Aarinen's breath slowed, but not because calm had returned.
It slowed as if the air itself thickened around him, weighed by the memory of a face not fully seen—yet unmistakably known.
Rafi hovered close, not touching him, but unwilling to step away. "Aarinen… I don't like how you're breathing."
"I'm fine."
"You're definitely not fine."
"He's breathing like someone facing old ghosts," Lirael said. "Let him."
Torren rolled his eyes. "Wonderful advice. Next, you'll tell him to invite the ghost to tea."
Saevel stepped between them with a sharp glare. "Enough. Aarinen needs clarity, not noise."
But the room itself felt altered—like something had shifted in the air when the imprint revealed its face. Even the shadows seemed heavier, pooling near the corners as if listening.
Aarinen finally straightened. "You said he's coming."
Lirael nodded. "Yes."
"Why now?"
Saevel answered. "Because the Root stirred. Because you walked out with something he once carried."
Torren added, "Because someone has been trying to find him for years. And now—through you—they finally can."
Rafi flinched. "Wait—are you saying Aarinen is some sort of beacon for a man who's been dodging the Orders and the Root and half the world?"
"Yes," Torren and Lirael said together.
Rafi buried his face in his hands. "Great. Perfect. Everything is awful."
Aarinen ignored him. "I need to understand what he left inside me."
Lirael gestured to the center of the chamber. "Then sit."
Aarinen sat cross-legged on the floor. Saevel positioned herself slightly behind him. Rafi settled cautiously at his side, knees tucked under him like a frightened rabbit. Torren stood near a chalk-marked pillar, tapping the butt of a stylus against his palm.
Lirael walked in slow circles around Aarinen, her fingers trailing through the air as if tracing invisible lines.
"You're carrying a pattern," she said. "A shape of another mind. It hasn't fused with yours—but it's close."
Rafi whispered, "Close to what?"
Lirael didn't look at him. "Close to awakening."
Aarinen didn't break. "What do I do?"
Lirael stopped moving. "You listen."
"To what?"
"To him."
The chamber darkened—not from magic, not from ritual, but from something subtler.
A pressure.
A turning of attention.
A hush that filled the spaces between breaths.
Aarinen closed his eyes.
And the darkness opened.
A Voice Without Sound
It was not a trance.
Not a dream.
Not a vision.
It was a memory—not his own—sliding beneath his ribs like a hand reaching inside his chest.
He saw the cracked edge of a cliff at dusk.
He felt heat on his left cheek.
He smelled burned wood and salt.
And he heard—
"Stand."
Aarinen's eyes snapped open.
He was still in Lirael's chamber.
Still seated.
Still breathing.
But the voice had echoed inside him.
Lirael leaned forward. "What did he say?"
Aarinen's voice was low. "One word."
Torren scribbled something quickly. "What word?"
"'Stand.'"
Saevel muttered, "That sounds like him."
Rafi gripped Aarinen's arm. "Could he… could he be near?"
Lirael answered instead. "Nearness doesn't matter. The imprint links thought before distance."
Aarinen's breath steadied. "Can he hear me?"
Lirael hesitated. "Possibly."
Torren grunted. "Which means you'd better avoid thinking anything stupid."
Rafi snapped, "He's not stupid!"
"Then he's in the wrong story," Torren muttered.
Aarinen ignored them both. "Ask your questions now."
Lirael crouched before him again, her sharp eyes reflecting the dim light. "Aarinen, listen carefully: an imprint is not possession. It's a residue of someone's essence—their instinct, their strength, their memory-scars."
Rafi whispered, "Scars can talk?"
"In a way," Lirael said. "A memory that refuses to die can whisper, can pull, can direct. It can nudge a man off one path and onto another."
Aarinen raised his gaze. "He wants something."
"Obviously," Torren muttered.
"What?" Aarinen pressed. "What does he want?"
Lirael hesitated—longer than before.
Finally she said: "He wants you to finish something he began."
Aarinen felt the floor tilt.
Rafi's breath hitched. "Finish what?"
Lirael's eyes softened—not with pity, but with gravity. "A war."
Torren groaned. "Oh, marvelous. A quest to finish an ancient war. This is exactly what I needed today."
Saevel snapped, "Torren. Quiet."
Torren scowled but said nothing.
Lirael continued, "Before he vanished, the Unmarked was part of something older than the Orders, older than Karathra's first stones. A circle of wanderers who believed fate itself could be undone."
Aarinen's fingers tightened around his knee. "He wanted to break it."
"No," Lirael corrected gently. "He tried. And failed."
Rafi swallowed. "Failed how badly?"
Lirael didn't answer.
The silence answered for her.
Aarinen finally stood. The chamber felt small, as if walls pressed inward. "If he failed, why come to me?"
Torren stepped forward. "Because something about you reminds him of himself."
Saevel added, almost reluctantly, "Because he thinks you can do what he couldn't."
Aarinen shook his head. "I don't want to break fate. I don't want to shape anything."
Lirael's voice was soft but firm. "That doesn't matter."
"It should."
"It never does," she replied. "The world moves around certain people whether they agree or not."
A memory prickled at the edge of Aarinen's mind—his mother's voice, faint and warm.
"The world bends around those who walk alone."
He inhaled slowly.
