines and bramble. The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time they reached its base.
Once, long ago, it might have been a watchpost. Stonework still held, though time had cracked much of it. A spiral stair wound up its spine, and old arrow slits let in fading orange light.
Kell coughed as he stepped inside. "Smells like mold and ghosts."
"I prefer mold," Derin muttered, checking corners with his blade drawn.
They made a small camp on the top floor — open to the sky, though the clouds hung low. A fire crackled in the old hearth, and for a while, the world felt a little less broken.
Elijah leaned on the stone ledge, looking out over the dark hills. Far below, he saw no lights. No torches. No towns. Just shadow.
"Do the gods ever come down?" he asked suddenly.
Derin laughed softly behind him. "You mean walk among us? Like the old stories?"
"Yes."
"They used to," Mara said. "So the legends claim. Back when the world was young. When the First Paths were given. But not anymore. They whisper from their temples now. Send visions. Maybe a miracle if you're lucky."
Kell poked the fire. "Or a nightmare if you're not."
"Are the gods… real?" Elijah asked.
Mara turned her eyes to him. In the firelight, they looked older.
"They're real enough to demand worship," she said. "And cruel enough to deserve it."
Later that night, Elijah dreamed.
He stood in a field of ash. The sky was empty — no stars, no moon, just endless black. The ground beneath him pulsed, as if something massive slept below.
He heard footsteps.
He turned — and saw a child.
A little girl, no more than six or seven, wearing a dress made of stitched feathers. Her eyes were wide and glassy. She didn't speak, only pointed behind him.
Elijah turned.
The field was gone.
There was a wall now — endless and smooth, like glass melted into shape. And behind it — something watching. No shape. No form. Just… presence.
He felt it looking at him.
Not as a person.
But as a tool. A door. A crack in the wall.
He woke gasping.
Morning came gray and wet. Mist curled over the hills like dying breath. Kell made a weak soup from dried roots and salt. No one spoke much.
As they prepared to move again, Elijah lingered near the tower's edge, staring at the mist below.
Derin approached, arms crossed.
"You've seen something," he said quietly.
Elijah didn't deny it.
"You should be careful," Derin continued. "The world listens. Even when the gods don't."
By midday, they reached the edge of a ruined bridge — stone pillars cracked and leaning over a dry riverbed. The wood was long gone, and the stones too risky to cross.
"We go around," Mara said. "Half a day lost, but we won't risk the drop."
Kell groaned, but followed.
They moved along the bank, deeper into the woods. Birds had gone silent. Even the wind felt strained, as if holding its breath.
Elijah walked last, his fingers brushing the bark of the trees as they passed. Some of them were warm. Too warm. As if the forest were feverish.
Then — a noise.
Low. Wet. A dragging sound.
Mara stopped. Raised her hand.
They listened.
The noise came again.
Kell readied his staff. Derin crouched low, blades drawn.
Something moved between the trees.
Then it stepped into view.
A man.
Or what used to be one.
His body was half-melted — bones showing through soft flesh, eyes sunken, skin blackened as if burned from within. He dragged his left leg behind him, and in his right hand, he clutched something glowing — a small, pulsing shard, violet and trembling.
"Elijah," the man wheezed.
Everyone turned.
Elijah's blood froze.
The man stumbled forward.
"Elijah… do you remember the fall?"
Elijah took a step back. "I don't know you."
The man screamed — not with anger, but with despair. He collapsed, hand outstretched, the shard rolling free.
Kell grabbed it before anyone else could.
"What is this?" he whispered.
The shard pulsed once. Then dimmed.
Mara knelt by the dead man's body. "He's not from this region. His robes… foreign. Old style."
Derin frowned. "He knew Elijah's name."
"He's mistaken," Elijah said quietly. "I've never seen him before."
No one argued. But no one believed him either.
That night, they didn't light a fire.
They slept in shifts.
Elijah sat awake under the trees, the shard tucked in his pocket, still cold. He turned it in his fingers, listening to the distant hum it gave off — like a heartbeat trying to remember its rhythm.
He thought of the man's eyes.
The way he'd looked at him.
Like someone who had followed a dream for too long… and finally woken up too late.