The bell's toll sank into the city like a slow heartbeat.Once.Twice.Three times.
Aarinen felt each strike echo beneath his ribs.
Torren folded the parchment carefully, too carefully, as if the paper might bite. "You understand what this means," he said.
"I understand almost nothing," Aarinen replied.
Saevel crossed her arms. "Then we need to explain it before more of those watchers find us."
Torren snorted. "You think the watchers are the real danger? Saevel, you've barely scratched the surface of the mess you walked in with."
Rafi lifted a shaky hand. "C-can someone start from the part where the Root didn't take someone's memory because it couldn't?"
Torren tapped his fingers against the desk. "Sit."
None of them sat.
He sighed dramatically. "Fine. Stand and listen, then. But if anyone interrupts, I'm throwing all of you back into the street."
Rafi whispered to Aarinen, "He's definitely Saevel's friend."
Saevel pinched his sleeve. "Unfortunately."
Torren rubbed his eyes. "Aarinen. The Root takes what it wants. That is its nature. Do you know how many people walk into that place hoping it'll scrub their past clean? How many go in craving peace, forgetting that the price of peace is sometimes their own bones?"
Aarinen didn't flinch. "I walked in with no desire for peace."
"Exactly," Torren said. "You walked in carrying a memory the Root wanted. So it took what it could. It gave something back. It… weighed you."
Rafi swallowed. "So what about the man whose memory it couldn't take?"
Torren looked at Aarinen. "Tell me everything you remember about him."
Aarinen hesitated. The memory was like smoke—either too thin to grasp or too thick to breathe through.
"I remember a voice," he said."Steady. Even. Never raised."
He closed his eyes.
"I remember fire behind him. The color of embers, not flames."
Saevel's expression shifted. "That's not a peaceful image."
"No," Aarinen said quietly. "It wasn't."
"What else?" Torren pressed.
Aarinen struggled. There were pieces, shapes, impressions. A feeling of standing on the brink of something he wished he hadn't seen. The scent of iron. A hand on his shoulder—not comforting, not cruel, just firm.
And words.
Soft. Heavy. True.
"Do not become me."
Aarinen opened his eyes.
"I remember that he taught me something I didn't want to learn."
Torren exhaled sharply. "Then it's him."
Rafi looked between them anxiously. "Him who?!"
Torren hesitated. Not out of doubt—out of reluctance.
"They call him the Unmarked," Torren said. "Because nothing can imprint on him. Not memory-taking forces. Not fate-binding rituals. Not the Order's branding."
Saevel's eyes hardened. "He exists, then."
"Oh, he exists," Torren said grimly. "But no one knows who he truly is. Only that once, long ago, he walked into the Root—not seeking to lose a memory, but to bury one."
"And the Root refused him," Saevel whispered.
"Worse." Torren looked directly at Aarinen. "It gave it back."
Rafi choked. "What kind of memory would the Root refuse?"
"The kind," Torren said softly, "that bends the world."
Aarinen felt the cold settle under his spine.
Torren continued, "If the Unmarked called your name across open plains, then you are not carrying the Root's burden alone. You are carrying his. Or a shard of it."
Aarinen's voice was steady. "Why would he give me anything?"
Torren laughed hollowly. "Why does anyone give anything? Desperation. Hope. Regret. Or because he sees in you what he once saw in himself."
Saevel muttered, "That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be," Torren replied.
Rafi tugged at Aarinen's sleeve. "Aarinen… do you think he's coming here?"
Aarinen didn't answer.
Because he already knew the answer.
A Thread Through Karathra
Torren led them deeper into the shop.
Past shelves of scrolls.Past tables filled with half-translated scripts.Past a wall hung with blades—not elegant weapons, but utilitarian ones.
He pulled aside a curtain of stitched cloth and revealed a narrow stairway leading downward.
Rafi blinked. "Another underground place?"
Torren snapped, "Do you want to be found?"
Rafi shook his head violently and shoved himself behind Aarinen.
Aarinen asked, "Where are you taking us?"
"To the only person in Karathra who might know how to help you."
"Who?"
Torren chuckled darkly. "Not someone you'll enjoy meeting."
They descended the stairs. The air cooled, stone walls sweating faint moisture. The hallway below opened into a long, dim chamber filled with books, daggers, and chalk-markings on the floor in shapes Aarinen didn't recognize.
A woman stood at the far end.
Tall.Robe of deep green, embroidered with symbols like twisting branches.Hair braided back tightly.Eyes sharp, hawk-like.
She turned.
The room seemed to straighten with her movement.
Saevel groaned. "Torren, why her?"
Torren ignored her. "Lirael."
The woman approached with unhurried steps. "You arrived sooner than expected."
Aarinen tensed. "You know me?"
