The eyes did not glow—they reflected. Like polished stone catching the faint shimmer of Saevel's vial.
Too still.
Too level.
Too patient to belong to anything that hunted by instinct alone.
Rafi trembled behind Aarinen. "That's not an animal."
"No," Saevel murmured. "It has purpose."
The air thickened.
Something scraped faintly—metal against stone, or bone against wall. The tunnel seemed narrower, darker, the walls bending inward like a throat preparing to swallow.
Aarinen stepped forward.
"Show yourself."
Silence.
Then a figure detached itself from the shadow, as if unpeeling from darkness. Cloak. Hood. Long. The same cut, the same muted tones as the watchers from Thale's Rest—but colder. No emblem. No clasp. No sign of rank.
Smoother.
Hungrier.
It stopped a dozen paces away. The hood tilted so slightly that if Aarinen hadn't been watching for movement, he would have missed it.
Rafi whispered, "It's… it's like the other silhouette."
"No," Aarinen said quietly. "This one is closer for a reason."
The figure raised a hand—slowly, deliberately.
And extended a single finger toward Aarinen.
Not pointing.
Inviting.
Saevel's hand went into her satchel. "If he takes a step nearer, I'll—"
"No," Aarinen said.
"Aarinen—"
"He didn't come to fight."
Rafi let out a strangled sound. "He gave me nightmares by just standing there!"
Aarinen stepped forward.
The hooded watcher lowered its hand.
It spoke.
The voice was soft. Softer than breath. Softer than dust falling on old wood.
Yet in the tunnel's silence, it carried with unnatural clarity.
"…you left the Root."
Aarinen stiffened.
The hooded head tilted slightly.
"…you were not meant to."
Saevel hissed, "Step back, Aarinen."
He didn't.
The figure continued, its voice a careful, measured whisper:
"…others were sent… to find you."
A pause. Then:
"…but not me."
Rafi clutched Aarinen's cloak. "Then why are you here?"
The hood turned toward Rafi—just a fraction.
"…to see."
"What?" Rafi choked. "To SEE WHAT?"
The silence that followed was heavy.
"…if the Root chose… correctly."
Aarinen breathed out slowly. "And what have you decided?"
The watcher's fingers curled faintly.
"…undecided."
Saevel muttered something sharp and very unfriendly under her breath.
The watcher raised its head—just enough for a sliver of face to show beneath the hood.
Not scars.
Not deformity.
Not inhumanity.
Emptiness.
A smoothness that was not youth, nor age—like a face that had forgotten what expressions were supposed to be. A faint mark curved under the left cheekbone. Not quite a burn. Not quite ink. Something older.
The watcher leaned forward slightly—too slightly, yet the whole tunnel seemed to shift around his movement.
"…the one who calls your name… is moving."
Aarinen's pulse tightened.
"The voice," Rafi whispered. "It knows about the voice."
Saevel stepped beside Aarinen now, eyes sharp. "How do you know anything about that?"
The watcher did not answer her.
Instead:
"…you carry something… unfinished."
The words brushed against Aarinen's ribs like cold wind.
"…the Root took a memory."
Aarinen said nothing.
"…and returned… something else."
Still he said nothing.
"…that is what they want."
Saevel whispered, "Who is 'they'?"
The watcher's head turned toward her.
"…all of them."
The tunnel seemed to breathe in one long, cold inhalation.
Rafi whimpered.
Saevel whispered, "Aarinen, move—now."
Aarinen stepped backward slowly, guiding Rafi behind him.
The watcher did not follow.
It simply lifted one hand again—not threatening, but warning—then pointed deeper into the tunnel. Not at them.
Beyond them.
"…you will reach the place you seek."
Saevel whispered, "Karathra."
The watcher nodded faintly.
"…but it will not protect you."
Aarinen asked quietly, "Why tell me this?"
The watcher turned its hood fully toward him now. For the first time, Aarinen felt the weight behind the emptiness—a hollow gravity, a silent orbit around some absence too large to name.
"…because someone else… is coming."
Aarinen tried to speak—but the watcher raised its hand and the tunnel around them answered with a faint, low tremor.
The watcher whispered:
"…and he does not forget."
Then it stepped backward.
Once.
The shadows swallowed it whole.
No sound. No trace.
Gone.
Rafi collapsed backward onto the stone floor. "I hate this place. I hate this city already. I hate this tunnel—"
Saevel grabbed his arm and pulled him up. "Move. Now."
Aarinen stood still for one breath, listening to the tunnel.
The echo of the watcher's presence still clung to the stone. Not a voice. Not a threat.
A promise.
He turned. "Let's go."
The City Beneath the City
The tunnel sloped upward until faint daylight filtered through cracks in the stone ceiling. Voices. Footsteps. The distant clatter of tools. The hum of a living city overhead.
Saevel extinguished her glowing vial. "We surface here. Quickly."
Rafi looked terrified. "There's not going to be another watcher, is there?"
"Not here," Saevel assured him. "These tunnels branch too much. They dislike labyrinths."
"And you don't?" he asked weakly.
"I know them," she said simply. "They don't."
They reached a ladder bolted into the stone wall. Aarinen climbed first, then helped Rafi up, then Saevel.
A heavy grate slid aside.
And the city opened around them.
