"And let's say… let's say it's all true," said Althar. His voice came out like a shaky breath from his lips. "He entered without divinity. But when he was sent to the center... how did they not realize he wasn't Artemus? Wasn't his divinity measured? Wasn't his identity verified?"
This time, his words weren't merely inquisitive — beneath them lay a layer of fear. The kind of fear where you want an answer but know you can't bear the weight of it. He couldn't meet Liora's gaze. His fingers clutched the edge of the table, as if he could tear something from the wood.
Liora took a step forward, but it wasn't a challenge — more a desire to share the burden she carried. Her shoulders were low; but her gaze didn't waver for a second.
"In the first report I sent to the center," she said slowly, "it was clearly stated that he had no divinity. My observations, records, and testimony included. Everything was by the book. But…"
The determination in her voice faltered for a moment.
"Just minutes before the report was to be sent, a direct order came through. 'Send him to the center without interrogation,' it said. Protocols were bypassed. No questioning, no verification… just an order."
She paused. Her throat seemed choked up. It was clearly difficult even to remember.
"I felt something was wrong," she continued. "But… they gave the order. So I sent him."
She briefly looked away. On her face was a regret born of her own decisions. And a hidden detail within… slipped from her lips without resistance:
"I made him drink water infused with divinity, thinking they might summon him to the center. Because… if he tried to pass through just like that, he would've died before even stepping into the Realm. He was defenseless."
Althar's eyes narrowed. He said nothing, but his face spoke volumes. A state of mind caught between suspicion and comprehension.
Liora spoke again. This time more sincerely, more slowly, almost like a confession:
"Then I went to the center myself. But he wasn't there."
She fell silent.
Her eyes, staring into the void, wandered near the edge of another truth. Her voice thinned, almost turning into a whisper:
"There was no record of him. No trace… as if he never existed. He hadn't even been questioned. They… took him somewhere entirely different. The Palace."
That word struck the room like a harsh echo bouncing off the walls.
Althar recoiled instinctively, almost a step backward. He no longer hid the expression on his face. No — this wasn't fear, but something even more dangerous: the realization that the world he knew, its rules and chains, was beginning to crack.
A long silence followed. Neither Liora nor Althar spoke. Time continued to pass, like the ticking of an old clock.
At last, Althar sank into his chair. He fixed his gaze on a single point. Dazed yet sharp… a reflection of a mind trying to piece things together.
"If what you say is true…" he said. "Then this is just another game of the nobles. A staged performance of justice to calm the people's rage. They were going to present someone as Artemus to the public. Say, 'Look,' they'd say, 'justice has been served. The judiciary has done its job.' That way, the rebellion would ease a little. Clever."
He stood up. Walked toward Liora with a slow, worn, but still firm step.
"But now… now they think that boy escaped. Which means the public's reaction will grow stronger. They'll feel deceived. The wave of anger will rise even higher."
Liora opened her mouth to speak, but Althar raised his hand. He continued:
"Still, you did well."
His voice softened for a moment. But then he turned serious again:
"Don't forget this: The man you brought… he is definitely not an ordinary person. If he was able to step into the wheel of time in the surface world without divinity… that proves he is not normal. Don't take your eyes off him, Liora. Be careful."
Liora bowed her head and said, "Understood, sir," then quietly turned toward the door. But before her hand even touched the handle, a voice came from behind her.
It wasn't harsh, nor was it authoritative. In that voice was hesitation, worry, perhaps even a fragile search for trust.
"Liora..."
She stopped.
"There's still nothing you want to tell me, is there?"
Liora paused for a moment. Her eyes fixed on the floor. Inside, a flicker of hesitation stirred — small, silent like a shadow… but she didn't let it spill outward.
"No," she said. Firm, deep, and clear. Not too loud, not too soft. Just as it was.
Then she turned without hesitation, opened the door, and walked out quickly.
As the door closed, a short breeze swept through the room. Althar stared at the door for a while. Then he sighed and leaned back in his chair. His eyes still gazed into the void, but his mind had already traveled far.
Into a dark, twisted, and decayed order.
