The path beyond the Circle of Chains was narrower now, winding through a forest that no longer looked like a forest. The trees were twisted and pale, like they'd been drained of color, and the sky above glowed faintly red, as if dawn and dusk were arguing over who should stay.
Coker didn't ask where they were going.
He just walked.
Lilin stayed close behind, but quieter than usual.
She hadn't spoken since they left the Chain Keeper's field. Not even a whisper. But her eyes flicked toward Coker now and then—not out of fear, not out of curiosity—but as if trying to memorize him again. Like she wasn't sure he'd stay the same for long.
The ground beneath them changed too. What was once dirt became stone, then glass, then a soft kind of moss that sang when stepped on.
Just faint humming.
Soft.
Lonely.
Like it missed the sound of feet.
Then, suddenly, they reached it.
A house.
Standing in the middle of nowhere.
Not large. Not small. Just a plain wooden house with a black roof and a single chimney puffing white smoke into the pinkish sky.
It shouldn't have been there.
But it was.
And it hummed.
Not from the wind, not from inside.
The *house* itself hummed.
Like it was alive.
---
Lilin stopped.
"This is it," she said softly.
Coker frowned. "What is?"
She looked at him. "Your beginning."
He shook his head. "I already remembered that. The fire. The throne of bones. The city that screamed."
She shook her head.
"No. That was the *end.* This is the part you forgot."
He took a breath and stepped forward.
The house welcomed him.
The door opened without a sound.
And the smell—warm tea, old paper, and firewood—washed over him like an old memory he didn't know he missed.
---
Inside, it was simple.
Wooden floor, round table, two chairs.
A kettle on the stove.
And a cradle.
Empty.
Dusty.
But rocked gently as if something unseen had just left.
Coker stepped in fully.
He didn't recognize it.
Not truly.
But something in him *ached.*
His mark pulsed once—not painfully—but like a heartbeat reaching for another.
Lilin stood at the door.
"You were found here," she said.
"By who?"
She walked in slowly, brushing her fingers across a dusty picture frame. The photo inside was burned beyond recognition.
"No one knows. The house was already here. But when they opened it, you were inside. Asleep. Wrapped in red cloth."
Coker stared at the cradle.
"I was born here?"
"No," she said. "But this is where the world found you."
He turned to her. "Then who put me here?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, the humming grew louder.
The house shook once.
And the kettle began to whistle.
But it wasn't steam.
It was *singing.*
---
Coker stepped toward it.
The stove cracked open.
And inside was no fire.
Only light.
And a voice—small, childlike, and ancient.
**"Do you want to see?"**
Coker blinked.
The voice came from the *light.*
He leaned closer.
"See what?"
**"Your first memory. Before the throne. Before the storm. Before the name you fear."**
He reached into the light.
And the room vanished.
---
Now he stood in a field of stars.
Not space.
Just stars. Floating like fireflies across an endless night.
In the center stood a woman.
Not Lilin.
Not Mina.
Someone else.
She wore white, and her hair was the color of the moon.
She held a baby in her arms.
The baby glowed with a faint red mark.
It was him.
Coker.
The woman looked down at the child and whispered:
**"I'm sorry. This is the only way you'll survive. I'll be the villain they curse if it means you live."**
Then she kissed the child's forehead.
And placed him into a bed of starlight.
The baby cried once.
And the stars answered.
Then the woman turned—
And walked into the dark.
Never looking back.
---
The vision ended.
Coker gasped.
Back in the house.
The kettle silent again.
The hum softer now.
Lilin looked at him. "You saw her."
He nodded. "She gave me away."
"She saved you."
"She left me."
"Both can be true."
---
Coker sat down.
His hands trembled slightly.
"She knew what I would become."
Lilin sat across from him.
"Maybe. Or maybe she only saw what you might become."
He looked at the cradle again.
It had stopped rocking.
"Do you think she's still alive?"
Lilin didn't answer right away.
Then: "I think the ones who gave you up never stop watching. Not really."
Coker closed his eyes.
For the first time, he didn't feel angry.
He felt *hollow.*
But not broken.
Just waiting to be filled with something new.
---
Outside, the wind shifted.
The hum turned into music.
Soft.
Welcoming.
And from the sky, feathers fell.
But they weren't white.
They were black.
Dozens of them.
Dozens of *wings.*
Falling.
Lilin stepped to the window and frowned. "They've seen the memory too."
"Who?"
"The Wingless."
Coker stood. "They're coming?"
"No," she said.
"They're *already here.*"
---
The floor cracked.
Not from below.
But from *within.*
The house let out a sigh.
And the humming became a whisper:
**"Wake the cradle. Or lose the name."**
Coker turned toward it.
But the cradle was no longer empty.
A child now sat inside.
Eyes glowing.
Smiling.
With *his face.*
---