Chapter Three – The Shadow That Watched the Flame
Part Four – The Flame That Lingered Behind the Mask
The clearing gave way to stone.
Pine roots thinned, replaced by ancient rock veined in silver bloom, as if something beneath the earth still pulsed—not alive, not dead, just waiting. Kaelen's boots scraped over forgotten steps, some carved by time, some by intention.
And in the middle of it all: a sword mark, dragged diagonally through frost and moss.
He'd been here.
Yolti kept glancing over her shoulder, but Kaelen didn't look back. Not once. Not when her voice cracked. Not when she asked if they were safe. Not even when the first cold tear slipped from her cheek.
Kaelen was looking forward—but he wasn't moving. Not really.
He was chasing the flame that once stood beside him.
He remembered the scarf. The laugh. The fist bumps. The hums hummed off-key during drills. The way their shoulders touched when neither of them wanted to speak first. The time he said "If I go quiet, you go first."
Kaelen had waited six years for silence to answer.
Now, silence had screamed back in lightning.
He touched his own Veilmark again. It hadn't stabilized. It wasn't like the masked figure's—clean, full, tuned. Kaelen's was fractured, hot at the edges, wild. It cracked like his breath did in cold air.
"You know," Yolti said softly, walking beside him, "when I thought I was dying—when that thing had me—I didn't see my family. I didn't even see my father."
Kaelen turned, finally. Just his head.
"I saw all four of us. Back before everything broke. Back before we even knew the word fracture meant more than just cracked wood or missed timing."
He didn't say anything.
Yolti looked up at the trees. "And then… lightning."
Kaelen closed his eyes.
He hadn't slept since the day it happened. Not fully. Dreams were too quiet. They didn't hum.
"Do you think," he whispered, "we've already forgotten too much?"
Yolti paused.
Then: "I think we forget on purpose. Because remembering hurts."
Kaelen knelt.
The trail had ended. At a shattered memory-glass altar, long overtaken by moss and snowfall. Doctrine once etched names into these—names of lost ones. Names that had to be rewritten.
Only this altar had no name.
Just a cloak. Folded. Still warm.
Still humming.
Kaelen reached out, fingers trembling. When he touched the edge of the fabric, it pulsed faintly—just once. Then dimmed.
His voice cracked. "I know you're out there."
Yolti stepped behind him. Didn't interrupt.
"I don't care what name you use now. I don't care if you burned your past or erased ours. I just want—"
He stopped.
The cloak was embroidered. Faint, nearly invisible threadwork.
Three words.
Yolti leaned in to read, but Kaelen stepped in front of it. Shielded it.
His breath misted.
"…He remembers," Kaelen whispered.
And for the first time in six years, he smiled.
Not because it didn't hurt.
But because the silence finally meant something.