Caelen awoke in a shadowed room, the air thick with incense and the low flicker of candlelight casting wavering shapes along the walls. The pain in his chest pulsed like a second heartbeat—dull, steady, unwelcome.
Elira was by his side, her expression tight with worry, her hand hovering just above his.
Across from them stood the woman in white—now unmasked.
She had sharp features and calm, observant eyes that gleamed with too much knowing.
"I am the Truthspeaker," she said quietly. "And you, Caelen of Hearthollow, are the Heart of the Dying Age."
He sat up slowly, wincing as the scar on his chest flared. "I'm just cursed," he muttered. "That's all I've ever been."
The Truthspeaker tilted her head, her lips curving in a faint, sad smile."That curse makes you the fulcrum of fate. The one who feels what others bury. The one who can choose what no one else dares."
Beside him, Elira bristled. "What do you want from him?"
The woman lifted a scroll from the table beside her, the parchment old and creased, the ink faded but unmistakably powerful.
"Nothing you do not already carry," she said. "The prophecies name the Ashbound—he who bears the world's sorrow, who can either save it… or break it."
Caelen's scar throbbed harder, burning against his skin.
"I never asked for this," he said, voice raw. "I never wanted to be anyone's prophecy."
"And that," the Truthspeaker said, her gaze piercing, "is exactly why it must be you."
He flinched.
"You must reach the temple," she continued, unrolling the scroll. Ancient symbols curled like vines around a central figure cloaked in ash. "At its heart, you will face the End That Feels Nothing. A force born of stillness. Of silence. Of severed hearts."
Caelen swallowed hard, dread coiling in his gut. "And if I fail?"
"Then the world follows," she said simply. "Into silence."
Elira's voice broke through the stillness, fierce but shaken."The temple's already our goal. We're going."
The Truthspeaker nodded, satisfied. "Then hasten. The enemy stirs. You do not walk far enough ahead of him."
She left without another word, her robes whispering across the floor like falling leaves. The door clicked shut behind her, and silence filled the space once more.
Caelen leaned back against the cushions, eyes heavy, limbs aching."I'm not strong enough," he murmured. "I feel like I'm unraveling."
Elira reached for his hand and didn't hesitate this time. She took it, firm and warm, her grip anchoring him.
"Then we'll face it together," she said. "Your pain. The temple. The end of everything."
Her voice was steady, her presence a shield against the weight pressing in on all sides.
And in that moment, Caelen didn't feel like the Heart of the Dying Age.He just felt… held.