Damon hadn't slept well.
Even after the exhaustion had finally dragged him into sleep, some part of him had remained restless, caught between the desperate need to close his eyes and the fear of opening them again.
But morning had come.
Light slipped through the narrow gap between the curtains, spreading across the floorboards and climbing slowly over the foot of the bed. Somewhere outside, people were already moving through the streets. Voices drifted up from below, mixed with the occasional clatter of dishes and the creak of carts passing along the road.
It sounded like an ordinary morning.
For one brief, fragile moment, Damon almost believed it was.
Then he turned his head.
The flames were still there.
Dark, unnatural flames clung to Owen and Cassian, twisting around their bodies without burning their clothes or leaving so much as a mark. The daylight did nothing to soften them. If anything, seeing them so clearly made the sight worse.
Damon's breath caught.
No. No, this can't be happening.
He pushed himself upright, his eyes darting between them. Owen was asleep on the other bed, while Cassian sat slumped in the chair near the wall, his head tilted slightly to one side. Neither of them appeared aware of what was happening around them.
They looked like his friends.
They sounded like his friends.
But Damon couldn't make himself forget what he saw.
He had to leave.
The thought came so suddenly that he was already out of bed before he'd fully considered it. He crossed the room, reached for the handle, and pulled.
Nothing.
He tried again, harder this time.
The door rattled in its frame but refused to move.
Damon stared at the handle.
"Come on," he whispered.
He turned it again, pushing his shoulder against the wood. The door gave a dull thud, but the lock held.
"Please. Come on, open."
He pulled the handle up, then down, trying to find some trick that would make it give way. His fingers had begun to tremble.
Please, just open. Please.
Another sharp tug sent the door banging against its frame.
Behind him, the chair creaked.
Cassian stirred, his brows drawing together as the noise dragged him out of sleep. He lifted his head slowly, blinking as though it took him a moment to remember where he was.
Owen shifted on the bed, muttered something incoherent, and pulled himself halfway awake.
"What…" Owen rubbed his face and squinted toward the door. "What's going on?"
Damon didn't turn around.
He couldn't.
His attention remained fixed on the handle, on the narrow space between the door and its frame, on anything that might give him a way out.
Cassian looked at him for a moment, still heavy with sleep.
Then he noticed the way Damon was holding himself—the rigid shoulders, the frantic movements, the way he kept trying the same locked door as though stopping for even a second would be unbearable.
"What are you doing, Damon?" he asked, his voice rough and low with sleep.
Damon flinched at the sound.
Cassian's expression changed.
He pushed himself upright in the chair, planted his feet on the floor, and slowly rose. He didn't move toward Damon immediately. Instead, he glanced at Owen, who was now sitting up and watching them with growing concern.
"Damon?" Cassian tried again, more gently.
"Don't."
The word came out so quickly that Damon seemed startled by it himself.
Cassian stopped.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Cassian took one careful step forward.
"I'm not going to touch you," he said quietly. "All right? Just look at me for a second."
Damon's grip tightened around the handle.
He didn't want to look.
He already knew what he would see.
"It's okay," Cassian continued, keeping his voice steady. "Whatever's frightening you, you don't have to explain it right now. Just step away from the door before you hurt yourself."
The kindness in his voice made everything worse.
If Cassian had shouted at him, if he'd demanded an explanation or tried to drag him away from the door, Damon might have found it easier to keep fighting. He could have told himself that the person approaching him wasn't really Cassian.
But this was Cassian.
The same quiet patience. The same careful distance. The same voice that had tried to reassure him when he could barely stand to be near either of them.
Damon glanced over his shoulder.
For an instant, his eyes met Cassian's.
He saw the concern there. The confusion, too, and the unmistakable effort Cassian was making to keep from frightening him further.
Damon's expression faltered.
His lips parted as though he wanted to say something. Perhaps an apology. Perhaps an explanation he didn't understand himself.
Instead, his face crumpled into something painfully sad.
He couldn't stay.
Not even for Cassian.
Cassian noticed the change in his expression and softened further.
