Alaric woke to the sound of dripping water.
Each drop fell into a shallow pool somewhere in the cavern, sending faint ripples across the silence. The glow of the murals traced the walls in pale green and black, brighter than before, steady like a heartbeat.
He shifted, blinking golden eyes open. The world was still heavy, but the crushing exhaustion had lessened. His limbs were stiff, but they moved when he willed them to.
The cloak still covered him. Ashen's cloak. Its faint scent of earth and steel clung to the fabric, cutting the cavern's damp chill.
And beside him, as always, was Ashen.
The pale knight sat straight-backed, sword across his knees, silver eyes steady on the shadows. He hadn't moved. He hadn't faltered. His presence was a constant wall between Alaric and the dark.
The boy's lips twitched faintly. "…Still there. Of course you are."
His voice was raspy, but stronger than the night before.
Ashen didn't look at him. Didn't answer. But the pale hand that had rested at his side shifted, checking briefly at his shoulder before withdrawing. A silent acknowledgement.
Alaric let out a quiet huff. "…You really don't change, huh?"
He pushed himself upright slowly, arms trembling but holding. His snow-white hair tumbled over his eyes, messy and stubborn. He brushed it back with one hand, grimacing at the dirt crusted into the strands.
His tunic was torn, hem stained with ichor and moss. His hands were raw, scraped from gripping his staff until the wood bit into his skin. Every ache in his body reminded him of the fight, of his collapse, of how close he'd come to breaking entirely.
He hated it. But… he also remembered.
The feel of mana surging through him. The desperate rhythm of battle. The way his body had moved without thought, driven by instinct and resolve.
He hadn't won. He hadn't even come close.
But for the first time, he'd fought.
He looked down at his small hands. Dirt-stained, trembling. But his own.
"…I was pathetic," he muttered, voice low. "I thought I could fight like you. Thought if I pushed hard enough, I'd stand tall. But I was just a kid swinging a stick in the dark."
His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "…Still. I learned."
Ashen's silver eyes flicked toward him. Just once. No judgment. No scorn. Simply acknowledgment.
Alaric let out a shaky laugh. "You're probably thinking I was reckless. And you'd be right. But…" His golden eyes sharpened faintly. "…I won't stop."
His voice grew steadier, echoing against the cavern walls.
"Next time, I'll fight better. Next time, I won't fall so easily. Even if I break, even if I bleed—" He clenched his small fist, jaw tight. "…I'll stand again."
The words hung heavy in the cavern.
For a moment, only silence answered.
Then the murals pulsed.
Green light flared along the veins of stone, black shadows curling between them like threads of ink. The entire cavern seemed to hum, a deep resonance that thrummed through Alaric's chest.
He froze, eyes wide.
"…It heard me?"
Ashen didn't react, but his hand shifted once more, adjusting the staff lying near the wall. He set it upright beside Alaric, silent but deliberate.
The boy stared at the gesture. His chest ached—not from strain, but from something heavier, warmer.
"…Yeah," he whispered. "I'll keep going. For real this time."
He wrapped his small fingers around the staff. His body still trembled, still weak, but his grip was steady.
The ruin pulsed again, brighter, as if answering.
For the first time since stepping into the temple's depths, Alaric didn't feel like an intruder.
He felt… chosen.
Alaric tries to move, body still weak. Ashen quietly supports him. Training memories resurface. Alaric admits his fear, but vows out loud to keep fighting. The cavern atmosphere deepens, as if testing him.
Alaric's fingers tightened on the staff. The wood felt heavier than it should, pressing into his palm with the weight of everything he'd done wrong. But this time, instead of dropping it, he pulled it closer to his chest.
The cavern's glow brushed against him, soft and insistent. Shadows curled at the edge of the light like a waiting tide.
He tried to stand.
The moment he pushed himself upward, his knees buckled. His body screamed in protest, muscles trembling with every effort. The sudden strain sent him crashing back to the moss with a grunt.
"…Tch. Figures."
He sat there, glaring at his legs as if they'd betrayed him.
Ashen finally moved. Silent as always, he shifted closer, one pale hand reaching—not to lift him, not to force him up, but to steady his shoulder once more.
The contact was cool, firm. Not pitying. Simply support.
Alaric clenched his teeth, golden eyes narrowed. "…Don't look at me like that. I can do it."
Ashen's silver eyes regarded him, unreadable. Then, without a word, the knight adjusted, moving the staff so it angled toward the ground like a walking stick. His pale hand guided Alaric's grip into place, then withdrew.
No words. Just trust.
Alaric's chest tightened. "…You're too much, you know that?"
He tried again, this time using the staff for balance. His arms shook, his legs wobbled, but inch by inch he rose, until he was standing—small, trembling, but upright.
The cavern pulsed. Murals flared faintly, their carved figures bathed in threads of light. The great tree, the river of death, the symbols of rebirth—all seemed to lean closer, as if watching.
Alaric swallowed. The glow painted his white hair in hues of green and black, casting long shadows across his cheeks. For a moment, he looked less like a child and more like part of the ruin itself.
He tightened his grip on the staff. "See? Not useless."
His voice cracked, but his chin lifted stubbornly.
Ashen didn't reply. But his gaze lingered, silver eyes reflecting the faint glow. He adjusted his torn butler's coat, then shifted his sword across his knees, posture sharp and steady.
Alaric smirked faintly. "…You're probably thinking I'll collapse any second. And you're probably right. But too bad. I'm standing."