"Not personally," Lirael said, circling him like a scholar examining a rare artifact. "But every whisper in this city has been vibrating with your name. And now that I see you, I understand why."
Rafi whispered, "Everyone likes circling him. It's creepy."
Lirael crouched in front of Aarinen, studying his eyes. "The Root residue clings to you. Stronger than expected."
"I didn't choose it," Aarinen said.
"None of you ever do," Lirael replied.
Saevel muttered, "Lirael, don't start lecturing. We need information."
"And he needs clarity," Lirael said firmly.
She placed her hand on Aarinen's wrist.
He didn't pull away.
A faint vibration moved through her fingers, then through his arm, settling behind his ribs like a cold whisper.
Lirael inhaled sharply.
"Oh."
Torren frowned. "What?"
Lirael stood, eyes widening. "This is worse than we thought."
Rafi squeaked. "Can people stop saying that?!"
Lirael pointed at Aarinen. "He's not just carrying a Root-memory."
Torren stiffened. "Explain."
"He's carrying an imprint."
Aarinen felt his pulse sharpen. "What kind of imprint?"
Lirael's voice dropped to a whisper.
"The kind only one man leaves behind."
Saevel's face went pale. "The Unmarked."
Lirael nodded.
Aarinen exhaled slowly. "What does that mean?"
Lirael stepped closer, her tone grave. "It means he touched your mind. Before or after the Root—doesn't matter. His echo lies beneath your memory, like a scar that hasn't finished forming."
Rafi sucked in a breath. "Is that dangerous?"
"Yes," Lirael said.
Torren muttered, "Marvelous."
Aarinen spoke quietly, "Can you remove it?"
Lirael stared at him for a long moment.
"Remove?" She almost laughed. "Aarinen… nothing removes the Unmarked. Not time. Not rituals. Not death."
Aarinen's jaw tightened. "Then what can I do?"
Lirael circled him again, slower this time.
"You can learn which parts of him now live in you," she said. "And whether they can be used—or feared."
The room felt smaller. Heavier. The air around Aarinen seemed to press inward.
Saevel stepped forward. "Lirael, we need more than warnings."
"You'll have them," Lirael said. "But first, Aarinen must see something."
Rafi shook his head vigorously. "No. No seeing things. Seeing things has never gone well."
Lirael ignored him.
"A vision?" Aarinen asked.
"No," she said. "A mirror."
She gestured toward a tall, polished slab of obsidian leaning against the wall.
Aarinen frowned. "That's a rock, not a mirror."
"And yet," Lirael murmured, "it reflects what glass cannot."
Torren groaned. "Lirael—don't push him too fast."
"He doesn't have time," Lirael snapped.
The room fell silent.
Aarinen approached the obsidian.
The surface showed only faint ripples—like the memory of reflection instead of the reflection itself.
Lirael spoke quietly. "Look."
Aarinen touched the slab cautiously.
Cold seeped through his fingertips.
Then the surface trembled.
A faint outline appeared—his own shape.But behind it—A second form, taller, darker, standing half a step behind him.
Rafi gasped. "Aarinen—someone's behind you!"
Saevel grabbed his arm. "It's not real. It's the imprint."
Lirael whispered, "The Unmarked walks behind your memory."
Aarinen felt the world tilt.
The shadow behind him did not move.Did not breathe.Did not shift.
But its presence felt alive.
Lirael stepped forward, pointing to the second figure. "This is what calls your name."
Aarinen felt something cold stir in his spine.
Rafi whispered, "Aarinen… is that the man you couldn't remember?"
Aarinen stared.
The silhouette had the same height.The same presence.The same restrained gravity.
Yet the face—blurred.Undefined.Like a memory intentionally smudged.
Lirael exhaled. "He gave you something. And he took something. You are tied to him now."
Aarinen didn't look away. "Why?"
"Because," Lirael said, "the world needs something from you both."
"And what is that?" he whispered.
Lirael hesitated.
Then:
"To challenge fate."
Torren swore softly. "We're all dead."
Rafi staggered backward. "Aarinen… what does that mean?"
Aarinen did not speak.
Because he saw something in the reflection.
For one heartbeat—Just one—
The blurred face sharpened.
Not fully.
Not clearly.
But enough.
A pair of pale eyes.A scar across the jaw.A mouth forming a single word:
"Soon."
Aarinen tore his hand from the obsidian.
The mirror-stone went dark.
Saevel steadied him. "Aarinen—"
He breathed in slowly, trembling once before mastering it.
Lirael watched him with a solemn expression. "He's coming to you."
Torren muttered, "Of course he is."
Rafi whispered, "What do we do now?"
Lirael answered quietly.
"Now?"She looked at Aarinen."We prepare you for the man who remembers everything you've forgotten."
A chill moved through Aarinen's bones—not fear.
Recognition.
As if the next step of his path had already been written.
Or whispered.
Or promised.