It was quiet.
Not the kind of silence that brings peace, but the kind that settles over the lungs like a damp cloth. The passage breathed cold air, yet with every step it felt tighter, as if the grotto itself were deciding how much breath it was still willing to grant him.
Alvios limped onward.
His sword hung heavy in his hand, not because it weighed much, but because he did. Every muscle burned, every bone sounded like an old wooden plank bent too far. Blood clung to his sleeve, his fingers, the hilt. And despite everything, one thought kept pushing forward again and again, like a child unable to sit still.
How… did I do that?
He looked at his hand. The hand that had not existed moments ago. Slowly, he opened his fingers, as if it might vanish again with the next breath. The flesh pulled, as though it had paid a price he had yet to understand.
Sanitas.
He had tried it so many times. Again and again, until his patience ran dry. Until he had convinced himself he simply lacked the talent. When he focused, when he breathed, when he felt the flow… all that ever came was a faint tingling. Nothing more. No closing of wounds. No healing. Certainly nothing like this.
"Okay…" he murmured hoarsely, more to himself than to the cave. "Maybe it was just… luck."
He grimaced. Even he didn't believe that.
Alvios stopped. Leaned his shoulder briefly against the rock. Took a deep breath—and was immediately punished for it. A cough tore out of him. Blood tasted metallic. He swallowed it down as if it were water. Not because he wanted to be tough, but because he had to keep going.
He pressed his fingertips to the place where his hand had once been severed. Where the pain should have been screaming. And he tried again.
Sanitas. Please.
He forced his breathing to calm. One… two… three ticks—those tiny heartbeats of the Flow that travelers in Aeridor counted like seconds. He didn't want to chase the aether, didn't want to strangle it. He wanted to guide it. The way Raiiko always did when he grew still. The way Nouel did when he didn't even need to blink to hit his mark.
Nothing.
Not even a tingle.
Alvios let out a dry laugh, which instantly turned into a painful exhale. "Great. In the fight, I can do it… and now I'm just me again."
He pushed himself off the wall and kept going. Slow, but stubborn. He replayed the fight in his mind, frame by frame, as if flipping through a book that didn't belong to him. Some moments felt чуж—foreign. As if someone else had briefly rewritten the pages. As if his body had not been entirely his for a moment.
He pressed his lips together. No. Not now. Not here. First get out. Then think.
Then the grotto trembled.
At first, just a vibration in the soles of his feet. Then in his knees. Then in his chest. A roar rolled through the tunnels, so deep it didn't sound like noise at all, but like a hand shaking the world itself.
Alvios froze.
"What… was that?"
No answer came. Only the echo, wandering through the stone like an unseen beast you could feel but not see.
Please hold on, he thought, grinding his teeth together. Please. Not now. Not after everything.
He hurried forward. As best he could. This was no sprint anymore, not even a run. It was a storm battle against his own body. He stumbled, caught himself, stumbled again. Once he nearly fell. His fingers clawed into the ground, dust sticking to his palm. He didn't stay down.
"Don't lie down," he rasped. "Not now."
A tunnel stretched ahead of him. And then—eventually—there was another light. Not flickering cave-glow. Not an unsteady staff. But something… real. A strip of warmth, bright, almost painful to look at after so long.
He blinked. His vision swam.
At the end of the tunnel stood a figure.
The person raised a weapon. A bow. The stance was stable, but tense. Alvios heard a voice, sharp as a blade. He didn't immediately grasp the words—his head was ringing—but the meaning was unmistakable.
Stop. Show yourself. One more step and you die.
Alvios slowly raised both hands, as best he could. Not exaggerated. Not dramatic. Just… honest.
"Hey," he said roughly. "If you're about to shoot me, at least make sure I look good doing it."
The figure stiffened.
One breath. Then the bow lowered slightly.
"…Alvios?"
Nouel stepped into the light.
For a moment, Alvios saw only his eyes. That cool, clear green that never lost focus, even down here. Then he noticed the dust on Nouel's clothes, the sweat, the small cuts. And suddenly, the tightness of the grotto felt less suffocating.
"Nouel…" he managed, and had to swallow, because his throat was suddenly dry for reasons that had nothing to do with blood.
Nouel stowed the bow as if he had never drawn it and ran to him. Not panicked. Not chaotic. But fast enough that Alvios understood: he'd been worried. He just would never say it.
"You look," Nouel began, his voice so calm it was almost insulting, "like you tried to hug the grotto. With your face."
Alvios gave a weak grin. "And? Did it hug back?"
"It beat you up."
The grin didn't last. Alvios' knees gave out. Not dramatically. Just… logically. His body had made the decision long ago; he'd simply been too stubborn to accept it.
Nouel caught him. No cursing. No fuss. He held him firmly, shifted him into a stable position, like supporting an injured comrade after a hunting accident.