"Damon, listen to me." He took another slow step, then stopped when Damon stiffened. "You don't have to be afraid of me."
Damon lowered his gaze.
I know.
That was the worst part.
He knew Cassian was trying to help him. He knew the person speaking to him was the friend who had given him space when he needed it and stayed close when he finally accepted it.
But the flames were still there.
And no amount of kindness could make Damon unsee them.
"Please," Cassian said, almost pleading now. "Don't run away like this. Talk to me."
Damon swallowed hard.
For one terrible second, he nearly let go of the handle.
Nearly turned around.
Nearly allowed himself to believe that if he stayed close enough to Cassian, if he listened to that familiar voice for a little longer, the fear might finally loosen its hold on him.
Then the flames shifted in his vision.
His fingers tightened again.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Cassian barely had time to respond.
With a desperate cry of frustration, Damon threw his weight against the door. The wood shuddered. He stumbled back, caught himself, and struck it again, ignoring the sharp ache in his shoulder.
"Damon, wait—"
The lock gave with a sudden crack.
The door swung open.
Damon didn't hesitate. He rushed through the opening and bolted into the corridor without looking back.
"Damon!"
Cassian's voice followed him.
Damon heard it. Of course he heard it.
His whole body reacted to that single word, a part of him wanting to stop, turn around, and go back to the one person who had been trying so hard to make him feel safe.
But he kept running.
Behind him, Cassian stood frozen beside the broken door, still trying to understand how everything had happened so quickly.
Owen had scrambled off the bed.
"What the hell—?"
"Stay here," Cassian said, already moving toward the corridor.
He looked down the passage just in time to catch a glimpse of Damon disappearing around the corner.
"Damon, wait!"
Damon ran faster.
He took the stairs too quickly, nearly missing the last step, and burst into the inn's reception area. The sudden movement startled a man carrying a tray. Someone pulled a chair aside, and a voice rose in surprise as Damon rushed past.
He barely registered any of it.
He was almost at the entrance when he collided with someone coming from the opposite direction.
The impact sent him staggering backward.
"Whoa! Easy there!"
A pair of hands caught his arms before he could fall. Damon looked up to find the inn manager staring at him, startled and concerned.
"Are you all right, lad?" the man asked. "What happened? Did someone—"
Damon's eyes moved past his face.
The flames.
They were there, curling around the manager just as they had around Cassian and Owen. For a moment, Damon couldn't even hear the rest of the man's question. The man's mouth was moving, his hands still holding Damon's arms, but all Damon could see was that impossible darkness.
He pulled free.
"Hey! Wait a minute!" the manager called after him. "You can't just—"
Damon was already through the entrance.
The morning air struck his face as he stumbled onto the street. He looked from one person to another, desperately searching for someone—anyone—who looked normal.
Then he saw the market.
People moved between the stalls, carrying baskets and bargaining over goods. A vendor arranged fresh produce on a wooden table. Two men argued over the price of a sack, while a woman led a child through the crowd.
And everywhere Damon looked, the flames followed.
His steps faltered.
A cold, dreadful understanding began to settle over him.
Whatever was happening, it hadn't ended when he woke up.
It hadn't even changed with the morning.
Damon pressed a trembling hand against his chest, trying to force air into his lungs. His eyes swept across the crowded street one more time, searching for a face he could trust.
There was none.
So he ran into the market, disappearing between the stalls before anyone could stop him.
"..."
Damon ran until the market swallowed him.
The narrow streets opened into a crowded stretch of stalls, their awnings casting uneven shadows over baskets of vegetables, piles of grain, folded fabrics, and rows of little trinkets displayed on wooden tables. The air carried the smell of freshly baked bread, spices, and damp earth. Vendors called out their prices, customers argued over coins, and children darted between adults who barely spared them a glance.
It was ordinary.
Everything looked painfully ordinary.
Except for the flames.
Damon slowed near a stall, one hand gripping the edge of a wooden table as he tried to steady himself. His chest rose and fell too quickly. He looked at the vendor arranging a row of clay pots, hoping—almost begging—to find that the man was different from the people inside the inn.
