Kael stopped carving.
For the first time in weeks, his hands were still.
The stones, the symbols, the songs—all of it felt distant now. Faint echoes of a life trying to hold itself together.
Because last night, in the mist, he had heard a name.
Not one given.
Not one remembered.
But one he felt.
And it had nearly undone him.
---
He hadn't spoken it aloud. Not to Aila. Not to Oran.
Not even to the fire.
The name lived inside him now, waiting. Heavy.
---
The mist returned at dawn.
It didn't consume. It watched.
Kael could feel it pressing at the edge of memory, testing. Not trying to take. Trying to see.
And so, he let it.
Just once.
He stood alone at the mist's edge and whispered the name.
It responded with silence.
And yet something inside him shifted.
A weight moved.
And a memory he didn't know he had flickered—a child's voice, calling for him.
Not Kael.
But that other name.
---
He staggered back.
Aila caught him before he fell.
