The smoke did not get closer as quickly as he expected. Distances on these violet plains were a trick. The rolling waves of grass created an endless, flat loop that made him feel like he was walking in place.
He walked for hours.
The sun climbed to the middle of the sky. It was a pale, white eye that didn't give much warmth, but the glare was sharp. His throat, which had been dry when he woke up, now felt like it was filled with sand.
He didn't feel "tired" in the way he thought a person should. His muscles didn't ache, and his lungs didn't burn. Instead, he just felt like a battery slowly running out of power. The emptiness inside him—that quiet, hollow space where his "self" should have been—was growing. It made him feel thin, like a sketch that hadn't been finished. He felt that if a strong wind hit him, he might simply vanish.
Then, the smell of the air changed.
It wasn't just the clean scent of grass anymore. It was the heavy smell of cooking fat and something metallic, like old iron.
He walked over a small hill and the view finally changed.
At the base of a jagged pile of gray rocks sat a single, heavy wagon. Its wooden wheels were covered in dried mud. A strange, shaggy beast—something like an ox but with too many joints in its legs—was tied to a nearby stone, chewing on the purple grass.
Three people sat around a small fire.
He stopped.
A normal person would have felt happy to see others. A normal person would have been afraid of being attacked. He just stood there, his arms hanging at his sides, watching the fire.
The emptiness didn't move. It didn't feel hope. It didn't feel fear.
It just waited.
"Who's there?"
The voice was rough. One of the figures stood up fast, knocking over a wooden stool. He was a big man with a broad chest and a beard that looked like a bird's nest. He grabbed a notched spear that was leaning against the wagon.
"Show your hands! Come out of the grass!"
The man from the plains stepped forward. He didn't hide, but he didn't run either. He walked with a strange, steady rhythm that felt wrong for a beggar.
As he stepped into the light of the fire, he saw the other two. A woman with straw-colored hair and a younger man—barely a boy—who was reaching for a heavy knife.
The big man pointed the spear at him. His knuckles were white. His eyes were wide.
"Stop right there," the man growled. "Not another step."
Then, it happened.
It wasn't a sound or a sight. It was a wave of heat.
A jagged, invisible pressure came off the big man. It was Suspicion. It hit the man's chest and didn't bounce off. It was sucked in, as if his ribs were a vacuum.
The effect was instant.
The gray fog in his mind cleared. His blurry vision snapped into focus. The weakness in his arms and legs vanished, replaced by a cold, buzzing vibration. He felt heavy. He felt solid.
It was better than water. It was better than food.
It was the feeling of being noticed.
"I'm lost," the man said.
His voice was flat. There was no emotion in it. No begging. It sounded like a stone talking.
The woman flinched. The boy's hand shook as he held his knife.
"Lost?" the man spat, though his spear tip lowered an inch. "There's nothing out here for miles but the Vales. You don't just 'get lost' in the violet grass."
The man's Suspicion was changing. It was turning into fear—the kind of fear people feel when they see the unknown or something eerie.
He felt the emptiness drink again. The "fear" tasted different than the "Suspicion." It was colder and stronger. It made his fingertips tingle.
"I don't know where I am," he said, taking another step forward. He didn't care about the sharp spear. He was busy watching the way the man's heart was beating fast in the vein of his neck. "And I don't know who I am. But I promise I'm not a ghost. Ghosts are much better dressed than this."
The joke was dry, delivered with a face that didn't move a single muscle. It was so unexpected that the boy with the knife actually let out a short, nervous bark of a laugh.
Laughter.
The energy hit the man like a small spark. It wasn't a massive power, but it was enough to wake up his senses. The tiredness in his bones lifted, and the strange fogginess in his brain drifted away. For a moment, his body felt awake.
"He's sick," the woman said. Her suspicion was gone, replaced by Pity.
Pity was different. It felt like a low-level warmth, clearing the last bit of haze from his mind.
"Sit," the big man ordered. He sounded more confused than angry now. "Sit by the fire where I can see your hands. If you move toward us, I'll kill you."
The man sat.
He watched the fire. He watched the three people who were looking at him like he was a monster wearing a human face.
He was still empty. He still had no name and no past. But as he held his cold hands out to the flames, he realized he didn't need a past. Not when he could live off the pieces of theirs.
"What's your name, then?" the boy asked, his voice curious despite the tension.
A name bubbled up from the fragments of his memory from a distant world. It felt sharp, clever, and old.
"Let me call myself Loki," he said.
The woman, whose name was Elara, handed him a wooden bowl. It was filled with a thin, salty broth and pieces of gray meat.
Loki took a sip. It was hot, but it didn't satisfy the hunger in his chest—only the hunger in his stomach. He watched the boy, Kael, who was still staring at him with wide eyes.
"Where are you from, Loki?" Elara asked. She was trying to be kind, but her hands were still gripping her skirt tightly.
"The grass," Loki replied.
"Nobody comes from the grass," the big man, Garin, grumbled, sitting back down on his stool.
Loki nodded slowly.
"We're heading to the border town of Oakhaven," Garin continued. "It's a two-day trek. We're just traders—old iron and scrap. We don't want trouble."
"I don't want trouble either," Loki said. He felt much more alert now, the energy from their initial shock acting like a strong dose of caffeine. "I just want to find a place where people don't try to poke me with spears."
Garin grunted, but his posture relaxed slightly. "Oakhaven is your best bet then. It's crowded. Nobody cares who you are or where you came from as long as you have a few coins or a strong back."
Loki looked at his own hands. They were calloused, though he couldn't remember why. He didn't have coins, and he didn't know if his back was strong, but he knew he could make people feel things. And as long as they felt things, he wouldn't feel so hollow.
"Oakhaven it is," Loki said.
The boy, Kael, was still watching him, his hand slowly moving away from his knife. The Unease in the air was steady, a slow stream of energy that kept the fog in Loki's head from returning.
"Tell me," Loki said, his voice quiet as he stared into the flames. "Is the whole world this... violet? Or is it just this place?"
"Just the Vales," Kael answered, eager to talk. "Once we hit the Iron Road, the grass turns green again. My dad says the violet color comes from the 'Spill'—ancient energy that leaked out during the war."
Loki nodded. Ancient energy. Leaks. Spills. It all sounded like a story he might have once read.
"I look forward to seeing green," Loki said.
As the fire crackled, he closed his eyes. He didn't sleep, but he leaned into the lingering tension of the traders. It was a small, battery-like charge. Just enough to keep the hollow man moving for another day.