Dark flames curled around the vendor's shoulders.
Damon recoiled.
The vendor looked up. "You buying something, lad?"
Damon shook his head and stumbled away.
He turned toward a woman standing beside a basket of fruit. Flames surrounded her, too. A few steps farther, an elderly man sat on a low stool, counting the coins in his palm. The same darkness clung to him, moving faintly whenever he shifted.
No.
Damon kept walking, his gaze darting from one face to another.
A young mother lifted her child so the little one could see a painted wooden horse. The child laughed and reached for it, completely unaware of anything unusual. Yet even they seemed wrapped in that terrible, flickering darkness.
Damon stopped.
For a moment, the market noise seemed to recede. He could still see mouths moving, hands exchanging money, people smiling and talking as though the world had remained exactly as it should be.
But to him, the whole place had become something else.
It was like standing among the dead while everyone else carried on living.
His stomach tightened.
What is this?
He looked down at his own hands, turning them over as though the answer might somehow be written on his skin. They were trembling. That was all. No flames, no strange marks, nothing to explain why everyone around him looked wrong.
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
"Stop," he whispered to himself. "Just stop."
Perhaps it was his exhaustion. Perhaps he was still trapped in a nightmare, one that had followed him out of the inn and into the waking world. Perhaps if he closed his eyes long enough, counted to ten, and opened them again, he would see the market as it truly was.
He tried.
One.
Two.
Three.
When he opened his eyes, a man passed directly in front of him.
Flames.
Damon stepped back so abruptly that he bumped into another customer.
"Watch where you're going!" the man snapped.
"Sorry."
The apology escaped automatically. Damon didn't wait for a response.
He pushed through the crowd, trying to find a street with fewer people. Every face he passed made his heart beat harder. The more he searched for someone untouched by the flames, the more impossible the task seemed.
A group of children raced past him, laughing as they chased a rolling hoop. An old woman called after them to slow down. Two merchants stood beneath a faded canopy, arguing over a delivery. A young man carried a stack of wooden crates toward a shop.
All of them had flames.
Damon turned down a side street.
It was narrower than the market, with small houses pressed close together and laundry hanging above the passage. He made it only a short distance before a woman opened her door and stepped outside with a bowl in her hands.
He froze.
She looked directly at him.
"Are you lost?"
Damon couldn't answer.
Her expression shifted from casual curiosity to concern. "You don't look well. Should I call someone?"
He backed away.
"No."
The word came out too sharply.
The woman blinked.
Damon forced himself to look at her face rather than the darkness surrounding it. He tried to remember that she was a person, someone who had simply asked whether he needed help.
"I'm fine," he managed.
Then he turned and hurried away before she could ask anything else.
He couldn't keep doing this.
He couldn't spend the entire morning running from every person who approached him. He couldn't keep staring at people he knew nothing about, wondering what those flames meant or whether the people beneath them were still the same people they had always been.
And yet, he couldn't make himself stop looking.
Because what if the next person was different?
What if there was someone in Bellgrave who could explain what he was seeing?
He reached the end of the passage and paused beside a stone wall, breathing through the tightness in his chest. Beyond the rooftops, he could see the upper portion of a building with a tall, narrow roof. A few people were moving along the road in that direction, dressed more formally than the market crowd.
Damon barely noticed them.
His thoughts kept returning to the inn.
To Owen waking in confusion.
To Cassian rising slowly from the chair, careful not to frighten him.
To that voice asking him not to run away.
His expression crumpled for a moment before he forced himself to look away.
I'm sorry, Cassian.
He hadn't wanted to leave like that. He hadn't wanted to hear Cassian calling after him and keep running as though their friendship meant nothing.
But he had seen the flames.
And he couldn't stay.
Damon pushed away from the wall and started walking again, keeping to the edges of the street. He had no plan, no destination, and no idea how far he could go before someone stopped him.
He only knew that returning to the inn was impossible.
For now, he needed somewhere to disappear.
Somewhere he could breathe without another frightened glance, another concerned question, or another familiar face surrounded by that dreadful darkness.
