The portal closed behind them with a muted hum, its darkness dissolving into the steady curtain of rain.
They stood at the edge of a vast river that shimmered with green-blue light, its surface rippling like liquid glass. Every drop that fell into it glowed faintly, as though the world itself breathed magic through the water. The rain never stopped—soft, constant, and oddly soothing, like a heartbeat that refused to fade.
Skuld tilted her head back, letting the mist hit her face. "It's beautiful," she murmured.
Kurai gave the rain a sidelong glance, unimpressed. Her hooded cloak hung heavy and dark, the droplets sliding down her sleeves in clean, perfect lines. "Endless rain," she muttered. "Even the sky here refuses to shut up."
Skuld smiled faintly, already used to the tone. "Maybe it's trying to say something worth listening to."
"If whining counts as wisdom," Kurai replied dryly, her voice smooth as wet stone. She stepped forward, boots splashing through shallow puddles. "Let's move. Standing around admiring the weather won't make this world trust us."
The landscape stretched endlessly—a flooded expanse of ruins and forest. Twisting trees rose from the water like the ribs of old giants, their leaves slick and iridescent. Above them, colossal dragon statues jutted from cliffsides, moss creeping along their carved scales. Even in decay, they seemed alive, watching.
They followed a half-submerged path marked by old stone lanterns. Skuld noticed faint carvings on them—spirals, droplets, and dragons circling orbs of light. "It's like the whole world was built to honor dragons."
Kurai's eyes swept the skyline. "Or to contain them. It would surprise me if some got greedy," she said softly, almost to herself.
The rain grew heavier as they walked. The sound of rushing water echoed through the valley, mixing with the distant thrum of thunder. Occasionally, they'd pass remnants of civilization—collapsed bridges, broken pottery, tattered banners caught in the current. The colors had all faded, except for traces of gold embroidered with dragon scales.
"This must've been one of the tribes," Skuld said. "Before something… broke them apart."
"People always break apart," Kurai said, stepping over a fallen beam. "The World just follows the trend."
Skuld glanced at her. "You say that like you've seen it happen before."
Kurai's lips twitched in something like a smile. "You're still naïve enough to think this is my first time seeing such a thing, little girl?"
Skuld laughed lightly, though there was a thread of sadness in it. "I prefer to believe people can rebuild."
"That's your problem," Kurai said, brushing rain from her hair. "You believe in nothing."
They reached higher ground—stone steps leading up to a cluster of homes built on stilts above the water. Each house glowed softly from within, light spilling out through thin paper walls. Lanterns hung beneath the platforms, their flames encased in glass shaped like raindrops. Smoke rose from narrow chimneys, vanishing into the mist.
As they approached, a few villagers turned to look. They were wrapped in woven cloaks of dragon-scale silk that shimmered faintly when wet. Their faces were cautious but not hostile—just tired, like people who had seen too many floods to fear another one.
One of the elders, a small woman with cloud-white hair tied into a bun, stepped forward holding a curved umbrella made from giant leaves. "Travelers," she said, her voice soft but steady. "Few come this way anymore. The river has been hungry."
Kurai raised a brow. "Hungry?"
"The currents change," the woman explained. "People vanish. Boats sink. We say the river eats those who forget the path home."
Skuld bowed her head respectfully. "We'll be careful. We didn't mean to intrude."
The old woman smiled faintly. "If you carry no malice, the rain will guide you. But beware—it forgets mercy faster than men."
Kurai crossed her arms, unimpressed. "That's comforting."
Skuld shot her a look. "She means well."
"I'm sure she does," Kurai said, her tone cool and dismissive. "I just prefer my omens without the useless poetic garnish."
The elder only chuckled and handed Skuld a small charm—a teardrop of polished stone. "A Rainstone," she said. "To remind the sky not to forget you."
"Thank you," Skuld said warmly. She tied it to her belt.
Kurai didn't accept one, merely giving a curt nod. "If the sky wants to forget me, I'll return the favor."
The villagers exchanged glances but said nothing more. As Skuld and Kurai left, the sound of chanting drifted over the water—a rhythmic hum rising from the stilt houses, deep and resonant. It didn't sound mournful. It sounded like endurance.
They stopped near a fallen temple at the edge of the jungle. The structure was cracked open, half-swallowed by vines, its dragon carvings eroded to ghostly outlines. Skuld lit a small fire under the remains of the roof. The flames hissed and sputtered against the damp air, but held.
Kurai leaned against a pillar, arms folded, eyes on the distant lightning. "This world feels… restless."
"It's hurting," Skuld said quietly, watching the fire. "The rain's trying to heal it."
Kurai's tone turned mocking. "Rain doesn't heal. It erases."
"Or maybe it remembers everything," Skuld countered gently. "Every tear, every flood—it's all part of its memory."
Kurai's gaze flicked toward her. "You sound like a sermon."
"Someone has to balance your cynicism."
That earned a faint smirk. "You mistake realism for cynicism."
"You mistake isolation for strength," Skuld replied without looking up.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain softened, turning into a delicate mist that shimmered against the temple's broken stone. Fireflies drifted between them, tiny sparks of gold in the grey air.
Finally, Skuld spoke again, voice low. "You don't sleep much, do you?"
Kurai didn't turn. "I don't like what waits when I do."
"Dreams? Guilt?"
"Guilt? No way." Her tone didn't waver. "There are many thoughts inside my head, but sometimes it's too much."
Skuld's gaze softened. "You know… not every voice in the dark means harm."
Kurai's eyes met hers—sharp, unreadable. "Haven't had many, huh. You'd be surprised how many do."
The air between them hung heavy with unspoken things. The fire crackled quietly, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled across the valley.
They both looked up as a faint shimmer rippled across the clouds—light bending, forming for just a second the outline of a dragon's face in the storm. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, like an echo swallowed by rain.
Skuld blinked. "Did you see—?"
"Nothing," Kurai said sharply, standing. "Get some rest."
Skuld wanted to argue but didn't. She just watched as Kurai stepped into the rain, her silhouette fading into the mist until only the faint glint of her eyes remained.
For a while, Skuld sat alone by the fire, the Rainstone warm against her hip. The storm whispered above her, endless, eternal, and alive—like the world itself was listening.