Drip… drip… The crypt was silent except for the slow fall of meltwater somewhere deep in the darkness.
Leon sat against a sarcophagus, leg stretched out, blood-soaked cloth tied tight around the gash. The bleeding had slowed, but the cold gnawed at him, trying to finish what the Echo had started. Every heartbeat sent a dull throb through the wound.
He stared at his hands. Pale, scratched, trembling. Yet the shadows between his fingers deepened unnaturally for a breath longer than they should.
Fshhh… A thin tendril of darkness curled around his thumb like smoke—cool, weightless—and vanished.
He had done that.
Not luck. Not hallucination. Him.
The realization settled like spoiled food in his stomach.
He closed his fist. Shadows obeyed, retreating into ordinary gloom.
A memory surfaced unbidden—his mother brushing snow from his hair, smiling. Details sharp: the curve of her cheek, the warmth of her breath. Then, as he returned his focus to the shadows, the memory dimmed. Her smile blurred. Eye color slipped away like water through fingers.
Exhaling, the cold burned deeper than before.
So that was the price.
He laughed once—quiet, bitter. Of course there was a price. Nothing in Aethelgard came free. Why should this be different?
Stone… whisper…
An ancient voice returned, soft, as though speaking from the crypt itself:
Aspect: Mourner's Shade (Dormant)
Flaw: Grief Devourer
To awaken fully, bear witness to the Kingdom's fall.
The words faded, leaving only drip… drip… and his ragged breathing.
Leon pushed himself upright, leaning on the rusted shortsword. Pain flared, but he welcomed it—proof he was alive.
The crypt stretched endlessly. Rows of sarcophagi carved with the weeping king. One lid showed the king kneeling, crown shattered, twenty-two hooded figures encircling him. Each held a symbol: a door, a fool's cap, a broken sword, a lantern, a black sun. Some symbols he almost recognized; others made his skin crawl.
He traced one with a gloved finger—the outline of a shade beneath a mourner's hood. Shadows that had saved him.
Bear witness…
He didn't know what that meant. Staying meant dying. So he moved.
Scritch… scrape… Stairs spiraled upward into colder air.
He emerged into a scriptorium: long tables buried under snowdrifts, shelves of scrolls preserved in ice like insects in amber. Moonlight—though there was no moon—filtered through cracked skylights, painting silver and blue.
Most scrolls crumbled at a touch. A few tablets of thin ice remained, etched with words in a language he couldn't read… but understood fragments.
"…betrayal at the feast of crowns…
…the king wept black tears as the outer shadows drank the stars…
…twenty-two paths offered, twenty-two prices demanded…"
Images accompanied the text: vast shapes beyond the sky, weeping the same tears as the king. Subjects clawing out eyes rather than see. A woman in golden armor standing alone against darkness, spear raised.
Leon's chest tightened. She looked… familiar, though he could not say why.
On a lectern lay a small silver locket, half-buried in frost. Shadows around his feet stirred eagerly. Warm. Impossible warmth. Inside, faint outlines of two faces, worn almost smooth by time.
He hung it around his neck. Shadows pooled thicker, eager at his will.
Whisper… sigh… A sound drifted through the ruined halls: singing. Low, sad, melody without words. Rising and falling like breath, like prayer.
Leon gripped the sword and followed.
The scriptorium opened into a transept, then a collapsed nave. Snow filled most of it. In the center, a chapel: arched ribs of stone holding fragments of roof, shattered stained glass glittering like frozen jewels.
In the middle, a girl. Hooded cloak pale as sand, dusted with snow. Golden hair spilled loose. Knees drawn to chest, arms wrapped around them. A faint glow surrounded her—soft gold, warm as candlelight—holding back the cold, the dark.
Fshhh… Minor Frost Echoes circled the light, pressing close but unable to enter. They dissolved and reformed, whispering. She sang to keep them at bay.
Leon watched from shadow, half-hidden. Darkness clung more willingly now.
She sensed him. Singing stopped. Head lifted. Weak tea-colored eyes met his across the snow—tired, wary, not afraid.
"You're real," she said, voice soft, hoarse.
He stepped forward slowly. Shadows fell away. "Looks like it."
She studied him: blood on his coat, sword, dark circles under eyes.
"You're hurt."
"So are you."
A thin line of golden blood traced from her nose, froze on her lip. She wiped it away.
"I'm Sera," she said.
"Leon."
Silence. Echoes hissed at the edges of her light.
"I make illusions. Warm places. People who aren't real. It keeps the things away, but…" She gestured at blood. "It takes pieces of me each time."
Shadows hide me. But they eat memories. Feelings.
Two strangers, trading the currency of curses.
Crack… whoosh… An Echo lunged. Sera's light flared; the Echo shattered into snow. More followed.
Without thinking, Leon unleashed shadows from under the pews. Tendrils wrapped legs of nearest Echoes, dragging them down. Sera's glow multiplied, illusory copies of herself circling, singing in harmony. Echoes hesitated, striking phantoms.
Leon slipped behind the largest—a captain in broken crown-mail—and drove the rusted sword through its translucent neck. Blade passed through, shadows unravelling it from within.
Fshhh… sigh… It dissolved.
The rest scattered. Silence returned. He felt hollow widen inside—another memory gone, laughter in a warm room no longer his.
They sat across from each other, breathing hard.
"Thank you," she said.
"Same," he replied.
Dong… dong… dong… Bells tolled far away, bone-shaking, rolling through ruins like thunder under ice.
The ground trembled. Snow cascaded from arches.
Through the broken rose window: the distant palace glowed pale blue. At its heart, colossal figure in ethereal armor rose from a throne of frost. Spear of white light in hand.
The Forgotten Saint.
Its head turned, as though searching.
A voice spoke inside both minds:
Second stage awakens.
The Forgotten Saint stirs.
Bear witness, or perish in mourning.
Far away, a white-haired man in a dark cloak moved, sword dripping red, carving a path through frozen corpses. Laughter faint on the wind—wild, broken.
Sera looked at Leon. Fear, yes—but steadier beneath.
"We should move," she said. "Together?"
Leon glanced at shadows pooling at his feet, then at her golden glow. Hollow place inside him felt… less empty.
"Yeah," he said. "Together."
He offered a hand. She took it.
Shadows lengthened around them. For the first time since the snow swallowed him, Leon was not alone.