He followed the flow of people toward the larger building ahead, lowering his head as he went.
He didn't know what it was yet.
He didn't know who would be waiting inside.
He only knew that he couldn't remain in the open, surrounded by people he could no longer bear to look at.
"..."
Damon reached the church almost without realizing where he was going.
People were gathering near the entrance, dressed in their finest clothes and carrying flowers. Curious, he glanced toward the doorway and understood that a wedding was taking place that morning.
He hadn't known about it. He had only been looking for somewhere to hide.
When a group of guests entered, Damon slipped inside with them, keeping his head lowered. The church was crowded, and nobody seemed interested in the stranger lingering near the back.
For the first time since leaving the inn, he thought he might be able to breathe.
Then he looked up.
The flames were everywhere.
They surrounded the guests sitting in the wooden benches, the children beside their parents, and the church sisters arranging flowers near the altar. Even the other fathers had the same dark flames curling around them.
Damon's fingers tightened around the edge of a bench.
His gaze shifted toward the bride and groom. They stood together near the altar, smiling at each other while the ceremony continued, seemingly unaware of the darkness surrounding them.
Everyone… even them?
He looked away, struggling to steady his breathing.
Then he noticed Father Alastair.
Unlike everyone else, the priest appeared completely normal. No flames, no strange shadows—nothing.
Damon blinked and looked again, wondering whether the light had deceived him.
It hadn't.
Father Alastair continued the ceremony calmly, speaking to the couple as though nothing in the world was wrong.
Damon watched him, unease slowly replacing some of his fear.
Why him?
He had no answer, and he wasn't foolish enough to confront the priest without knowing what was happening. For now, he could only observe and keep himself hidden.
When the ceremony ended, applause filled the church. Guests rose to congratulate the couple, and the crowd gradually began to disperse.
Damon remained near the back, waiting until the movement gave him a chance to slip aside unnoticed.
His eyes followed Father Alastair once more.
Everyone else was surrounded by flames.
Only the priest wasn't.
Damon didn't know what that meant, but he couldn't ignore it anymore.
And he intended to find out why.
"..."
Damon waited until most of the wedding guests had left the church.
As the church sisters began clearing the flowers and arranging the benches, Father Alastair exchanged a few final words with them before heading toward the rooms behind the main hall.
Damon followed at a distance.
The priest walked through a narrow passage and entered a room at the end. Damon stopped near its window, which stood slightly ajar, and cautiously peered inside.
The room was modest and orderly. A writing desk stood beside a stack of books, while a tall wooden wardrobe occupied the far corner.
Father Alastair crossed the room and opened the wardrobe. After moving several garments aside, he revealed a narrow wooden door concealed behind them.
Damon leaned forward, barely daring to breathe.
The priest glanced toward the room's entrance before stepping through the hidden doorway. A moment later, it closed behind him, leaving the room apparently empty.
Damon stared at the wardrobe.
Where did he go?
He wanted to get a closer look, but he couldn't risk being caught watching through the window. Instead, he moved toward the room's entrance and cautiously tried the handle.
Locked.
He tried once more, turning it carefully, but the door refused to open.
Damon glanced back at the window. He couldn't simply walk inside, and forcing the entrance would make enough noise to alert anyone nearby.
Frustration tightened his expression.
Whatever Father Alastair had hidden behind that wardrobe, Damon couldn't reach it—not without drawing attention to himself.
He stepped away from the door and returned to the passage, keeping his movements quiet.
He had seen enough to know that the priest was hiding something.
But for now, the secret behind that door would have to remain a secret.
"..."
Damon had barely reached the end of the passage when voices from the church entrance made him stop.
He turned toward the sound.
Cassian.
Damon recognised him immediately, even from a distance. His height, his familiar clothes, and the way he moved through the crowd left no room for doubt.
For a moment, Damon forgot to move.
Cassian was speaking to one of the church sisters, his expression tense with concern.
"I'm looking for a friend," he explained. "He may have come here this morning. Have you seen him?"