Karathra was not the orderly place the distant skyline had promised. Up close, it was a maze of tight alleys, stacked dwellings leaning against each other, webs of banners changing color in the wind. High walkways connected rooftops. Smoke curled from chimneys stacked atop chimneys.
Vendors shouted from cramped stalls.
Children dashed through crowds.
Scholars argued in shaded alcoves.
The noise here was overwhelming—almost violent after the tunnel's silence.
Rafi's eyes widened. "This place is alive."
"Too alive," Saevel said. "Keep to the shadows."
Aarinen took in the scene. The city felt… aware. As if its stones listened. As if its windows blinked. As if every narrow walkway measured people as they passed.
"How big is it?" he asked.
"Big enough to swallow you whole," Saevel replied. "And layered. There's street-level Karathra. There's rooftop Karathra. There's tunnel Karathra. And then there's the parts no map wants to remember."
Rafi gulped. "Which part are we in?"
"The one that tolerates strangers," Saevel said. "Just barely."
Aarinen felt eyes on him.
A fruit-seller paused mid-call.
Two children tugged each other and whispered.
A man carrying scrolls glanced twice—too long, too intent.
Rafi whispered, "Is it my imagination or is everyone staring?"
"Not everyone," Saevel said. "Only the ones who've heard stories."
Rafi groaned. "Of course."
Aarinen spoke quietly. "Where are we going?"
Saevel took a quick turn into a narrow alley. "To someone who owes me a debt."
"Are they trustworthy?"
"No," she said. "But they're predictable."
"That's somehow worse," Rafi muttered.
Saevel led them through winding passages, past steaming food stalls and shouting merchants until they reached a weathered stone archway draped in faded indigo cloth.
A carved emblem sat above the arch—a quill crossing a sword.
Rafi blinked. "That's… contradictory."
"That's Karathra," Saevel said. "Contradictions stacked high enough to form a city."
She pushed aside the cloth.
Ink and Iron
Inside lay a cramped shop lined with shelves of scrolls, books, and locked chests. A faint metallic smell hung in the air.
A man hunched over a desk, writing quickly with a reed pen. He didn't look up.
"You're blocking the light," he said irritably.
Saevel crossed her arms. "Hello, Torren."
The man froze.
His pen dropped.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
His hair was silver-streaked black. His eyes sharp, calculating. A small scar shaped like a half-circle cut just above his eyebrow.
"Well," he drawled, "I knew a headache was coming today, but I didn't expect it to walk through my door."
Saevel smirked. "I missed you too."
Torren's gaze shifted to Aarinen.
Then stopped.
Then narrowed.
"Oh," he said softly. "You."
Aarinen stared back steadily. "You know me?"
"No." Torren stood, brushing dust from his sleeves. "But I know that face. It's the one showing up in sketches and warnings and very expensive sealed letters."
Rafi groaned. "It's always good news with you people, isn't it?"
Torren ignored him. He leaned against his desk, studying Aarinen critically.
"So," he said. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" Aarinen asked.
"That you walked into the Root," Torren said, "and climbed out with something the rest of us should be very afraid of."
Aarinen didn't answer.
Torren exhaled slowly. "Then it is true."
Saevel stepped beside Aarinen. "We need information. Quietly."
Torren snorted. "In Karathra? Quiet? Darling, you brought him to the loudest city in the east."
"We didn't have a choice," Saevel said.
Torren rolled his eyes. "You always have choices. You just never pick the sane ones."
Rafi leaned forward. "Can you help us or not?"
Torren stared at him for a long moment, then at Saevel, then at Aarinen.
Finally he said:
"That depends entirely on whether you want to know what's following you."
Aarinen's pulse sharpened. "We know."
"You don't." Torren opened a drawer, rummaged, and pulled out a folded parchment. "Because if you did, you wouldn't be standing in my shop."
Rafi whispered, "W-what's on that?"
Torren unfolded it.
A sketch.
Rough lines. Sharp shadows.
The hooded watcher.
The first one.
The one on the ridge.
Torren tapped the parchment.
"These aren't your only pursuers."
He flipped the parchment over.
Another sketch.
Not a watcher.
A face.
Scarred jaw. Pale-gold eyes. Black hair streaked with iron.
Veylan.
Aarinen's heart stopped for a breath.
Torren watched him carefully. "Ah," he said. "So you know that one."
Rafi whispered, "Aarinen… that's the man from the clearing."
Saevel stepped closer. "Torren, how did this reach you?"
Torren gave a humorless smile.
"Because the Orders are not the only ones moving."
Aarinen's voice was low. "Who sent the sketch?"
Torren folded the parchment again.
"A faction that has no name," he said. "Because names give shape. And these people do not want to be shaped."
Aarinen steadied his breathing.
Torren stepped closer.
"And if they want him—" he gestured to Aarinen "—then something very old is about to shift."
Saevel muttered a curse.
Rafi whimpered.
Torren leaned across the table, voice dropping.
"And if the voice calling your name belongs to who I think it does…"
Aarinen's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
Torren held his gaze.
"The man whose memory the Root did not take."
Aarinen felt the world tilt.
Torren whispered:
"…the one it could not take."
The shop fell silent.
Saevel stared at Aarinen.
Rafi clutched his cloak.
Torren waited.
And somewhere outside, the city bell tolled—deep, heavy, resonant—announcing the beginning of evening.
Aarinen inhaled.
The city seemed to hold its breath.