The change was so sudden it bent the air itself.
One heartbeat, Nameless stood ankle-deep in the ash meadow, its blossoms withered and gray, the silence clinging like a shroud. The next—everything peeled away. The cliff, the rot, the wind. Gone.
Warmth struck his face.
He blinked—and the world was gold.
A field stretched out forever, wheat swaying like waves under a sun too bright, too merciless. The breeze carried laughter. Children's laughter. A bell chimed somewhere beyond the hill, clear and innocent, so unlike the screams he had grown used to.
After so long in the dark, the light was unbearable. It didn't just shine. It scoured.
And there she was.
A woman.
Her hair, black as night, swayed in the golden wind. Her face—untouched by sorrow, by ruin, by blood. Her eyes found him, alive and glistening, as if the years of despair had never existed.
She smiled.
"Nameless…"
It wasn't only a name. It was a memory—slipping into him like water into dry soil. His chest clenched. He knew her. He didn't know how, didn't know why, but he knew her.
He stepped forward before he realized, drawn like a man walking into his own grave. The grass seemed to pull him closer, bending beneath his feet.
Then—he saw her feet.
They didn't touch the ground. The stalks bent away from her, recoiling. And in her eyes—deep inside—blue light flickered. Not mercy's blue. The blue of chains.
His heart wrenched. The warmth turned heavy. Wrong.
And then—
A hand clamped his shoulder. Cold. Merciless.
The world shattered.
The sun cracked. The field split. Laughter broke into screams, bells dissolved into silence. The wheat burned to ash. Light bled away into mist, and the meadow of rot roared back around him.
Nameless staggered, sucking in the foul air like it was salvation. The illusion clung to him, sweet as poison, its aftertaste still burning in his veins. His heartbeat thundered—louder than battle, louder than any blade.
The glow retreated into the treeline. Faint. Patient. Watching.
"Don't look at it again."
Ryne's voice cut sharp. Her grip stayed firm on his shoulder, as though she knew he might stumble back into that light. Her eyes burned through the haze of her smoke.
Nameless didn't answer. His hand twitched near his blade, but what good was steel against something like that?
Her tone softened—not kind, but edged with warning. "Next time, you won't come back."
He kept his gaze on the trees. For an instant, he saw her again—standing in the shadows. Her smile waiting. Her eyes alive.
He turned away, jaw clenched. "It wasn't her."
"Oh?" Ryne's lips curved, cruel and amused. "Then why did you move as though you'd been starving and someone handed you bread?"
He stayed silent.
She tilted her head, smoke curling around her like a veil. "Illusions are never strangers, Nameless. They dig in your marrow. They find what you desire most and wear its skin. That woman? Whoever she was, she's carved into you. They reached for it. And you answered."
He forced the ache down. "It won't happen again."
Her laugh was quiet, bitter. "That's what everyone says—before they're gone." She leaned closer, voice low, almost whispering. "Do you know why it worked? Because you wanted it to. Because part of you would rather die in her arms than walk this ash with me."
Her words cut deeper than the illusion.
His eyes narrowed. "…And what would you know about what I want?"
"Enough." Her smile was faint, sharp. "I saw your eyes. You almost gave yourself away. Not to me—to them, the illusion."
He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword until the leather groaned.
"They don't kill," Ryne said. "They don't need to. They replace. You'd still walk. Still fight. Still talk. But you wouldn't be you anymore. Just a shell, smiling at a dream."
Silence pressed down. Heavy. Ash swirled in the wind like dead snow.
Finally, Nameless spoke. "…You stopped me."
Ryne shrugged, feigning indifference, though her eyes lingered on him. "Don't mistake it for kindness. You're useful. And…" she exhaled smoke slowly, "I wanted to see if you'd resist. You didn't."
"Then why bother?"
Her gaze sharpened, sudden and cold. "Because I don't walk with ghosts. If you'd crossed fully, I'd have left you there."
The words hit like a blade. But he didn't flinch.
Instead, he said softly, "I've fought too long to lose myself for something like that."
She chuckled darkly. "Then prove it. Every time you hear them whisper, every time they wear her face—prove it. Or one day you won't even know you've already been taken."
Her words lingered. Like a curse.
They walked on. South.
The silence between them was thick—not empty, but heavy with what almost broke him. The meadow stretched endless, the horizon black and unyielding.
After a long time, Ryne's voice slipped into the quiet, almost to herself. "The cruelest illusions aren't lies. They're truths you once held."
Nameless turned his head toward her.
But she didn't meet his gaze.
"Remember that," she whispered.
And neither spoke again.
As they kept going, the path curved downward into a valley where flowers bloomed from bone. White ribs jutted out of the earth like broken fences, draped in petals red as open wounds. The blossoms swayed in a breeze that carried whispers, faint as old laughter. Each step left no echo—only the muted crunch of skulls beneath their boots.
And then, the fog ahead thinned.
A city revealed itself.
It did not stand against the valley—it had grown out of it. Towers of black obsidian twisted together with skeletal roots of something ancient, forming spires that scraped the ash-filled sky. The architecture curled like thorns, jagged and merciless. Lanterns floated above the streets, unchained, motionless, dripping pale light that clung to walls as if it didn't belong to the air at all.
Nameless slowed. His eyes narrowed. The city was watching.
Then he saw them.
People.
Not corpses. Not hollow shades. Living, breathing humans.
Ryne froze mid-step. "Are those… humans?"
Nameless's gaze stayed forward. His voice was flat, heavy."I don't trust what bleeds and smiles at once."
They pressed on.
The city moved around them—but it was no scene of joy. Children darted barefoot through alleys, quick and silent. Men with sunken eyes hauled crates heavy enough to crush their spines. Women bartered in whispers, stitched torn cloth, sharpened dull blades. Every gesture carried the same rhythm—endurance. Survival slowed to a crawl.
From the drifting fog, she came.
A streak of crimson against the gray.
Her robe was deep blood-red silk, patterned with black flames that coiled like wings of some forgotten beast. It was beautiful, yet shaped for war—its wide sleeves shifting with the quiet readiness of muscle beneath. A black sash bound her waist, knotted with a single crimson-thread blossom, a symbol carried only by killers who lived long enough to care for small beauty.
Her hair was a river of shadow, long and unbound, tied in places with red cords—more practical than pretty, meant to stay clear when steel was drawn. And there was steel: a sword hung low in her hand, its weight familiar, an extension of her arm.
Her scar cut deep across her cheek, an old wound that refused to fade. It spoke of battles fought head-on, of blades that aimed to kill—and failed only once.
Her eyes locked onto them. Gray, cold, unflinching. The gaze of a hunter choosing if what she saw was prey… or something worse.
When she spoke, her voice was hammered iron.
"You're not demons," she said slowly. "And no one crosses the blossoms alive unless they've already been through hell."
Ryne's lips curled into a faint smirk. "We've seen worse than hell."
The woman studied them. Blood-stained. Silent. Out of place. Her tone shifted, not softer—just heavier, edged with warning.
"Then welcome to Araveth," she said. "The last breath of the First Realm."
Nameless did not blink. His hand lingered on the hilt of his blade. Ryne inclined her head politely, her smile sharper than respect.
The woman turned, raising her hand. Men hurried forward without hesitation.
"Take them in," she commanded. "Clean the blood from their skin. They already look like wrath and rot—our children don't need more nightmares."