The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry. There have been many people here today."
"Did anyone leave alone? A young man, around my height?"
She thought for a moment before shaking her head again.
Cassian thanked her and approached another person nearby, repeating his question. He checked the entrance, looked through the remaining guests, and asked the church sisters whether anyone had noticed Damon.
Nobody had.
Damon watched from behind a stone pillar, his chest tightening.
Cassian hadn't given up. Even after Damon had fled without explaining anything, he had come looking for him.
A part of Damon wanted to step out.
He wanted to tell Cassian that he was sorry, that he hadn't meant to hurt him, and that he still trusted the person he knew beneath those terrible flames.
But then he looked more closely.
The darkness was still there.
Damon's fingers curled against the pillar.
I'm sorry, Cassian. I just can't.
Cassian turned toward the passage, scanning the area as though he hoped Damon might appear if he looked hard enough.
Damon immediately stepped back.
He waited until Cassian moved toward another group of people, then slipped through a side passage and disappeared before his friend could catch sight of him.
He didn't look back.
He couldn't risk it.
Not when the sight of Cassian was still enough to make him want to return.
"..."
Damon returned to the market through a narrow street, keeping his head down as he moved between the stalls.
He was tired of running, but stopping felt even worse. Cassian was somewhere behind him, still searching, and Damon couldn't bear the thought of facing him while the flames remained unchanged.
He needed to leave Bellgrave.
But how?
He had no idea which road led out of the village, and wandering through unfamiliar streets would only draw attention to himself. He paused beside a stack of wooden crates, searching for some way to get beyond the crowded market without being noticed.
That was when he saw the carriage.
It stood near the far end of the street, its rear compartment open while two men loaded sacks and wooden boxes inside. The driver checked the harness as another worker secured a bundle beneath the seat.
The carriage looked ready to depart.
Damon watched the men carefully. They were occupied with their work, barely paying attention to the people passing nearby.
His gaze shifted to the open compartment.
It wasn't much of a plan. He didn't know where the carriage was going, how long the journey would take, or what he would do once he got there.
But it was a way out.
Damon swallowed and waited until one of the workers carried a large sack toward the other side of the carriage. While the men were distracted, he slipped behind the stacked goods and climbed into the back.
He squeezed himself into the narrow space between several crates, pulling a loose covering over his legs. The wood pressed uncomfortably against his side, and he had to hold his breath when footsteps approached.
"Is everything loaded?" someone called.
"Almost. Give me a moment."
A box landed beside Damon with a heavy thud. He flinched but stayed silent.
A little later, the rear compartment was closed, shutting out most of the light. He heard the driver climb onto the front seat, followed by the familiar creak of the harness.
Then the carriage began to move.
Damon held himself still as the wheels rolled over the uneven road. He didn't know where he was going.
However, Bellgrave was moving farther away from him.
And for now, that was enough.
"..."
The carriage jolted over the uneven road, making the crates shift around Damon.
He stayed curled between the goods, one hand gripping the edge of a wooden box whenever the wheels struck a rut. The cramped space left little room to move, and every sudden sound made him fear that someone had discovered him.
Eventually, the carriage slowed.
"Careful with those!" a man called from outside. "Put the smaller boxes over there."
The rear compartment opened, and daylight spilled across the goods.
Damon remained still while the workers began unloading. When their footsteps moved farther away, he carefully slipped out from behind the crates and climbed down the opposite side.
Nobody noticed him.
He hurried away from the carriage, putting some distance between himself and the men before finally stopping beside the road.
Then he looked around.
The flames were gone.
He stared at his hands, then turned toward the workers. The driver was helping unload the remaining sacks, his face completely normal. Damon remembered seeing flames surrounding that same man in Bellgrave.
Yet here, outside the village, there was nothing.
Damon's breath caught.
So it really is Bellgrave.
Damon approached the driver cautiously, trying to steady his breathing.
"Excuse me, sir. You came from Bellgrave, didn't you?"
The driver glanced at him while arranging the remaining sacks.
"Yes, I did. Why are you asking?"