Lirael stepped back. "There's more."
Torren groaned. "Of course there is."
Lirael lifted a thin chain from her sleeve—metal dull with age, end shaped like a small hammered circle.
A pendant.
But not just metal—Aarinen felt its weight before she even offered it.
"Aarinen," she said, "this was found in the Reaches."
Rafi whispered, "Is it dangerous?"
"Everything is dangerous," Lirael said, "but this is meant for him."
She placed the pendant in Aarinen's hand.
Cold.
Heavy.
Too familiar.
Aarinen's chest tightened.
Saevel leaned in. "What is it?"
Aarinen spoke slowly, as if recalling the shape of a thought long forgotten.
"He wore this."
Rafi frowned. "The Unmarked?"
"Yes."
Torren's eyebrows shot up. "How do you—"
"Because," Aarinen said quietly, "I remember touching it when I was young."
The room froze.
Saevel whispered, "You knew him."
Aarinen closed his fingers around the pendant.
"No," he said.
"I feared him."
Karathra Stirs
Before Lirael could continue, a rapid knock struck the chamber's wooden door—three sharp taps, then two more.
Torren's face drained of color. "That's not one of mine."
Saevel grabbed Aarinen's shoulder. "Down—now."
Rafi stumbled backward as Lirael swept her arm in a sharp gesture. The chalk markings on the floor pulsed faintly, then the far wall shimmered—stone peeling aside like fabric.
A hidden alcove.
"In," Lirael ordered.
Rafi practically fell inside.
Aarinen paused. "Who is it?"
Torren hissed, "No questions! Move!"
Aarinen complied, stepping into the alcove.
Saevel followed.
Lirael pressed her palm to the wall. It sealed silently.
Dark.
Enclosed.
The air smelled faintly of ink and dust. Light seeped in through thin slits carved between stones—enough to see shadows beyond the wall.
Footsteps.
Multiple.
Soft, synchronized.
Measured.
Rafi whispered shakily, "Is it the watchers?"
Torren's muffled voice spoke from the other side, strained: "Can I help you?"
A voice responded—smooth, calm, but with an edge like polished stone.
"We heard you've received… delicate shipments."
Torren's breath faltered. "Shipments?"
"Yes."
The voice smiled audibly through its tone.
"Of the living variety."
Saevel's fingers tightened on Aarinen's sleeve.
Another voice chimed in—lower, rougher.
"Show us your stockroom."
Torren lied smoothly. "I have no stockroom."
The second voice chuckled. "Lies have weight, Torren. Yours is heavy today."
Aarinen felt the pendant in his hand grow colder.
The first voice spoke again, closer now. "We know what entered your shop. A wanderer with Root-ash in his blood. A boy. And a mapkeeper."
Saevel mouthed silently: How?
Rafi trembled. "We're dead."
Aarinen shook his head once. No.
But the next words were worse.
"Bring us Aarinen."
Saevel sucked in a breath.
Rafi covered his mouth.
The pendant pulsed faintly against Aarinen's skin.
Torren's voice sharpened. "You will not touch him."
The rougher voice responded. "We're not here to touch. Only to take."
Aarinen's muscles coiled.
The first voice shifted tones—curious, almost amused. "We were told the Unmarked marked him. That… interests us."
Saevel's eyes widened. "They know."
Rafi whimpered softly.
Aarinen felt something rise in him—not fear.
Resolve.
Unexpected.
Quiet.
Like a deeper current pulling him forward.
The polished voice continued, tone softening with false politeness.
"If you hand him over, Torren, we won't make this unpleasant."
Torren spat something too soft to hear.
A dull thud.
A chair knocked over.
Rafi gasped.
Saevel reached for her dagger.
Aarinen touched her wrist.
Slight pressure.
Not a command—an understanding.
She lowered the blade, breathing hard.
Behind the wall, movement shifted—bodies turning.
The smoother voice spoke again, now filled with growing impatience.
"Search everywhere."
Aarinen braced himself.
Saevel whispered, "If they find this alcove—"
"They won't," Lirael said suddenly, her voice clear through a hidden slit.
Calm.
Certain.
Rafi exhaled shakily. "How do you know?"
Lirael's words were almost a whisper.
"Because something else is coming."
Aarinen froze.
The pendant in his hand grew colder still.
A wind—impossible, underground—moved through the alcove.
Soft.
Measured.
Familiar.
Rafi whimpered, recognizing the unnatural stillness.
Saevel stiffened. "Aarinen—"
Aarinen lifted his head.
A voice brushed the edge of his thoughts.
"Stand."
The imprint's echo.
The Unmarked.
The footsteps outside stopped suddenly—as if the entire shop had turned its head toward the same unseen point.
Torren hissed, "What—"
A low creak.
Wood.
Wind.
The faintest hum of shifting weight.
Saevel clutched Aarinen's sleeve.
Rafi held his breath.
And the polished voice outside spoke again—
Not confident now.
Not amused.
Uncertain.
"…He's here."
A silence deeper than the Quiet Hour descended upon the shop.
Aarinen's heart slowed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The imprint whispered one more word—
"Soon."
And the chamber's air changed.
Because the Unmarked had entered the city.
And he was no longer behind Aarinen.
He was approaching.