The next three days fell into an unexpected rhythm.
Kael was technically still on medical leave, excused from his Witnessing duties while he "recovered" from his collapse. In practice, this meant he had nothing to do except think, worry, and spend time with Ember—which suited both of them fine.
The House Mourning compound was not designed for children. Its halls were silent, its rooms were stark, and its residents moved with the careful quietness of people who dealt in death for a living. Ember should have been miserable there.
Instead, she seemed to find it fascinating.
"Why are all the walls black?" she asked on the second morning, as Kael walked her through the compound's central corridor.
"It's not black—it's very dark grey. The stone comes from quarries in the Ashfields, where the Reckoning happened. House Mourning has used it for centuries."
"Why?"
"Because it absorbs sound. Makes the whole building quieter." Kael gestured at the walls. "Witnesses spend a lot of time with the dying. Silence is... respected here."
Ember considered this, her small face serious. "That makes sense. Dying people probably don't want to hear other people being noisy."
"Exactly."
They walked past the Memorial Garden—a small courtyard filled with black stone tablets inscribed with names. Ember stopped, staring at the endless rows of markers.
"Are these all dead people?"
"People whose deaths House Mourning has witnessed. Over the centuries."
"There are so many of them."
"Everyone dies eventually." It came out more blunt than Kael had intended. He softened his tone. "The tablets are a way of remembering. Of honoring the people who trusted us with their final moments."
Ember walked among the tablets, her fingers hovering just above the carved names without quite touching them. "Do you remember all of them? The ones you've witnessed?"
"Not all. But the ones I carry—the regrets—those I remember." Kael touched his temple. "Forty-four people, their last thoughts, their last wishes. They're all still in here."
"That sounds heavy."
"It is." He watched her move through the garden, this strange child who had appeared from nowhere carrying burdens she couldn't even name. "But it's also a kind of honor. They trusted me with something precious. The least I can do is remember."
Ember stopped at a tablet near the edge of the garden. The name carved into it was worn almost smooth—old, very old.
"Do you think anyone will remember me?" she asked quietly. "When I die? Or will I just... disappear, like I never existed at all?"
The question hit Kael harder than he expected. He walked over to stand beside her, looking down at the ancient, nearly illegible name.
"I'll remember you," he said. "Whatever happens. I promise."
She didn't respond, but after a moment, her small hand found his and held on.
On the third day, Kael decided to try something.
The sensations in his chest hadn't faded. If anything, they'd become clearer—the warmth and cold settling into distinct patterns that he was slowly learning to recognize. But they remained frustratingly uncommunicative. He could feel them responding to things, reacting to his emotions and surroundings, but he had no way to understand what those responses meant.
So he decided to experiment.
"I'm going to try something," he told Ember, who was sitting on the floor of his small room, playing with a set of carved wooden figures that someone had dug out of storage for her. "Something to help me understand what's happening inside me."
"The warmth thing?"
"Yes." He settled cross-legged on the bed, facing her. "I'm going to... try talking to it. Out loud. See if it responds in ways I can understand."
Ember set down the wooden figures, her attention fully focused on him. "Can I watch?"
"You might get bored. I don't know if anything will happen."
"I want to watch anyway."
Kael nodded and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, then another, using the meditation techniques he'd learned as a Witness to quiet his mind and focus his attention inward.
The warmth was there, as always—a gentle heat near his heart. And below it, the thread of cold, patient and watchful.
"Hello," he said aloud. The word felt strange, spoken to an empty room. "I don't know if you can hear me, or understand me. But I want to try to communicate."
Nothing happened. The warmth pulsed once, but it had been doing that anyway.
"I'm going to say some words," Kael continued. "If you understand, if you can respond somehow... try to change the way you feel. Get warmer or colder, stronger or weaker. Something I can notice."
He took another breath.
"Safety."
The warmth pulsed. Slightly stronger than its baseline.
Kael's heart rate picked up. That could have been coincidence. He needed to test it.
"Danger."
The cold sharpened. Not painful, but definitely more intense—like a finger pressing against the inside of his chest.
"Safety," he said again.
The warmth returned, the cold receding.
"Danger."
Cold. Sharp. Insistent.
"Oh," Ember breathed from across the room. "It's working, isn't it?"
Kael opened his eyes. His hands were trembling slightly. "I think so. It seems to understand at least some words. Or at least, the concepts behind them."
"What about other words? Try more."
He closed his eyes again, cycling through concepts:
"Friend."
Warmth, stronger than before. Almost affectionate.
"Enemy."
Cold, but also something else—something that felt almost like... sadness?
"Danger."
Cold again, sharp and clear.
"Help."
Warmth. Gentle, encouraging.
"Hurt."
Nothing. Neither warmth nor cold responded strongly.
"Death."
Both. Warmth and cold together, swirling in a complex pattern he couldn't interpret.
Kael opened his eyes, breathing hard. The exercise was more draining than he'd expected—as though the act of communicating, even in this limited way, required energy he didn't have much of.
"That was amazing," Ember said. She had moved closer without him noticing, now sitting at the edge of his bed. "It really does understand you."
"Some things. Not everything." Kael wiped sweat from his forehead. "It's like... like trying to have a conversation with someone who only speaks a few words of your language. We can exchange basic concepts, but anything complex is going to be difficult."
"Can you ask it questions? Like, what it is, or what it wants?"
