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The woman looked at Adrian for a few seconds before letting out a light chuckle. Her laughter was soft and almost pleasant to hear, but there was something about it that made Adrian uneasy. She tilted her head slightly, her black veil shifting as a faint breeze passed through the mountain air.
"I asked you a question," she said calmly.
Adrian's expression didn't change. His platinum hair was still streaked with dried blood and his eyes, though calm, carried exhaustion.
"What is there to find out anymore?" he said. "I've already seen what happened."
The woman shook her head slowly.
"No, you haven't," she said, her tone even. "You might think you've seen everything since you devoured your mother's soul, but what you saw wasn't the full truth. Everything you absorbed—those visions, those emotions—they were simply her memories."
Adrian frowned. "Are you saying that my mother's memories were fake too? That they were just more lies?"
The woman waved a hand slightly. "No. They weren't lies. They were her truth. But memory is never perfect, Adrian. Humans don't remember events exactly as they happened. We remember how they made us feel. The stronger the emotion, the deeper the memory. The mind changes things—sometimes to protect itself, sometimes without realizing it."
Adrian stayed silent, his gaze focused on the woman's hidden face.
She continued, "And I'm sure you've already noticed it yourself. The memories you absorbed were fragmented, incomplete. There were gaps. Pieces missing."
Adrian narrowed his eyes slightly. "You said I absorbed her fragmented soul. How do you even know that?"
The woman let out another faint laugh. "If I'm looking closely, such a thing can't escape my gaze."
Adrian looked at her cautiously. "You talk like you know a lot of things. But how much do you actually know?"
The woman tilted her head slightly, her tone playful as she replied, "Oh, me? Don't take my words too seriously. I tend to sound more mysterious than I mean to. But I do know a few things about you… and I doubt that most of what's happened in your life was simple coincidence."
Adrian's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
The woman leaned back slightly on the rock where she sat. Her butler, standing silently behind her, adjusted his gloves but said nothing.
"Well," she began, "do you really think the moth just happened to take your mother as a vessel? Creatures like that don't make random choices. There must have been something special about her that made her suitable."
Adrian's expression didn't change, but his silence showed he was listening carefully.
The woman continued, her voice steady and thoughtful. "Perhaps something deeper than someone being an arcanist. Something connected to her very essence. And as for you… maybe the moth spared you for the same reason. Maybe it saw that same special quality within you."
Adrian slowly looked down at his hands. The veins on his arms faintly pulsed with dark energy, remnants of the devour path he had awakened. He clenched his fists lightly.
"I see where you're going with this," he said quietly. "But tell me—why are you helping me? And how do I start whatever it is you're suggesting?"
The woman let out a faint hum, as though amused by his directness. "Why am I helping you? Hm. That's a hard one." She paused, then smiled faintly behind her veil. "Let's just say… it's something I decided to do on a whim. Nothing more, nothing less."
Adrian didn't respond. His eyes stayed on her, waiting.
"As for how you can start," she continued, "you can do so by finding something. Something left behind by a certain man."
Her gloved hand reached into the folds of her dress. Then, with a smooth motion, she flicked her wrist and threw a small object toward him.
Adrian caught it.
It was a photograph—old and slightly worn, the edges curled from time.
He looked at it carefully, and his eyes widened slightly. The man in the photograph was one he knew all too well.
The arcanist.
The one who had experimented on him for years.
The man who had turned his life into a nightmare.
Adrian's grip on the photograph tightened slightly. The faint light of dusk reflected in his eyes.
He raised his head and looked back at the woman. "Where do I look?"
The woman's tone shifted, and there was a faint hint of excitement in her voice as she answered.
"Duskendale."
Just that one word.
The way she said it carried a strange tone—like a secret that only she fully understood.
As she stood up, her butler followed silently, and faint particles of ash began to drift from her body. Slowly, she and her companion started to fade away, their forms disintegrating into the night air as if they were never truly there to begin with.
Seeing this, Adrian stretched out his hand instinctively.
"Wait!" he called out. "Who are you?"
The woman stopped mid-motion, her fading figure turning slightly so that he could see the faint outline of her face behind the veil.
"Well," she said softly, "I am someone on a quest for revenge."
Adrian frowned slightly. "No," he said. "I meant your name."
The woman chuckled again, this time more lightly. Her voice was distant now, almost carried away by the wind.
"Oh, that…" she said with amusement. "Well, if you can believe me—"
She paused for a brief moment.
"I forgot it."
And with that, her figure completely vanished, leaving behind only drifting specks of ash that faded into the cold night breeze.
Adrian stood there silently for a long while, staring at the empty spot where she had been. The photograph in his hand felt heavier than before.
He looked down at it again, at the face of the man who had once treated him like an experiment.
"Duskendale…" he muttered quietly.
His voice was calm, but the faint tremor in his hand betrayed the turmoil inside him.
Then, with a deep breath, he turned away from the ashes and began walking toward the horizon.