The rain fell without mercy.
Mo Lianyin stood at the edge of the cliff, his robes soaked and clinging to his skin like mourning silk. The cold bit into his bones, but he did not move, did not flinch. He could feel it again—that voice. Faint, like a forgotten lullaby carried on the wind.
"Lianyin… come back."
It wasn't real. He knew that. It couldn't be. That voice was long gone, buried with the ashes of trust and family. And yet, in the silence between heartbeats, he still searched for it, hoping it might lead him to a truth that had been stolen.
Behind him, the ruined path twisted like a broken spine. The fight with the bandits had left more than bruises. His blade, now dull with blood and sorrow, hung heavy at his side. He was tired—of running, of remembering, of surviving.
A flutter of white caught his eye.
Descending the hill toward him was a figure, hooded, untouched by the storm. Each step they took left no mark on the muddy ground, as if they were made of mist. Lianyin's hand gripped his sword, though he didn't lift it.
"Who are you?" His voice was hoarse.
The figure stopped a few feet away and slowly pushed back the hood.
She was beautiful in a way that hurt. Pale skin, eyes like hollow moons, lips that curved with secrets. But what truly shook him was the pendant at her throat—a twisted crescent of black stone.
Only one clan forged such an artifact.
"The Nightveil Sect," he breathed.
She nodded. "My name is Arayne. I've been watching you, Mo Lianyin."
His heart stuttered. No one had called him by his full name in months, not since the massacre. Not since the betrayal.
"Why?" he asked, voice guarded.
"Because you survived what no one should have. And because your pain hums through the threads of fate." She stepped closer. "We need someone like you."
He narrowed his eyes. "Need me? For what?"
"The Forbidden Arts."
The words cracked like lightning across the sky. Lianyin's jaw clenched.
"I'm done with that path."
"But it's not done with you," Arayne said softly. "You've already touched it. You called the first sigil, didn't you? The night of the fire… You spoke the name of the First Flame."
Lianyin felt his stomach churn. He had. In desperation, in grief, he had screamed out words etched in his father's hidden scrolls. And something had answered.
"I don't know what I unleashed."
"You unleashed truth," she said. "And if you follow it… you may find the ones who betrayed you."
His blood turned to ice. "You know who killed my clan?"
Arayne's eyes glimmered. "I know enough. But knowledge has a price."
He looked down at his scarred hands, the rain washing away the dirt but not the guilt. "I've paid enough."
"No," she whispered. "You've only begun."
Suddenly, the rain slowed. Not stopped, but suspended—as if time had faltered. The air thickened, like a breath held too long. From the pendant around Arayne's neck, a soft hum began to resonate, and the ground trembled.
She held out her hand.
"Come with me, Lianyin. Let us teach you what was stolen from you. Let us help you take it back."
He didn't move. Not for a long time.
Behind him lay ashes, bones, and silence. Ahead, danger, darkness, and unknown truths. But somewhere deep inside, past the fear and fury, was a fire that hadn't died.
He stepped forward.
Her fingers wrapped around his, warm despite the cold.
And just like that, the rain fell again—but this time, he didn't feel it. Only the promise of reckoning.