Soon, Samuel pushed himself upright with a grunt.
His limbs ached, but he ignored the pain. His hands moved methodically, gathering scattered twigs, brittle leaves, and bits of dry bark from the corners of the hollow tree. He worked in silence, placing them in a small pile near the center.
Then, he pulled out two stones — rough, flat, and worn smooth from use. He crouched low, hunched over like some ancient hermit, and began striking them together.
Sparks danced in the dim, their fleeting glow vanishing just as quickly into the shadows.
He kept going.
His fingers trembled from exhaustion, but he didn't stop. He couldn't afford to. Not now. Not here.
He had to do this.
No matter how crude or slow... it was something. Something human.
Just as a faint ember threatened to catch — there was a soft sound beside him. A whisper of breath, a quiet chant, the snap of fingers.
And then—
Fwsshh.
A burst of black flame leapt from the leaves.
It was wrong. Beautiful, but wrong. A dark, flickering blaze that curled and twisted like it was alive, like it remembered pain and joy and everything in between.
It died quickly, as if ashamed of being seen — but not before the dry kindling hissed and caught fire, this time in a warm, steady red.
Samuel didn't move. The stones still rested in his palms.
He slowly turned his head.
Lyra was watching him.
Not mocking. Not smiling.
Just… watching.
Her eyes reflected the firelight. Calm. Knowing.
He glanced back at the small flame, now crackling gently, casting shadows along the tree's inner wall.
Abyssal energy… that had to be it.
Of course she could use it.
He sighed through his nose, slowly setting the stones aside.
"...Show-off," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than her.
Lyra arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips — but she said nothing.
The silence returned.
But now, it was warmer. More alive.
And far more dangerous.
Time passed slowly, wrapped in the soft crackle of fire and the distant rumble of thunder outside.
The storm still raged, but within the hollow of the great tree, there was warmth. A fragile, fleeting peace that neither of them dared to speak of too loudly — as if naming it would shatter it.
The scent of roasting fruit filled the air — sweet, earthy, and strangely comforting. Crimson-red fruits the size of fists were skewered on sticks, slowly turning black as they sizzled over the fire.
These fruits had grown on the very tree they now sheltered inside — gnarled branches above, hollow trunk below, and strange crimson orbs dangling like forgotten ornaments.
Lyra had claimed they were safe to eat… and without a hint of hesitation, she had plucked one, bitten into it, and chewed thoughtfully as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Samuel sat cross-legged, arms resting on his knees, eyes watching the firelight dance along the darkened bark of the fruit.
Now, after collecting a few of the strange fruits, they were roasting them over the fire.
He tilted his head slightly.
"...We could've eaten them raw, right?"
Lyra, lounging near the other side of the flame, nodded. "Yeah. They're safe either way. But roasting makes them sweeter."
Samuel raised an eyebrow. "You seem to know a lot about this kind of stuff."
She gave a half-smile, eyes flickering with something softer. "My mom taught me. Everything about the forest. What to eat. What not to touch. How to listen to the wind."
Samuel leaned back against the tree's inner wall, watching her. "Your mother, huh?"
There was a pause.
Lyra's expression didn't change much. But something in her eyes grew distant, like a breeze passing through a half-forgotten memory.
"Yeah… she used to say the forest speaks. That it remembers things. Pain, joy, even death. You just have to be quiet enough to hear it."
Samuel didn't say anything right away. He just looked at the roasting fruits, their skins blackening and cracking from the heat.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low.
"Sounds like she was a smart woman."
Lyra stared at the fire. Her smile faded just a little.
"She was."
Only the fire spoke after that, crackling softly.
And though they sat in silence, something between them shifted — not trust, not yet — but a thread. A fragile connection in the heart of the storm.
Samuel leaned back slightly, arms resting on his knees. His tone was casual, but there was calculation behind his words.
"Well… since we're stuck here trying not to die, maybe we should at least know who we're dying with."
Lyra raised an eyebrow but didn't object.
"I'll go first," Samuel offered, forcing a sheepish smile. "Name's Samuel. Samuel Zevrin Morvain. You can just call me Sam."
He paused, as if debating how much to share, then continued—his voice laced with just enough hesitation to sound believable.
"I, uh… I used to love reading ancient texts. I spent most of my time in the Abyssal Library. A few days ago, I think I attempted a ritual. Something… experimental. It went wrong. Really wrong. Took my memories with it."
He gave a hollow laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"That's the best I can come up with. Sounds more convincing than just saying I tripped and forgot who I am, right?"
Lyra studied him for a moment—silent, unreadable—then nodded once.
