Nima stood before the tree her mother had once planted—the lantern still hung from its lowest bough, but it was no longer glowing. The wind that once whispered stories had gone still, and the sea below the cliff was eerily calm, like it too was holding its breath.
The bark had darkened.
Roots curled upward slightly, like fingers mid-clench.
It wasn't dead.
But it was… listening.
She pressed her palm to the base.
"I remember," she whispered, not knowing exactly what she meant.
And the earth trembled.
A seam opened in the roots—not a crack, but a deliberate fold—revealing a hollow space no larger than a cradle. Inside lay a shard of obsidian, bound in faded linen, marked with the same split mask from the letter.
She reached for it.
The moment her skin touched stone, her breath caught—
A voice—not her own—entered her mind.
"You are not her. But you carry the same wound."
Nima staggered back.
"Who's there?"
No answer. Only the flicker of wind now stirring, rustling dead leaves and whispers long buried. She cradled the shard, feeling its subtle pulse.
And then—the sea roared.
From the mist below the cliff, a boat approached—no oars, no sail, just shadows inside. Silent figures cloaked in crimson fog. They did not speak, but each held a small lantern in their hand—unlit.
One of them stepped ashore, lowering their hood.
An old woman. Skin like paper ash. Eyes so white they glowed faintly.
She bowed.
"Daughter of the Lantern Queen," she said, "we have come not to honor the past… but to reclaim what was stolen from it."
Nima's heart pounded.
"What did we steal?"
The woman extended a hand, gnarled but steady.
"The names we were never allowed to keep."
Behind her, more boats appeared.
And with them, the wind turned crimson.