Three days after leaving the village, Marco knew he was being followed.
Not voting.
Not about steps.
It's about the rhythm.
The forest breathed differently when someone walked through it with determination.
He allowed his successor to continue.
If it was a hired hunter, he would show up before long.
If it was anything else, he wanted to see how long patience would last.
The air had become colder. The conifers thickened, and the path narrowed into a rocky groove that wound towards the ruins of the south.
The old town of Eryndor was waiting there.
A place where the world had once been broken.
And the place where the last tear had vibrated.
Marco stopped in the creek, bent down to drink, and spoke to the surface of the water:
"If you're going to attack, now would be the right time."
Silence.
Then a voice behind him:
"If I had planned to attack, you would have been dead by now."
Marco got up slowly.
He turned.
The woman stood a few steps away, her hand relaxed on the hilt of the sword, but not ready to strike.
He was about thirty, with dark hair tied behind his neck. His clothing was not that of a warrior or a nobleman—but that of a traveler who was prepared for a long journey. A leather belt held scrolls, a small book and a pendant engraved with silver.
But it wasn't her clothing that caught the eye.
That was his gaze.
Accurate.
Investigative.
Recognizable.
"You're Marco Astorio," she said.
Not by asking.
By stating.
Marco didn't answer right away.
"I won't use that name."
"That's what I've heard."
The woman stepped closer.
He didn't move carefully.
He moved like a human who had already made a decision.
"My name is Elira."
The wind moved between them.
Marco didn't hold out his hand.
"If you've come to kill me, you're too late. Many have tried."
The corner of Elira's mouth rose slightly.
"I didn't come to kill you."
Pause.
"I've been looking for you."
Marco didn't like it.
People don't look for warlocks for nothing.
"How long?" he asked.
"Almost my entire adult life."
The answer was too quick to be improvised.
Marco watched him.
"And why?"
Elira didn't dodge her gaze.
"Because in every text, in every ancient chronicle that mentions a rupture, there is also mention of a two-blood."
Marco felt something inside him tighten.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't know."
He dug out a small, worn-out book. Its pages were filled with dense markings, symbols that did not belong to the modern alphabet.
"The world doesn't fall apart by chance," Elira said.
"It answers."
Marco laughed dryly.
"Answer what?"
Elira closed the book.
"To those who carry both light and shadow."
Silence.
The forest seemed to be listening.
"You were in that village three days ago," Elira continued.
"Son, a symbol on earth."
Marco didn't answer.
"It wasn't a natural rupture."
"No," Marco finally said.
Elira nodded.
"The zero circle has started to move."
That name.
It wasn't a legend. Not a rumor.
Marco had heard it whispered in two cities over the past few months.
"A sect," he said.
"Chaos-based," Elira clarified.
"They believe that the world must be wiped clean. That only a perfect beginning can bring order."
Marco looked at the creek.
His reflection rippled on the surface of the water.
For a moment—just for a moment—he saw something else in it.
Another version of themselves.
A more complete one.
He blinked his eyes, and the sight disappeared.
"And they need me for that," he said.
Elira didn't answer right away.
"The ritual requires an anchor. Something that is able to stand on the verge of a rupture."
She looked Marco straight in the eye.
"You."
Marco turned away.
"I'm not interested in the plans of the cults."
"If you're not interested, why are you heading towards Eryndor?"
Marco stopped.
He hadn't told me his destination.
Elira saw it.
"The edge is thinner there," he said quietly.
"You feel it, don't you?"
Marco didn't answer.
But it was true.
He had felt the draught.
It was as if an invisible thread had tightened him towards the south.
"You're not all human," Elira said softer.
"And I'm not the elf completely."
Marco turned back.
He could now see more closely.
The arch of Elira's ears was subtly sharper than that of humans. There was a depth in his eyes that was not entirely human.
"A half-elf," Marco said.
"Halfway between two worlds," Elira said.
"It makes life... lonely."
A silent understanding passed between them.
Marco wasn't used to it.
That made him wary.
"I don't need a helper," he said.
"I'm not going to be your sidekick."
Elira stepped closer.
So close that Marco could see a small scar under his chin.
"I'm going to be your ally."
The wind blew between them.
The forest no longer felt hostile.
Only expectant.
"If you follow me," Marco said, "you may not return."
Elira did not hesitate.
"I've waited too long for this to turn back."
He circled past Marco and started walking the path south.
Marco stood for a moment.
He didn't like it when someone knew his name.
He didn't like that someone had been looking for him.
But what he didn't like most was that he didn't feel like telling him to leave.
He went after Elira.
As they disappeared into the depths of the forest, something moved high up behind the clouds.
Invisible.
Observant.
Not yet missing.
But interested.
And for the first time in two centuries—
It didn't just observe the tear.
But two people.