"It's a better lie," she said flatly, then added with the faintest smirk, "Still sounds dumb, though."
Samuel chuckled, brushing away the tension with a grin.
They both knew the other wasn't telling the full truth.
But for now, the fire was warm, the fruit was edible, and the storm raged outside—while a strange sense of survival, and something faintly resembling companionship, grew in the hollow of the tree.
Lyra's eyes narrowed slightly, voice low but sharp.
"You said your last name is Morvain," Lyra's voice dropped low, her gaze piercing the flickering flames between them. "That means you're from the Morvain clan of the Central Continent, right?"
Samuel nodded silently, eyes fixed on the fire's restless dance.
Lyra's gaze sharpened, her voice slicing through the quiet like a blade.
"But everyone in the Morvain clan bears the Nyxveil—those piercing blue eyes, the divine blessing of the Night Goddess herself. They say it's a mark that brings fear and reverence alike.
So… why do you have black eyes?"
Samuel choked down the fruit quickly, gulping water to wash away the sudden dryness in his throat.
Dumbfounded, he managed to croak out,
"What… Nyxveil? Blue eyes? What are you talking about?"
Lyra sighed deeply, a shadow flickering across her features.
"Your memory… it's truly lost."
She leaned closer, voice low and distant, as if recounting a tale long buried in shadow.
"There are seven continents… actually eight, but the eighth is forbidden—hidden away, erased from maps and memory."
Her words seemed to drift far away as she listed,
"So, seven continents ruled by humans: Central, North, East, West, South—one floating in the air, and another beneath the waves."
Samuel showed no surprise. In a world woven by magic, a continent suspended in the sky seemed less strange than the idea of a world without it.
Without such marvels, this world would be... unnatural.
Lyra explained quietly,
"The Central Continent mostly worships Nyx—the Night Goddess, the deity of mystery and darkness. She blessed the Morvain clan with the Nyxveil, a rare gift of visual power that allows them to weave powerful illusions and glimpse beyond the ordinary. But few truly understand its full extent, for no one has dared to provoke the Morvains enough to uncover their true abilities."
Samuel frowned, shaking his head.
"I don't remember any of this... whatever 'Nyxveil' is."
Lyra's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I think you must be a distant branch of the Morvain clan, then—one who's never awakened the gift."
Samuel nodded slowly.
"So, you're from the Central Continent too, then? I heard the temple only captures prodigies from there."
She shook her head slowly, strands of hair clinging to her damp cheeks."No… I'm not from the Central Continent."
Her voice trembled, a whisper barely louder than the rain outside.
"My mother… she was betrayed by her own blood. Hunted like a beast in the night."
A bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"We fled here. Thought we could disappear in the chaos. But fate…"
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.
"Fate did what it always does. It mocked us. I got captured by this cursed temple. And now—" her voice cracked, "now I just want to escape this hell. I need to go back. She must be searching for me."
Her breath hitched. The façade crumbled. Tears slid down her cheeks, silent and angry.
Samuel didn't speak right away.
There was a long pause—quiet, not empty. Heavy with the weight of what was left unsaid.
Then, slowly, he moved closer. The flickering light cast shadows on his face, softening the sharp edges. He didn't offer hollow words or false hope.
Just a presence—grounded, unshaken.
He sat beside her, letting the silence stretch like a balm.
"You will," he said finally, voice low and firm. "You'll see her again."
And in the dark, where pain usually echoed without answer…
She believed him.
The light flickered again, casting warped shadows across the stone walls. The kind of silence that followed tears wasn't peaceful—it was brittle, like glass stretched too thin.
Samuel let out a breath, slow and almost theatrical.
"When you escape," he began, voice dry as desert wind, "just remember to take me with you."
She glanced at him, confused. He didn't look at her, just stared ahead like he was narrating his own funeral.
"I'm very low-maintenance. I sleep on cold floors. I respond well to threats. And I have a talent for making things worse in already hopeless situations."
She stared.
"I mean," he added, gesturing vaguely with one hand, "think about it. Lifetime servant. Low pay. Morale hazard. Occasional sarcasm. What more could you possibly need on a dangerous journey home?"
She blinked, then let out a sharp breath—half-laugh, half-sob. He didn't press.
Instead, he leaned back against the wall, gaze lifting toward the cracked ceiling like it held all the answers.
"Honestly," he murmured, "being a hostage here was the only thing keeping me busy. I was almost starting to enjoy the daily threats, the charming priests, the light torture."
She wiped her eyes again, chuckling through her sniffles. "You're insane."
Samuel's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Takes one to recognize one."
And then—for a moment—the darkness in the room didn't feel so cold.