The canopy had long since thinned, and with each mile they walked, the rain behind them softened into memory. Mist no longer curled around Ravine's ankles. The hush of water dripping from mossy leaves had given way to dry rustle and brittle branches. They had left the forest behind—left the cradle of grief and soft decay, of silence that held stories like soil held roots.
Now, the sky above stretched too wide. The clouds had split apart. Sunlight poured down in clean, gold sheets, unfiltered. Unapologetic. It gleamed off every stone, caught in the curve of distant hills, warmed the path beneath their feet until Ravine felt the heat seep through her boots.
And she didn't like it.
She kept her gaze low as they walked, one hand brushing the edges of her cloak, the other resting near the pendant she kept hidden beneath it. The Bloom, the artifact everyone remembered but no one truly knew.
She missed the rain.
It had wrapped her like a second skin since the moment she woke in the Dead Zone. Gentle. Ever-present. It muffled things. Held her grief without question. The world made more sense when it cried alongside her.
But this sunlight—this clarity—felt different. It exposed. It watched. It was not cruel, not hot enough to burn, but it had no softness. No veil.
She felt seen. Too seen.
Arana walked beside her, quiet but steady, as always. Her steps were practiced, her gaze flicking between horizon points. Always aware, always present. A tether to now.
Eventually, as the day tilted toward late afternoon, they stopped beneath a sparse tree—the only real shade for miles. Ravine sat slowly, her limbs aching in a way they hadn't in the forest. There, her body had blended with the earth. Here, it jarred against it.
"I didn't think I'd miss the rain," Ravine said quietly.
Arana looked at her, expression unreadable.
"It's easy to miss what holds your grief," she replied. "The sun doesn't carry it for you. It makes you wear it in full view."
Ravine's fingers curled against her knees. "It feels… like the world is peeling something away from me."
Arana gave a small nod. "Because it is."
A long silence settled between them.
Then, Arana unhooked her waterskin, took a sip, and passed it over.
"You don't have to like where we go next," she said. "But you need to go. Because the next piece waits there. The next name."
Ravine didn't answer. She looked out over the distant hills, where pale towers shimmered faintly in the heat.
Theralis.
A place of precision. Of memory made rigid. A city where truths were etched in stone and anything that defied definition—like grief, or immortality—was quietly erased.
She didn't fear its laws. Not yet. What she feared was the weight of clarity. The cold logic of remembering too much.
Because here, between regions—between rain and sun, between blurred memory and sharp answers—she still had a veil.
And soon, even that would be gone.
That night, they made camp by a low ridge. The air stayed warm even after the sun dipped behind the hills. Ravine lay curled in her bedroll, eyes open, watching the stars emerge.
She thought of Eryn's Garden, of the petals she'd touched, the memories that had bloomed like half-sung lullabies.
And she wondered—if each name she uncovered brought her closer to truth…
…what would be left of her by the end?
She touched the Bloom again. It didn't pulse. It simply existed.
But in her chest, something stirred. A memory. A hum. A grief that hadn't finished blooming.
She closed her eyes.
And waited for morning.