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CHAPTER 33 — THE BLOOD THAT ANSWERS
The night air tasted like iron.
Aren stood at the edge of the ruined courtyard, the moon casting a pale, broken circle over the shattered stones. The wind hissed through the cracks like a dying thing, and for a moment, he wondered if the world itself was exhaling in pain. His breath fogged in the cold air as he gripped his blade—though he couldn't remember drawing it.
The courtyard had once been part of the High Monastery. Now it looked like a skeleton. Burned walls. Fallen pillars. Smoke rising faintly from places where flames had died hours ago. This was where he'd been told the trail ended… the trail of the man who had spoken his name in whispers before vanishing into the night.
And the trail of the girl who seemed to appear only when the shadows deepened.
He tried to remember when he last saw her—Lira. Or was it Lyrr? Her name slipped in his head like a fish underwater. She had been beside him in the last battle. Or was that a dream? She had placed a hand on his shoulder. Or had she? Every time he tried to recall her face, it bent, flickered, fuzzed like smoke.
But he knew she existed.
He felt she existed.
A wrongness twisted in his chest.
A soft crunch echoed behind him.
Aren spun instantly, blade up.
The figure standing in the archway was small—barely his height—hooded, thin, and unmoving. For a moment he thought it was her, the girl whose presence always soothed the storm in his head, the girl who spoke in riddles that only sometimes made sense.
But then the wind shifted, and he smelled it.
Blood.
Rot.
The scent of something that had died but refused to lie still.
"Show yourself," he said, though his voice shook more than he wished.
The figure tilted its head. Slowly.
Aren stepped forward, gripping his sword tighter. "I won't ask again."
The hooded figure laughed.
But it wasn't a human laugh. It was layered—like the voices of children, women, men, and beasts all speaking at once. Aren's skin crawled as the figure lifted its head, revealing hollow eyes that glowed faintly red.
"You seek answers, Aren."
Hearing his name made his stomach drop.
"You seek the girl," the creature continued. "The one who clings to the edges of your mind like a shadow you cannot shake."
His pulse hammered. "Where is she?"
The creature spread its arms wide, sleeves falling back like torn wings.
"She is wherever you need her to be."
Aren's breathing faltered. The courtyard seemed to warp for a moment—shadows stretching like ink, stones bending like soft clay. He blinked hard and it returned to normal, but the creature hadn't moved.
"What do you mean?" Aren hissed.
The creature tilted its head again. "Tell me, Aren… when did you last look into her eyes? Not in memory. Not in the blur of battle. Truly look at her."
"I—" His voice caught.
He tried. He tried so hard. But the harder he tried, the more her face dissolved. Not into emptiness—into two faces, then three, shifting like reflections in broken glass. First soft and round, then sharp and angular. Dark hair. Light hair. Pale eyes. Black eyes.
No consistency.
No form.
His stomach twisted violently.
"What are you doing to me?" Aren growled.
"I am not doing anything," the creature rasped. "I am only showing you the cracks you refuse to see."
Aren stepped forward and slashed.
The blade cut through the figure like cutting through a veil of dust. The body crumbled instantly, dissolving into ash that swirled into the wind and vanished.
Silence fell.
Then—
"Aren."
He froze.
The voice behind him was soft. Familiar. Impossible.
He turned slowly.
And there she was.
The girl.
Lira—Lyrr—Lyn. Her face clearer than he had ever seen it. Eyes bright and wide. Hair falling neatly over her shoulders. She looked untouched by smoke or ash or blood.
She looked… almost unreal.
"You're here," Aren breathed, relief washing over him so fast he nearly staggered.
Her smile was small, trembling. "You shouldn't listen to things in the dark," she said softly. "They twist truths. They plant seeds that don't belong in your mind."
He stepped toward her, but she lifted a hand.
"Wait."
Her voice shivered.
"You have to promise me something."
"Anything."
"When the time comes… when you finally see everything clearly… don't hate me."
His chest tightened. "Why would I ever hate—"
She stepped forward and placed a finger gently against his lips.
Her touch was cold.
Too cold.
"Please," she whispered. "Just promise."
"I…" Aren swallowed. "I promise."
Her smile returned—but this time, it didn't reach her eyes.
A crack of thunder split the sky above them, violent and sudden.
Aren flinched—
And when he looked back up…
She was gone.
Only the wind remained.
Only his own breath fogging the air.
Only the faintest echo of her voice lingering like a ghost.
And Aren realized something chilling:
He didn't know if she had been standing there at all.
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