Damon hesitated, searching for the right words.
"Didn't you notice anything strange inside the village? Anything unusual about the people, the streets, or the church?"
The driver stopped arranging the sacks and looked at him properly.
"Strange in what way?"
Damon struggled to explain what he had witnessed.
"There was a wedding at the church. The place was beautifully decorated, and the entire village seemed alive. The market was crowded, people were walking through the streets, and everything looked completely normal. Didn't any of that seem strange to you?"
The driver stared at him, visibly confused.
"What wedding are you talking about?"
"The wedding inside the church," Damon replied quickly. "I saw it myself before leaving the village."
The man exchanged a brief glance with one of the workers before turning back toward Damon.
"You saw a wedding in Bellgrave?"
"Yes, and the market was still running when I left. People were buying things, talking, and moving around as though it were an ordinary day."
Damon paused, hoping the driver would finally understand what he meant.
"But you must have noticed something. You were there too, weren't you?"
"I went there to collect things from the graveyard," the driver explained. "I wasn't there to observe the villagers."
"But you passed through the village, didn't you?" Damon pressed. "You must have seen the streets."
The driver frowned before answering.
"Young man, Bellgrave has been abandoned for years. There shouldn't be anyone living there, let alone holding a wedding."
Damon felt his stomach tighten.
"Abandoned? But I came from there this morning!"
The driver stopped moving entirely.
"What do you mean, this morning?"
"I left Bellgrave earlier today," Damon insisted. "I saw the wedding, and I saw the market. Everything was happening when I was there."
The driver looked toward the sky before turning back to him.
"I entered Bellgrave at four this afternoon. It's only five forty-five now, and I certainly didn't see any wedding or crowded market."
Damon stared at him, unable to respond.
"Four in the afternoon?" he repeated quietly.
"Yes. We went there to collect whatever could still be salvaged from the graveyard. We arrived, gathered the things, and came back. That's all."
"But that can't be right," Damon whispered. "I was there for hours. I saw the people, spoke to them, and watched the wedding preparations."
The driver studied him with growing concern.
"I don't know what you saw, but nobody lives in Bellgrave anymore. We only visit occasionally to collect things, and we never stay longer than necessary."
Damon's thoughts began to race.
If the driver had entered Bellgrave at four and returned before six, how could Damon have experienced an entire morning there? And if the village was abandoned, who were all those people he had seen?
"What about the church?" Damon asked, desperate for another answer. "Have you heard anything about the coffins or the people who disappeared?"
The driver shook his head.
"I know nothing about missing people or coffins. I wouldn't recommend asking too many questions about that place, either."
"Please, sir. I just need to understand what's happening."
The driver gave him a troubled look before returning to his work.
"I'm sorry, young man. I cannot tell you anything more."
Damon remained beside the road, feeling as though the ground beneath him had shifted.
The driver had entered Bellgrave that very afternoon, yet his experience contradicted everything Damon remembered. The village Damon had left that morning was crowded and alive, filled with people preparing for a wedding. The village the driver described had been abandoned for years.
And the difference wasn't merely what they had seen.
It was the time itself.
Damon pressed a hand against the nearest crate to steady himself.
He had escaped Bellgrave hoping to find answers beyond its boundaries, but the world outside had given him something far more frightening.
What if Bellgrave wasn't simply hiding the truth, but changing it for everyone who entered?
"..."
Damon stood beside the carriage, unable to forget the driver's words. Four in the afternoon. Yet Damon remembered leaving Bellgrave while the morning sun still hung above the rooftops.
Something was wrong with the village, but now he had proof that the problem extended beyond what he could see.
He reached for his academy badge, his fingers trembling slightly. It was the only thing he possessed that still belonged to a world he understood.
After a moment's hesitation, he pressed the communication mark.
The badge pulsed faintly before a familiar voice answered.
"Hello? Who is this?"
"Professor, this is Damon Rell from Team One. Please, I need your help."
"Damon? What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
"No, Professor. I'm outside Bellgrave, but the others are still inside. I had to leave. I couldn't stay there anymore."