—
Under dim lights, the windows of a tavern had fogged over. Snippets of laughter rising from inside mixed with the slurred, loosened tongues of alcohol-softened patrons — drifting out with the wind like drunken whispers.
Kael sat at the corner of the bar, perched on the edge of a wooden stool. He held the drink in front of him with his right hand, slowly turning the glass. The liquid inside swirled lazily against the glass walls. His gaze wasn't truly on the glass, yet it remained stuck there.
Sitting across from him was Mark — a man slightly older, his face carved with the sharp lines of a life well-lived. His shirt was crumpled, his voice hoarse, but speaking with a familiar weariness. His cheeks were flushed; partly from drink, partly from repressed anger.
Kael spoke without lifting his eyes. As if asking himself a question, yet needing to hear the answer from someone else:
"Do you think… any of this madness means anything?"
Mark turned his eyes to him. He paused a moment. Then took another sip from his drink. When he set the glass down, a dull thud echoed on the wooden surface.
"Life?" he said. "We start everything believing it does. But then… you realize. Meaning for one person means trampling someone else's meaning."
Kael still hadn't looked away from the glass. But a bitter smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Mark leaned back in his chair. Looking up toward the ceiling beams, he opened his arms.
"Listen," he said, his voice suddenly turning stern. "Let this be some older-brother advice. Life is a graveyard of those who waste away chasing meaning. You can't live without purpose. But purpose doesn't have to be something grand or epic."
He raised his hand in the air, let out a hollow laugh.
"Some want to be rich, some just want a job, and some… just want someone to say 'good morning' when they wake up. That alone is enough. Because purpose reminds you who you are."
Kael placed his glass on the table. His fingers lightly tapped against the glass. He tilted his head slightly. His voice was quiet, with an almost invisible smile:
"What if you don't want to remember?"
At that moment, Mark lost his cheer. He looked straight at Kael. Into the gray void in Kael's eyes, where a silent past twisted within.
"In that case," Mark said, in a tone filled with a sigh, "life will find a way to remind you. Through a name… a sin… or the smile of a woman."
Kael laughed at that moment.
Sudden, short, and cold laughter. Inside his laugh was weariness, heartbreak — but most of all, denial.
"A person?" he said. A slight tremble in his eyes. He turned his gaze to Mark — not looking at him, but almost passing through him.
"In my life… after I lost the only person I could ever call 'family,'" he continued, his voice even lower, "life… lost its meaning. In that darkness… that silent, scattered collapse… someone pulled me out, even just a little. I was young. Maybe I was foolish. But I loved her."
A brief pause. He gripped the glass in his hand tightly.
"Three years. Three whole years… And then, right before my eyes… Without shame, without feeling…"
His voice cracked. Silence settled over the room.
Mark blinked. Then took another sip of his drink. And suddenly, he did the only thing a drunk man could:
He started laughing. Loudly, roughly, with a bitter laughter steeped in anger.
"Women…" he muttered. "They're all the same, damn it. If you can't hold on to her, she'll leave. If you look to her for everything, she'll forget you. If you believe her words, she'll keep you dangling. Damn them all!"
He cursed for a while. Some curses were unintelligible, some painfully clear. Then, wiping his chapped lips, he turned to Kael. His face now held only seriousness. His booming voice echoed against the tavern's wooden walls:
"You fool!"
The words landed like a slap.
"That's exactly it. That's the point. You're still carrying the past with you. And in doing so, you're breaking apart. With every step, every breath, you're sinking deeper into that swamp. What you lost doesn't matter…"
He pointed at the table with his finger. Not like striking — more like revealing a secret:
"What matters is what you'll become."
"What you'll become right now. Who you'll be. And what kind of person you'll turn into. The past gave you pain, yes. But if you let it shape you, that's when you lose. Let the pain build you. But don't let it rule you."
Without taking his eyes off Kael, he continued:
"Listen to me. In this world, a grave is dug inside every person. Some step into it, some step on top of it and rise. It's your choice. Either you become what they buried… or the one who buries them."
Mark raised his drink, extending it to Kael without blinking.
"Let go of the past. Start now. Decide what you'll become now."