They walked for three days without stopping too long.
Yume said the Holy Court wouldn't send the same assassin again so soon.
But that didn't mean they were safe.
The boy barely slept. His body still burned from when he called his name. Sometimes at night, the mark on his chest would flicker on its own — like it was alive, whispering to itself.
They passed through ruined temples and dry rivers.
On the fourth morning, they reached a place Yume hadn't expected.
A village.
Old. Quiet.
Too quiet.
The buildings were made of stone and cracked wood. No guards. No smoke from chimneys. Just empty streets and the sound of wind between broken windows.
"We shouldn't be here," she whispered.
But before she could say more, the bell rang.
A soft one.
From the center of town.
Ding... ding... ding...
They turned slowly.
An old woman stood near the village shrine, ringing a bell tied to her wrist.
She was blindfolded. Her arms were covered in white cloth, but around her throat was a glowing symbol — faint, like it hadn't been used in years.
Yume stepped in front of the boy. "Stay behind me."
But the woman smiled.
"You've come home."
"What?" the boy whispered.
The woman turned her head toward him — though her eyes were covered, it felt like she could see right through him.
"We've waited long enough, Nameless Child. You were promised to us in the old ink. Written by a scribe whose name was erased."
The wind picked up.
The air felt strange.
And then, they heard it.
Voices.
From every house.
Doors opened slowly.
One by one, people stepped out — young, old, all dressed in gray robes. All with strange faded markings across their skin. Some glowing. Some long dead.
But all of them looked at him.
Some with awe.
Some with fear.
Some… with hope.
He stepped back. "What is this?"
Yume kept her dagger close, unsure.
The woman stepped forward. "This village was hidden when the gods still walked. We are the Keepers of the Nameless Flame. And you, child…"
She bowed slowly.
"...are the last word they ever spoke."
They were taken into a hall made of black stone.
Old names were carved into every wall. Some crossed out. Some glowing. Some scratched until unreadable.
The boy sat with his hands shaking.
The villagers gave him tea. They called him "Child of the Last Name." They didn't ask where he was from. They already seemed to know.
"Is this some kind of cult?" he whispered to Yume.
"No," she said, staring at the markings. "This… is ancient. These names… they're from before the Empire. Before the Court."
The old woman came back.
She carried a scroll tied in golden rope. When she opened it, the boy's heart almost stopped.
Because inside…
Was his name.
The one he'd shouted.
The cursed, divine, burning name.
Etched in ink older than any language.
"This is impossible," he muttered. "I didn't exist when this was written."
She nodded slowly.
"And yet… your voice woke it."
Later that night, the boy sat alone outside.
The stars were quiet above. The wind blew slow.
He looked at his hand.
It didn't glow now.
But he still felt it — that power — like something inside him was alive and waiting.
"Why me?" he whispered. "Why was I the one born with it?"
"Because your silence was louder than their names."
He turned.
A man stood behind him.
Not a villager.
Tall. Sharp. Wearing black leather armor. A symbol of the Holy Court carved across his jaw — not a tattoo, but a brand.
His blade was already halfway drawn.
"They lied to you," the man said. "There is no chosen one. Only curses passed through generations."
The boy froze.
Yume was still inside.
The village was asleep.
He was alone.
The man took one step forward.
And the air began to burn.
TO BE CONTINUED...