"What happened? Tell me slowly."
Damon tried to steady his breathing, but the moment he began speaking, everything he had witnessed came rushing back.
"Everyone inside that village had dark flames surrounding them. Everyone, Professor. The people at the market, the innkeeper, the wedding guests, even the people I knew. I thought something was wrong with my eyes, but when I crossed the boundary, the flames disappeared."
He paused, staring at the road beneath his feet.
"And then I spoke to the carriage driver. He told me Bellgrave was abandoned. He had gone there with a few workers to collect reusable things from the graveyard. He said there were no people living there, no market, and no wedding."
The professor remained quiet for a moment.
"Damon, are you certain he was talking about the same village?"
"Yes, Professor. I recognized the place. I saw the buildings myself, and I saw the people. I was standing among them."
"All right. Go on."
Damon swallowed.
"The driver also said he left Bellgrave at four in the afternoon. He says it's almost six now, but I remember leaving in the morning. I remember the sunlight, the wedding, everything. I was hiding inside his carriage before I even knew what time it was."
He rubbed his forehead, struggling to put his thoughts in order.
"Professor, my teammates and I have been there for four days. We have been examining the case, following the clues, and connecting the disappearances to the people who died before. We even have our suspects. We were about to find the main clue today, and then this happened."
He stopped briefly, his voice becoming quieter.
"Now the driver is telling me that nobody lives there. He says the village is abandoned, as though all those people never existed. How is that possible, Professor? How can we spend four days investigating a village that apparently has nobody living in it?"
There was no answer.
At first, Damon thought the communication had weakened. He pulled the badge closer and listened, but the connection remained active.
"Professor?"
Silence.
"Professor, can you hear me?"
A faint sound came through the badge, followed by another pause.
Damon's stomach tightened.
"What's wrong? Why aren't you saying anything?"
When the professor finally spoke, his voice had changed. The familiar certainty was gone, replaced by something Damon couldn't quite understand.
"Damon, what do you mean when you say four days?"
Damon frowned.
"What do you mean? We've been there for four days. We arrived, settled into the inn, and started examining the case. We spent our days searching for clues and our nights discussing what we had found."
He hesitated, confused by the question itself.
"Why are you asking me that, Professor?"
The professor took a slow breath.
"Damon, I know this is going to sound frightening, and I need you to listen to me carefully."
Damon straightened.
"What happened?"
"You and your team left the academy yesterday morning."
For a moment, Damon didn't understand the sentence.
The words reached him, but their meaning seemed to stop somewhere beyond his thoughts.
"Yesterday?"
"Yes, Damon."
"No. No, that can't be right."
He stared at the badge, waiting for the professor to correct himself.
"You must have checked the wrong date. We have been there for days. We examined the graveyard, followed the reports, and spoke to people. I remember the nights at the inn. I remember everything we did."
His voice began to falter.
"Professor, we didn't just arrive yesterday. We couldn't have."
"I checked the departure records myself, Damon. Your team left yesterday morning, and this is your second day away from the academy."
Damon's lips parted, but no words came out.
Two days.
He tried to remember arriving at Bellgrave, the road leading into the village, and the first evening at the inn. Then came the following mornings, the conversations, the clues, and the nights spent trying to connect everything.
Those memories remained vivid. They did not feel distant or uncertain. He could remember what Cassian had said, where Owen had been standing, and how their investigation had progressed.
He could remember four days.
"W-what?" he finally whispered.
The professor said nothing.
"Two days?" Damon repeated, his voice barely audible. "But we... we were there for four days. I remember..."
His sentence dissolved.
He tried again, but his thoughts would not arrange themselves into words. He looked at the road, then at the badge, as though one of them might suddenly prove that he had misunderstood.
"But we... I..."
Nothing followed.
The silence stretched between them.
Damon lowered himself onto a nearby stone, his free hand gripping its edge. The evening air felt colder now, though he could not tell whether the temperature had changed or whether he had simply stopped noticing anything around him.
Four days had existed inside his memories.
The academy had only two.
