Soren didn't return to Briarhold. He went deeper into the wilds.
He knew better than to walk back into the city with glowing veins and haunted eyes. The Archivists would dissect him for the shard, the blood-priests would try to seal it away, and the Cleft Houses would line up to buy whatever power had fused to his chest. No. He wasn't ready for politics or prophecy. He barely knew what he'd become.
He found shelter in the bones of an old watchtower—one of the many the old empire had left behind like rotting teeth. Wind howled through the cracks. It didn't matter. It was far. It was empty. And it was quiet enough to bleed in peace.
Soren sat in the corner with a bottle of stolen grain-spirit and waited for the burning to stop.
It never did.
He'd once seen a man infected with mind-rot try to claw the memories out of his own head. That was how it felt now—like the shard was dragging someone else's war into his thoughts. Visions flickered behind his eyes every time he blinked: a blade raised in judgment, wings of ash, a god whose mouth held no voice.
He clenched his teeth and took another swallow.
He'd made a mistake.
Not just taking the shard—but speaking the vow.
"I accept."
Those two words had bound him. And he didn't even know what to.
He wasn't a chosen one. He wasn't some reborn king or savior. He'd spent most of his life conning nobles, selling fake glyphs, and running from people who'd bled for him while he walked away clean. Hollowreach was supposed to be a gamble—a whispered myth with just enough teeth to be worth chasing. Not… this.
His hands trembled. Not from fear. From the weight.
He looked at the mark again—gold and root-shaped, pulsing faintly beneath his skin. It wasn't fading. It wasn't healing. It was growing.
Outside, something moved.
He stood, drawing his blade. Rusted. Not enchanted. Not blessed. But it had cut before, and he trusted it more than the light in his chest.
The wind shifted. Someone was approaching.
Not a beast. Not a soldier.
A veilwalker.
He could feel it.
They always smelled like burning parchment and black salt—ritual and rot.
Soren backed into the shadows, eyes narrowed.
If they were here for him, he'd kill them first and ask questions later.
He wasn't a hero. He wasn't going to beg for redemption or offer explanations.
Let the gods judge someone else.
She didn't knock. Veilwalkers never did.
The door to the ruined tower creaked once, then opened on its own—gently, like it had been convinced rather than pushed. A faint scent followed her inside: scorched myrrh, bloodroot, and burnt hair. Classic.
She stepped into the firelight. Lean. Dark robes tucked for travel. Leather straps across her chest, each marked with chalk and ink. A walking reliquary. She didn't wear a hood. Her eyes were pale grey, unnaturally still, and a line of stitched flesh ran from the corner of her mouth to her chin.
Her gaze landed on Soren. She didn't flinch. "You touched it."
Soren didn't answer.
She raised an eyebrow. "Don't lie. I can smell the rootlight in your blood."
He stayed seated, hand still near his blade. "So what happens now? You gut me and sell what's left to the Archive?"
"No. That's what they'd do. I'm not here for them." She stepped closer. "I'm here for the shard."
"It's gone."
She tilted her head. "No. It's in. There's a difference."
He hated how calm she was. "If you came for a relic, you're too late. I accepted the pact."
"I know." She crouched down, unafraid. "That's why I'm not here to take it. I'm here to ask a question."
Soren stared. "You walked into a dead tower in the middle of nowhere, alone, just to ask me something?"
She nodded once. "Did you do it for power?" Her tone was clinical. Not judgmental. Like a researcher studying a burning map.
He didn't respond right away. The fire cracked. Outside, wind brushed against the stone.
"No," he said. "I did it because I was tired of running from things I didn't understand."
That surprised her.
She stood, arms crossed. "Then you're dumber than you look."
"Or smarter than I act."
A pause. Then she offered her hand. "I'm Cael. I track forbidden pacts and misplaced gods. Right now, you're both."
Soren ignored the hand.
"What do you want?"
"I want to make sure the crown inside you doesn't remember too much too fast. If it does, you'll stop being you. And the thing that takes your place—" she gestured at the brand on his chest, "—won't care who it hurts to finish what it started."
"So you want to help me."
"No," she said plainly. "I want to contain you."
Soren laughed once. Bitter. "You're not the first."
Cael turned to go. "Hollowreach woke something, Soren. You're not special. You're just the first to bleed loud enough for the old things to hear."
She paused at the door. "Sleep if you can. You'll dream of roots tonight."
And then she was gone.
Soren sat alone in the dark.
Not for the first time, but for the first time, wrong.
He didn't know what terrified him more—that he couldn't stop the crown from awakening—or that part of him didn't want to.
He didn't sleep.
Not really.
Soren drifted—body still, mind thrashing through half-dreams of glass leaves falling upward, voices speaking his name in languages no one had spoken for centuries. He saw Hollowreach in reverse: built from ash instead of stone, crowned not in glory but in judgment.
The dreams didn't end.
They watched.
When the sun rose—pale, reluctant—Soren already had his pack slung across his shoulder. He left the watchtower without a word, blade tucked beneath his coat, flask half-full. The mark on his chest had dimmed to a low shimmer, but he could still feel it throb when he stepped into light. Like it knew it was seen.
He didn't head toward the cities. He followed the cold.
The wind carried the scent of Cael's trail—veilwalker charms always left a trace. He tracked her through the marsh road by instinct, like a hound with one scent burned into its skull. He wasn't sure why he followed.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe it was something darker.
By nightfall, he found her waiting.
Cael stood at the edge of a shallow lake, arms folded, staring at the water as if expecting it to open. She didn't look surprised when he approached.
"I thought you'd run," she said.
"I'm still thinking about it."
She nodded, as if that was fair.
"The thing in your chest," she continued, "it won't stay quiet. It's not meant to. These shards were never tools. They're seeds. And seeds grow."
Soren rubbed at the mark. "Into what?"
Cael turned to him. "Into whatever remembers them loudest."
He didn't like that answer. "So I'm just a vessel."
"No," she said. "You're the soil. Which means you still get to decide what takes root."
He watched her carefully. "Why help me?"
"Because if you crack open in a city, it won't be just your bones they bury."
Soren looked out over the water. Something shifted beneath the surface. Not a fish. Not natural. Something remembering wrongly.
"I don't trust you," he said.
"You shouldn't."
"I've lied. Stolen. Let people bleed while I watched. I've never saved anyone in my life."
"I'm not here to be saved."
He turned away, then paused. "So what now?"
Cael knelt and drew a rune in the mud—complex, jagged, alive. "We go hunting. The shard you found wasn't the only one. There are others waking up. Some louder than you."
Soren cracked a faint smile. "You sure I'm not already the problem?"
Cael gave him a hard look. "Oh, you are. But you might be the only useful one."
Soren thought about that. Not a hero. Not a monster. Just a man holding a match, standing in a room full of dry history.
He offered no vow, no apology. Only silence.
The kind that waits before a fire is lit.