Alvios' voice dropped to a whisper. "Lucky… you're okay."
"Of course I'm okay," Nouel replied dryly. "I wasn't hit even once."
Alvios chuckled briefly, then coughed again. Nouel immediately pulled a small healing vial from his pouch. The glass clinked softly as he held it to Alvios' lips.
"Drink."
"You sound like my mother."
"Then drink even more."
Alvios took a sip. The potion was bitter, cool, like water poured over glowing stone. Almost instantly, he felt open wounds tighten, the burning ease. Not gone. But bearable. The exhaustion remained, heavy as lead.
"Fortunately," Nouel murmured as he stowed the vial, "I spotted this back on the ship. Never thought I'd need it this soon."
Alvios' eyelids grew heavy. He fought it—he didn't want to slip back into that emptiness—but his vision blurred.
"He's alive, right?"
The voice came from another passage. Deep. Calm. So familiar that even half-conscious, Alvios knew immediately who it was.
Raiiko stepped into the chamber.
His clothing was torn, scorched in places. The scent of smoke clung to him. And yet he looked… unbroken. Not pristine—Raiiko never was—but controlled.
Nouel gave a short nod. "He's alive."
Raiiko studied Alvios a moment too long. Not suspiciously. More as if he were examining something others couldn't see.
"Good," he said at last.
"Nice to see you," Nouel added, sounding almost uncomfortable with being kind. "How is it that you look like you ran through a fire… and still act like it was just wind?"
Raiiko shrugged faintly. "I can guide Sanitas."
Alvios' head twitched upward, even though he had no strength for it.
Raiiko continued, calm and precise. "Don't misunderstand. It's complicated. And it only heals… me. Not others."
Nouel showed no visible reaction. But his gaze sharpened just a fraction. He filed that away.
Then there were footsteps.
Slow. Uneven. As if each step had to decide whether it deserved to exist. And before anyone could speak, Viktoria appeared at the entrance.
She was clutching her shoulder, as if holding it in place by sheer will. Dried blood, dusty streaks across her armor. And yet—there was that look. Proud. Elegant. Almost offended that her body dared to be weak.
She saw Alvios.
And in a single breath, the pride vanished.
Viktoria ran to him, dropped to her knees, grabbed his cloak as if it were the only thing keeping him there.
"My prince," she said, her voice trembling despite how much she hated letting anyone hear it. "Please don't die on me."
Nouel gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "He's not dead. I gave him a healing potion."
Viktoria exhaled. It sounded dangerously close to a sob she swallowed at the last moment. "Thank you," she whispered—then straightened at once, pretending to be herself again. "Of course he's alive. Who else would rescue me when I don't feel like it?"
Nouel raised an eyebrow.
Raiiko stepped closer, his gaze drifting over Viktoria's back. The wound there wasn't fresh anymore—but it was deep enough to become a problem.
"Viktoria," he said evenly. "Your back looks bad. Even if it's not bleeding, we should treat it."
She flinched, as if he'd just told her she had to dance in public. In her worry for Alvios, she had simply forgotten her body was protesting.
Nouel pulled out a small bundle, checked it briefly, then shook his head. "No more potions. I've only got salve and bandages."
Viktoria grimaced. "Then… I'll survive like this."
"Infection isn't a heroic death," Raiiko replied calmly.
"I don't plan to die heroically," Viktoria snapped. "I plan to die beautifully. Much later. In the very distant future."
Nouel stared at her as if he needed to reassemble reality. "Viktoria. How am I supposed to bandage that if your armor's in the way?"
She turned her head aside, suddenly fascinated by the rock wall. "Then… just don't look."
"How am I supposed to—"
"Don't look," she repeated, in that tone that brooked no discussion despite making absolutely no sense.
Nouel opened his mouth, closed it again—and Alvios would have laughed if he hadn't been half-unconscious.
"…Fine," Nouel said at last, like someone signing a very stupid contract.
He raised a hand, and the Ventus Flow answered. Not loudly. Not spectacularly. More like an obedient breath that knew exactly what to do.
Nouel positioned himself so he could genuinely look away, while the salve floated in a thin current of air toward Viktoria's back, as if the wind itself had decided to be careful. It applied it with astonishing precision. No trembling. No smearing. Then came the bandages, also guided by Ventus, wrapping around her torso—firm enough to hold, gentle enough not to hurt. A small clasp clicked softly as everything settled.
Viktoria stood stiffly, cheeks faintly flushed, acting as though this were all perfectly normal.
Nouel cracked one eye open just enough to "accidentally" check if everything was secure.
"You cheated," Viktoria said immediately.
"No," Nouel replied flatly. "I worked… efficiently."
"Hm."
"Put your armor back on."
She did so like it was a royal insult to have ever been vulnerable. "You're welcome," Nouel muttered dryly to himself, and Raiiko, standing at the edge of the chamber, closed his eyes briefly—possibly meditating so he wouldn't laugh.