Kael tried. He closed his eyes and focused on the warmth.
"What are you?"
Nothing. The warmth pulsed steadily, but there was no response beyond its normal pattern.
"Why are you here?"
Still nothing. Whatever the presence was, it couldn't—or wouldn't—answer abstract questions.
"Can you help me?"
Warmth. Strong, immediate, almost eager.
"Will you hurt me?"
Cold—but not the sharp, warning cold of danger. Something softer. Sad again.
Kael opened his eyes. "I think... I think it wants to help. But there's something complicated there. Something about hurt that it can't explain."
"Maybe it's been hurt before," Ember said quietly. "Maybe that's why it's sad."
Kael looked at her—this child who couldn't remember her own past but seemed to understand emotional nuance with startling clarity.
"Maybe," he agreed.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Ember spoke again:
"Can you ask it about me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Ask if it knows anything about me. About my debt. About why that thing in the alley was trying to take me."
Kael hesitated. He wasn't sure the presence could answer such specific questions. But Ember's eyes were wide and hopeful, and he couldn't bring himself to refuse.
He closed his eyes.
"Do you know about Ember? The girl?"
Warmth. Strong and immediate.
"Is she important?"
Even stronger warmth. Almost overwhelming.
"Is she dangerous?"
Both sensations at once—warmth and cold, swirling together. Yes and no. Important and complicated.
"Is her debt dangerous?"
Cold. Sharp and clear. Yes.
"Can you help her?"
Warmth again, but this time with an undercurrent of something else. Uncertainty, maybe. Or limitation.
Kael opened his eyes. "It knows about you. It says you're important—very important. And that your debt is dangerous. But when I asked if it could help you, it felt... unsure. Like it wants to help but doesn't know if it can."
Ember absorbed this in silence. Her expression was hard to read.
"Thank you," she said finally. "For trying."
"We'll figure this out," Kael said. "Whatever's happening to both of us—we'll understand it eventually."
"Together?"
"Together."
The warmth in his chest pulsed in what might have been agreement.
That evening, Vessen came to Kael's room.
She looked exhausted—dark circles under her hollow eyes, her usually precise movements slightly sluggish. She had been in the archives almost constantly since their first conversation, emerging only for meals and brief rest periods.
"I've found something," she said without preamble. "Something that may explain what happened to you."
Kael sat up straighter. "What?"
Vessen closed the door behind her and settled into his single chair. Her movements were careful, deliberate—the movements of someone delivering difficult news.
"The archives contain records from the Reckoning," she began. "Fragmentary, incomplete—much was lost when the world broke. But there are accounts. Witness accounts, from House Mourning members who were present during the catastrophe."
"And?"
"They describe individuals like you. People who suddenly developed strange sensations—warmth and cold, acting in ways that seemed almost intelligent. People who felt compelled to act in certain ways, to protect certain things, without understanding why."
Kael felt the warmth pulse. It seemed to be listening.
"What were they?" he asked.
"The records call them Harbingers." Vessen's voice was heavy. "Because they always appeared before something terrible happened. Before the world broke further. Before shards split or the Hollow widened."
"You're saying I'm a... what, a herald of disaster?"
"I'm saying there's a pattern. And the pattern suggests that whatever is inside you—whatever is providing those sensations—it's connected to forces far beyond normal human experience." She paused. "The accounts from the Reckoning describe the Harbingers as carrying 'passengers.' Pieces of something greater, lodged inside human vessels."
"Pieces of what?"
Vessen was quiet for a long moment.
"The gods," she said finally. "Pieces of the gods themselves."
The warmth surged so strongly that Kael gasped. It wasn't painful—but it was overwhelming, a wave of heat that seemed to confirm everything Vessen had just said.
"The girl," Vessen continued. "Ember. I believe she may be carrying something similar. A different piece, perhaps, but from the same source. That would explain the connection between you—why you felt compelled to protect her, why you could sense her importance even without understanding it."
"So we're both... what? Containers for divine fragments?"
"Possibly. The records are unclear on many points." Vessen leaned forward. "But there's something else. Something I need you to understand."
"What?"
"The Harbingers from the Reckoning—the ones who carried these fragments..." Her hollow eyes met his. "Most of them didn't survive. The power they carried was too great. It consumed them, or transformed them, or simply... burned them out. The few who did survive were never the same. They became something other than human."
The cold threaded through Kael's chest, sharp and warning.
"You're saying this thing might kill me."
"I'm saying we don't know what it will do. The presence inside you chose you for a reason—or was placed in you for a reason. Until we understand what that reason is, we're operating blind." Vessen stood. "I'll continue researching. But Kael—I need you to be honest with me. About everything you experience, everything you feel, everything you learn. If we're going to navigate this safely, I need complete information."
"I understand."
"Good." She moved toward the door, then paused. "The girl. How is she?"
"Adjusting. She's smart—smarter than she should be, given what she's been through. And she's observant. She noticed my reactions to the presence before I even realized I was having them."
"Interesting." Vessen filed that away. "Keep watching her. If she is carrying a similar fragment, the changes in her may be slower to manifest—but they will come eventually."
She left without saying goodbye.
Kael sat in the growing darkness of his room, feeling the warmth and cold shift inside him like tides responding to an invisible moon.
Harbinger, he thought. Piece of a god.
The warmth pulsed. And for just a moment, he could have sworn it felt like welcome.