Morning arrived late in the forest.
The sun had already climbed high above the canopy, yet its light struggled to reach the earth below. The trees stood too close together, their trunks thick and scarred, their branches interlocked like clenched fingers refusing to part. Sunlight filtered down in thin, broken strands, losing its warmth before it ever touched the ground.
Shadows lay heavy beneath them.
It felt as though night had not truly left—only shed its name and learned how to stand still.
The soil was damp.
The blood had already been absorbed, drawn deep into the earth where roots drank silently and worms burrowed without judgment. Yet its presence lingered. It clung to the air, faint but undeniable, a coppery echo that refused to fade. It rested in the leaves, in the bark, in the spaces between breaths.
The forest remembered.
Varlin knelt at the edge of a shallow grave.
There was no shovel in his hands.
No blade.
No blood art shaping the soil to his will.
He dug with his bare hands.
Cold mud pressed beneath his fingernails, forced itself into the cracks of his skin. Each movement scraped flesh raw. The earth resisted him, clinging, pulling him back with every handful—as if asking why he dared disturb it again.
Pain followed soon after. Sharp at first. Then dull. Then distant.
Varlin did not stop.
Because if he stopped, he would think.
And if he thought, he would remember.
Lira's body lay wrapped in white cloth beside him.
The fabric was clean. Too clean. Untouched by what had happened. Her face was calm, her features soft, as though sleep had claimed her gently rather than violence. As though the screams, the blood, the choice—had never belonged to her at all.
As though the night before had happened to someone else.
Varlin did not dig deep.
No matter how far one buried the dead, some burdens never stayed underground. Some weights followed the living, clinging to their backs long after the soil had settled.
When he lowered her into the earth, the wind stirred.
It moved through the trees slowly, without urgency. Leaves rustled in quiet agreement. Branches creaked, bending just enough to acknowledge the moment before returning to stillness.
There was no wailing.
No prayer.
No farewell spoken aloud.
Only silence.
Varlin bowed his head.
"This was your choice," he said quietly, his voice barely more than breath.
"Not mine."
The soil closed over her slowly.
He filled the grave with his hands, pressing the earth down, smoothing it flat. He placed no marker. No stone. No name.
He did not want this place remembered.
He did not want it honored.
Some prices were never meant to carry a name.
When he finally stood, his knees trembled.
Not from exhaustion.
From something deeper. Something heavier.
The blood was still there.
Not visible. Not fresh.
But present.
Varlin looked around the forest. It was quiet—yet not empty. Life still breathed here, hidden beneath bark and root. Insects moved. Birds watched. The forest endured.
But something was missing.
Something vital.
He stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate. Each step pressed meaning into the soil, as though the ground itself listened.
That was when he noticed it.
A faint trail disturbed the earth. Not blood. Lighter. Smaller. Careful.
Footsteps.
A child's.
Varlin followed them.
They led him to the base of an ancient tree, its roots breaking through the soil like exposed bones. Time had split its bark, leaving scars that no sap could heal. Between those roots, partially hidden beneath leaves and dirt, rested a woven basket.
It had been concealed in haste—but not without thought.
Someone had wanted it hidden.
But not lost.
Varlin knelt.
As he pulled the cloth aside, his breath caught.
A small face looked back at him.
Kaien.
The child slept peacefully, unaware of how close the world had come to ending for him. His breathing was steady, shallow but calm, rising and falling with quiet certainty.
Varlin placed a hand against the child's chest.
And stopped.
For a brief moment, something shifted beneath his palm.
The rhythm was wrong.
Not fast.
Not erratic.
Just… wrong.
As though the heartbeat followed rules older than flesh.
Varlin withdrew his hand slowly.
"So that's why," he murmured.
"Blood chose you."
Kaien stirred.
His tiny fingers curled around Varlin's index finger, gripping it with surprising strength. The touch was warm. Real. Anchoring.
Varlin closed his eyes.
For the first time since the night before, he allowed himself to breathe.
But it was not relief.
It was acceptance.
He lifted the basket carefully, settling it against his back. The weight pressed down harder than it should have, sinking into his shoulders, into his spine.
The child was not a burden.
But he was a price.
And Varlin Velhamortgh understood prices better than anyone alive.
As he stepped onto the mountain path, the sky finally cleared. Sunlight broke through the canopy at last, spilling across stone and soil alike. It warmed the road, softened the shadows.
It did not warm him.
His steps were slow. Measured. Each one deliberate, as though the path demanded respect.
Then he stopped.
A familiar heaviness formed in his chest—on the left side.
Varlin removed his glove.
Beneath the skin of his fingertips, a thin, pale gray line had appeared. It was faint, almost delicate, but unmistakable.
Stone.
He stared at it for a long time.
There was no shock on his face.
No fear.
Only resignation.
"So it begins," he whispered.
The basket shifted slightly.
Kaien had awakened.
The child's eyes opened just enough to catch the light. They were unfocused, searching, as though trying to understand a world that had already marked him.
Varlin looked back at him.
"You will not become like me," he said quietly.
"You must not."
He pulled the glove back on, hiding the stone creeping beneath his skin.
Then he continued forward.
Behind him lay a silent grave.
Ahead waited a fate not yet named.
And the Kingdom of Vertarast—
unaware, unprepared—
held its breath, without knowing why.