At that moment, Alvios stirred.
His eyelids opened slowly, as if even that were too much effort. At first, he saw only blurred shapes, then Nouel's face, then Viktoria's ears, then Raiiko's white eyes.
"Oh," he rasped. "Hi everyone. You're okay… good."
Viktoria immediately leaned toward him. "My prince, I was worried."
"And I was too," he murmured weakly. "I'm glad you're all alright."
Raiiko stepped closer. "I'm glad you all made it this far," he said honestly, though briefly. "But we must continue. This place is not finished with us."
Nouel nodded. "No one knows how long we've been here. And if that roar earlier—"
Viktoria grimaced. "Lovely. Truly. Sounded like something that wants to eat me."
Alvios struggled upright. The potion had stitched him together but hadn't refilled him. His shoulders sagged. Still, that fire—that go on—was back.
"Okay," he said, forcing himself to his feet. "Then let's go. And if something really is waiting out there…" He grinned crookedly. "…we'll pretend we have a plan."
"We never pretend," Nouel replied. "We usually do have one. You just don't."
"Hey!"
They gathered themselves. Then they entered the final passage.
The path was like the others, but somehow… more tense. The moss on the walls glowed more faintly. The air was less damp and heavier, as if Sanitas itself were pooling down here, unsure where to go.
After several dozen crowns—those brief spans travelers counted like minutes—the tunnel widened. The ground flattened. The chamber they entered was larger than anything before, but not like a hall. More like the inside of a forgotten stomach.
At its center stood a tree trunk.
Not alive. Not dead. Something in between. Its roots pierced the floor and ceiling, as if holding the space together. And within it… was a man.
Entangled in roots and earth. His head hung forward. His skin was gray like old stone. And yet… a flow emanated from him. Sanitas. Not like healing. More like a center. A heart beating too slowly.
Viktoria stopped. "What is that…?"
Raiiko said nothing, but his posture sharpened.
Nouel instinctively raised his bow. "The Flow comes from him," he murmured, as if reading the air.
Alvios stepped closer, cautiously. Sword in hand but not raised. Not aggressive. Almost… respectful. As if the grotto had led him to a boundary that couldn't be solved with steel.
Step by step.
He was close enough to smell it. Earth. Rot. Something ancient. And beneath it—a trace that reminded him of the village where they'd taken the contract. Woodsmoke. Damp planks. Voices pretending everything was normal.
Alvios gently placed a hand on the trapped man's shoulder.
No response.
"Guys," he said quietly, "something is very wrong here."
He turned around.
And his friends were gone.
Not behind him. Not beside him. Not lurking in shadow. Just… gone, as if someone had cut them out of the scene. Alvios' heart stumbled. His grip on the sword tightened.
Instead, two men stood in the chamber.
One wore a hooded robe, his face hidden. The other… looked like the man in the tree, only younger. Less decayed. As if this wasn't now—but then.
Between them stood a stone table.
On it lay a book.
Black. With a white border. Violet symbols scarred the cover like wounds. Alvios didn't recognize them. His mother had taught him many things—but not these.
The two men argued. Alvios heard their voices, but they sounded as if underwater, distorted, half-swallowed. It was about the book. About what it contained… or what it was.
The robed man reached for it.
In that moment, a black veil wrapped around him, like a shadow that obeyed no laws of light. The atmosphere shifted. It grew darker, though no light went out. Hotter, though there was no fire. And Alvios felt something that made him instinctively want to step back.
Not fear of an enemy.
Fear of something that doesn't need to fight to win.
The younger man tried to stop him. Grabbed his arm. It looked like desperation. But he was too late. The veil thickened, and in Alvios' ears came a rushing sound, like the Flow itself whispering—in a language he couldn't understand.
The room began to fade.
"No…" Alvios breathed, not knowing whom he was speaking to. "What is this?"
Everything went black.
Then he was back.
The tree trunk crumbled. The roots loosened, as if stripped of any reason to exist. Earth collapsed inward. The trapped man was no longer bound.
Nouel stood beside him again. Viktoria too. Raiiko at the edge, silent, like a shadow that had chosen to be seen.
All four stared at the chamber.
And then they understood.
The long grotto… was gone.
The branching paths… gone.
The space was no longer an endless underworld. It was a small cave. One single exit. Vast, open—and beyond it: sunlight.
Sunbeams poured in, so bright they had to squint. Dust danced within them like tiny aether sparks.
Viktoria slowly lifted her head. "…That's… daylight."
Nouel took a step forward and stopped, as if he didn't trust his own eyes.
"The village," he said quietly.
And indeed.
Right outside the cave entrance, as if the world had simply spat them out, lay the village where they had accepted the contract.
As if nothing had happened.
As if the grotto had only lent them these wounds and this experience…
and now returned them precisely to where it had all begun.