And the professor, the person he had contacted because he needed something familiar to hold on to, could not explain why.
"Professor," Damon whispered at last, "then what happened to the days I remember?"
The professor did not answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was gentler than before.
"I don't know, Damon. I wish I could tell you something different, but I don't know."
Damon closed his eyes.
He had escaped Bellgrave believing that crossing its boundary would bring him back to a world where things made sense. Instead, the world outside had calmly confirmed that his memories and reality no longer agreed.
"Maybe I'm remembering things that never happened," he murmured.
"No, Damon. We don't have enough evidence to say that. Please don't jump to that conclusion."
"But you can't explain it either."
"No," the professor admitted quietly. "I can't."
That honesty hurt more than a false reassurance would have.
Damon pressed his fingers against his forehead, trying to hold his thoughts together. Cassian's voice returned to him, followed by the memory of running away while his name was being called.
What if the others were still trapped there?
What if they were experiencing the same terror, with nobody outside to tell them that something was wrong?
"Professor, what should I do now?"
"Go back for your teammates, if you can do so safely. We need to understand what is happening before making assumptions."
Damon raised his head.
"Could the academy badges help them?"
"Possibly. Try contacting them when you get close enough. I can't promise it will work, but we should not rule it out."
"And if they don't remember anything?"
The professor paused.
"Then start with what they do remember. We'll work from there."
The badge gave a faint warning pulse.
"You have limited communication time each day," the professor added. "Save the remaining time for anything urgent. Contact me again when you have something useful to report."
Damon looked towards Bellgrave.
He wanted to ask more questions. He wanted the professor to tell him that his memories were trustworthy and that everything would eventually make sense.
But the professor had no answers to give him.
"I'll go back," Damon said.
"Damon, be careful. You don't have to solve everything tonight."
"I know, Professor. But I can't leave them there."
He ended the communication before his courage could falter.
For several moments, Damon remained seated with the silent badge in his hand. The road was quiet, the air was cool, and the driver was preparing to leave.
Everything outside Bellgrave looked ordinary.
That was what frightened him most.
He had expected the world beyond the village to reassure him. Instead, it had confirmed that something was terribly wrong, without offering him a single explanation.
Damon rose slowly and approached the carriage driver, who was preparing to leave.
"Excuse me. Could you take me back to Bellgrave?"
The man looked at him with immediate reluctance.
"Bellgrave? No. Find someone else."
Damon tried asking another driver nearby, but received the same answer. A third man barely listened before turning away.
He could not understand their reluctance, but he no longer had the patience to keep asking without offering anything in return.
Damon took out the money he had left and approached the nearest driver again.
"I can pay you extra. I only need to reach the village."
The man examined the offered amount, then glanced towards the distant road.
"I don't go near Bellgrave after evening."
"Please. I really need to get there."
The driver hesitated, studying Damon's anxious expression. For a moment, Damon thought he would refuse too.
"Fine. I'll take you there, but listen carefully. I'll stop a hundred metres outside the village. I'm not going any closer, and you will have to walk the rest of the way yourself."
Damon nodded immediately.
"That's fine. Thank you."
He paid the agreed amount and climbed into the carriage, holding his academy badge tightly in his hand.
The journey back felt longer than before. Damon watched the road through the narrow opening, trying to prepare himself for whatever awaited him inside Bellgrave. He had no idea whether the flames would return, whether his friends would remember him, or whether the village would allow him to leave again.
When the carriage finally stopped, the driver pointed towards the road ahead.
"That's as far as I'm going."
Damon stepped down and thanked him before the carriage turned around.
A hundred metres separated him from Bellgrave.
It was an ordinary stretch of road, quiet beneath the evening sky. Yet Damon stood there longer than he intended, unable to take the first step.
He had already escaped once.
Now he was choosing to return to the place that had made him question his own memories.
He looked down at his academy badge, drew one unsteady breath, and started walking.
Bellgrave waited ahead.
Damon crossed the boundary and returned to the village.
— by Aurea;
"Somewhere between the truth we remember and the truth the world remembers, even time can become a stranger."