Lonir left the tannery district slowly.
Not because he was hesitant—but because his body no longer trusted speed.
Every step sent a dull pulse through his skull, a pressure a "click" that throbbed behind his eyes as though something inside his head was swollen, pressing outward, testing the limits of bone. His vision blurred at the edges, colors smearing when he moved too quickly. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to keep his posture straight, but his body sagged regardless—shoulders slumped, gait uneven, weight favoring one side.
People noticed.
They always did.
Not openly. Not with fear or hostility. Just… looks.
Lingering glances that followed him a fraction too long. Conversations that quieted when he passed. A woman pulling her child closer without knowing why. A man pausing mid-step, brow furrowing, instinct warning him that something was wrong with this man.
Lonir felt it without looking.
He had become dissonant—out of rhythm with the city. Like a wrong note sustained way too long.
His skin felt tight, stretched thin over bone. Scars itched beneath his clothes, some hot, some unnaturally cold. His right arm throbbed in slow waves, the lingering poison from the Sword of torment still circulating through his veins, whispering in a language his nerves were only beginning to understand.
He ignored it for now.
He had learned that attention was a luxury pain punished.
As the city thinned and stone gave way to dirt paths and crooked fences, the pressure in his head worsened. A headache, yes—but deeper than that. It felt targeted. As though something was pressing deliberately against his thoughts, testing how much strain his mind could endure before it fractured.
Lonir clenched his jaw.
"You're doing this on purpose," he muttered.
The covenant anchor rested against his hip, warm beneath the fabric. A steady presence. A reminder of the pain.
He waited for an answer.
None came.
That silence followed him all the way to the cemetery he was walking towards.
The graves lay on a gentle rise beyond the city's outer edge, rows of stone markers half-sunken into the earth, worn smooth by rain and neglect. The air here was different—quieter, heavier. Even the wind seemed reluctant to disturb the dead.
Lonir stopped at the familiar stone.
Just a shallow etching, eroded at the edges. Forgotten by everyone but him.
He stood there for a long time.
No tears came. They never did.
He simply looked.
At this miserable stone.
At this accursed yet endearing earth.
At the place where everything that had once anchored him had been buried and left behind.
"I'm leaving mom," he said at last.
His voice was flat. Informative. As though stating a fact rather than a a real farewell.
There was no response, of course ton. No comfort to be found here. Whatever had once been his mother was long gone, reclaimed by soil and time. This place was not sacred. It was simply… quiet.
Lonir turned away.
And felt it.
That subtle pressure at the back of his neck.
He froze.
The sensation wasn't out of paranoia. Just awareness—an itch between his shoulders, a certainty that space behind him was occupied.
He did not turn.
He waited for this feeling to fade.
It remained.
His headache spiked, a sharp lance of pain driving through his temples, forcing a hiss of breath from between his teeth. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms, grounding himself in the sensation.
When he finally turned—
There was nothing.
No movement among the gravestones. No shadow out of place. Just wind stirring dry grass and the silent patience of the dead.
Lonir exhaled slowly.
"Great," he murmured. "Now I'm imagining things."
Or worse.
He left the cemetery without looking back.
The road out of the city stretched long and empty, dirt packed hard by years of travel. The gates stood open, unattended. No guard challenged him. No one tried to stop him.
It was as if this diseased place was relieved to see him go.
As he walked, the stares faded, replaced by distance and open space. Yet the pressure did not leave him. If anything, it sharpened. The headache pulsed in time with his steps, each throb sending a ripple of unease through his thoughts.
He reached inward.
To the card.
To the presence that had never truly left him since the pact was sealed.
"You're quiet despair," Lonir said. "That's not like you."
Nothing.
He swallowed, throat dry.
"Don't be like this fucker," he continued, irritation bleeding through despite his attempt at calm. "Aren't you supposed to teach me something or two? Or is that part over now?"
Still nothing.
No vibration.
No mocking whisper.
No cruel guidance.
Just silence.
Lonir laughed softly—once, breathless and bitter.
"Figures."
The headache worsened suddenly.
Not randomly. Not naturally.
Deliberately.
He staggered, catching himself before he fell, vision narrowing as pain flared behind his eyes. For a moment, he thought he might vomit. His stomach churned, empty and sour.
"You're doing this to me," he realized aloud. "That's it, isn't it?"
Silence answered him.
But he felt it then—a faint satisfaction beneath the quiet. A pressure not unlike hunger, coiled and patient.
The god of despair did not need screams all the time.
Sometimes, it fed better on absence.
Lonir straightened, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Fine, do whatever."
If the city was dangerous—if stronger card users lingered there—then leaving had been the correct choice. He was not arrogant. He knew his limits. He knew how close he was to breaking.
A distant village.
Quiet roads.
No witnesses .
He would train there. Endure in silence. Learn how long he could hold the Sword. Learn how much pain his body could still process before the god took more from him.
And if the pain became unbearable—
He tightened his grip on the strap of his satchel.
He would endure anyway.
Behind him, far back on the road, something shifted.
Lonir did not turn.
He walked on.
Toward distance.
Toward isolation.
Toward a place where despair could work on him slowly—without interruption.
The clouds thickened overhead.
Rain would come again soon.
And when it did, he would be far from the city.
Far from help.
Exactly where despair preferred it to be.