The boy's smirk faltered into something softer. His golden eyes turned toward the murals again, tracing the images carved into stone. He saw the figures reaching toward the great tree, the shapes fading into shadow at the river's edge.
"…They fought too, didn't they?" he whispered. "The people who were here. Whoever carved this place. They knew what it was like… to stand against something bigger than them."
He dragged in a shaky breath. "…I was scared. Terrified. I thought… I'd die for real that time. And maybe I still will. But…" His hands tightened on the staff. "…I don't want to run. Not anymore."
His words echoed, swallowed by the ruin.
Then, faintly, the ground thrummed beneath his feet. A vibration deep within the stone, steady and low, like a heartbeat rising from the earth itself.
Alaric froze, golden eyes wide.
"…It's listening."
Ashen's gaze flicked toward him, then toward the murals. His pale hand rested calmly on the hilt of his sword, but he made no move otherwise.
The boy swallowed. His lips trembled, but his chin remained firm.
"…I'll keep going. No matter what. Even if I fall, even if I break again… I'll stand."
The ruin pulsed brighter, answering him with a flare of light. The air thickened, pressing warm and cold at once against his skin. The moss beneath his feet shimmered faintly, new sprouts pushing from cracks in the stone.
Alaric's breath caught. He lowered his head, hiding the faint smile tugging at his lips.
"…Guess that settles it, huh?"
Ashen's silence pressed steady beside him.
For the first time, Alaric didn't resent it.
Instead, he found himself comforted.
The cavern breathed with him.
Each step Alaric took pressed against the mossy ground with the weight of mountains. His legs wobbled, his grip on the staff white-knuckled, but he moved. Slow, uneven, stubborn.
Ashen remained at his side, not guiding, not interfering—simply watching. But each time Alaric stumbled too far, the pale knight shifted just slightly, cloak brushing against the boy's arm like a quiet net, ready to catch him without being asked.
Alaric noticed. Of course he noticed.
"…You don't trust me not to fall, do you?" he muttered.
No answer.
The boy puffed out a shaky breath. His golden eyes narrowed, but his lips twitched faintly. "…Fine. I'll prove it."
He dragged himself forward again, one unsteady step at a time.
The cavern responded. Murals lit brighter with each movement, casting the walls in green and shadowed black. Carved figures seemed to shift in the light, their shapes bending like they were walking with him. The air grew warmer, carrying a faint hum that pressed against his chest.
It felt like the ruin itself was alive. Watching. Testing.
Alaric clenched his jaw. "…I get it. You're not gonna let me slack, are you?"
His body screamed at him to stop. His muscles quivered with every shaky step, sweat prickling across his brow. His snow-white hair clung to his face, damp and wild. His small frame looked fragile in the ruin's glow, more child than warrior.
But his eyes burned golden, sharp and steady.
He reached the center of the cavern—where the altar waited. Cracked, ancient, wrapped in faint light that pulsed in rhythm with his heart.
He stopped, leaning heavily on the staff. His shoulders heaved, breath ragged. Every fiber of him wanted to collapse, to sink back into the moss and give in.
But he didn't.
Instead, he lifted his chin. His voice trembled, but it carried.
"…I'm weak. I know that. I can't fight like you," his gaze flicked toward Ashen, "and I probably never will. But…" He gripped the staff tighter, small knuckles white. "…I'll keep standing. No matter how many times I fall. I'll stand again."
The words rang through the cavern, sharp and raw.
The ruin answered.
Light burst across the walls, flooding the chamber in green radiance threaded with black veins. The murals pulsed like beating hearts, their carved figures glowing brighter, sharper. The ground trembled beneath his feet, deep and steady, like the world itself was acknowledging him.
Alaric staggered under the force, but he planted his staff firmly, golden eyes burning brighter in the glow.
"…That's right. I'm not done. This time… I'll make it work."
His voice cracked, but he didn't falter.
Ashen watched from behind, silver eyes reflecting the glow. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, as the tremors quieted and the cavern light steadied, he stepped forward.
His pale hand reached down, steadying the cloak slipping from Alaric's shoulder. He adjusted it with quiet precision, brushing dirt from the edge, tucking it firm against the boy's frame.
The gesture was small. Barely noticeable. But to Alaric, it was everything.
He swallowed, chest tight. His voice dropped to a whisper. "…Thanks. For… for being my shield."
Ashen didn't reply. His expression didn't change.
But his presence, heavy and steady, was answer enough.
The boy smiled faintly, messy and tired, but real.
He turned his golden eyes back toward the altar, the ruin's glow painting his snow-white hair like threads of fire and shadow. His grip on the staff steadied.
"…Alright. If this place wants to test me, I'll take it. Step by step. No giving up."
The ruin pulsed once more, softer now, like approval.
Ashen's sword gleamed faintly in the glow, his silver eyes sharp, unwavering.
Alaric's shoulders sagged, exhaustion finally overtaking his stubbornness. He leaned slightly on the staff, letting out a shaky sigh. "…Tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow."
His lips curled faintly upward. "…Zombie babysitters are supposed to let kids rest, you know."
Ashen's gaze lingered on him for a breath. Then he turned, positioning himself between Alaric and the cavern's yawning shadows. His blade rested across his knees, posture straight, a sentinel as always.
Alaric's smile softened. His eyelids drooped, golden eyes dimming as sleep crept in.
"…Yeah. Tomorrow."
The cavern hummed faintly, light dimming back to its steady pulse.
And so, with Ashen's silent shield at his side and the ruin's whisper around him, Alaric drifted into rest.
This time, not fragile. Not broken.
But resolved.