The road south was empty for three days.
Doran walked alone, letting the silence settle around him. Orin's life sat heavy in his chest—eighty years of memory, of grief, of small joys and quiet endurance. He could visit the old man whenever he chose, could sit in that cottage by the fire and listen to stories for hours while no time passed outside.
He hadn't decided yet if that was a gift or a curse.
On the fourth day, he found the man on the fallen log.
He was young—thirty at most—with sharp features and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. His clothes were fine but too clean for someone who'd been on the road long.
"You're Doran," he said. "I've been looking for you."
Doran stopped. "Who's asking?"
"Lian." The man stood, brushing dust from his coat. "Orin sent word ahead. We're a network, us name-bearers. Loose, but useful." He fell into step beside Doran as if they'd arranged it. "You're new. That makes you interesting."
Doran said nothing.
"Quiet type. Good." Lian's eyes moved constantly—scanning the road, the trees, Doran's face. "Orin said you're a Witness. Rare. Very rare. I've only met one other."
"What happened to them?"
"Dead. Witnessed something that wouldn't let go." Lian shrugged. "You seem healthier."
Doran stopped walking. "What's your name?"
"Truthsayer."
The word fit, but something beneath it didn't. Doran felt it shift inside him—that strange sense of wrongness that had been growing since the tree.
Lian's smile flickered. "You feel it. Good. Witnesses have instincts."
"I don't know what I feel."
"But you feel something." Lian started walking again. "Come on. Town ahead. I'm buying dinner."
The inn was small but warm. Lian talked through the whole meal.
He'd found his name at sixteen, carved into the lintel of his childhood home. Suddenly he could hear lies like others heard voices—distinct, unmistakable, impossible to ignore.
"Everyone lies," he said, pushing food around his plate. "'I'm fine.' 'I love you.' 'That's a great idea.' All lies." He looked up. "You carry weight? I carry the world's dishonesty."
Doran considered this. "You hide it well."
"Practice." The smile again. "You don't lie, though. Haven't said a false word since we met."
"I don't see the point."
"Exactly. Most people lie because it's easier. You tell truth because it's simpler." Lian's eyes narrowed. "Makes me wonder what you're hiding anyway."
Doran met his gaze. "Everyone hides something."
"True." Lian sat back. "True."
They traveled together for three days.
Lian talked constantly, paid for everything, asked no personal questions. On the third night, sitting by the fire, his mask slipped.
"You visit the dead," he said quietly. "I can tell. You go somewhere else."
Doran didn't deny it.
"I knew a Witness once. Sera." Lian's voice was different now—softer. "She showed me my mother. After she died."
Doran waited.
"My mother walked into the river when I was twelve. I spent ten years thinking it was my fault." Lian stared at the flames. "Sera found her last moment. Showed me. My mother wasn't sad. Wasn't desperate. She was just... tired. So tired she couldn't see any other way."
Doran said nothing.
"That's when I understood." Lian looked at him. "Witnesses don't just carry the dead. You show us the truth we're too afraid to find."
"What do you want from me?"
"Someday? When I'm done?" Lian's smile was fragile. "I want you to witness me."
Doran nodded slowly. "If I'm still alive."
"You will be. Witnesses last." Lian stood, the mask settling back into place. "Get some sleep. Thornwall tomorrow."
Thornwall was a city built on ruins.
Doran felt it the moment they passed through the gates—a weight beneath the weight, something older than anything in sight. The streets were paved with recycled stone. The walls showed patches of darker masonry. And beneath it all, deep underground, something waited.
"You feel it," Lian said.
"What is it?"
"Old city. Fell four times. Built over each time." He nodded toward a hill at the center. "It's all still down there. Layers of dead civilization."
Doran felt the pull—the same thread he'd followed to Yenna's mother, but stronger. Whatever was buried here had been witnessed before. Many times.
"There are others here," Lian said. "Name-bearers. They study the depths. Try to understand what's underneath."
"And you brought me because...?"
Lian's smile was unreadable. "Because you're a Witness. And whatever's down there has been waiting for one."
The innkeeper was a woman named Vel with tired eyes and steady hands.
"You're here for the depths," she said.
"Just passing through."
"No one's just passing through." She left.
Doran sat on his bed and closed his eyes. The pull was stronger here—a constant awareness of something beneath him. He reached for it.
Thousands of moments. Layered like pages in a book, compressed by centuries of witnesses. A whole buried city of dead moments.
And at the deepest layer, something that had been witnessed only once.
A very long time ago.
In the morning, Lian took him to meet a scholar.
Mira lived in a house carved into the central hill—rooms cut from ancient stone. She was older than Orin, with milky eyes that still seemed to see everything.
"You're the Witness," she said. "I felt you coming."
Doran sat across from her. "Everyone says that."
"Because it's true. Witnesses have weight. You sink into reality instead of floating on it." She tilted her head. "How many moments do you carry?"
"Hundreds."
"Hundreds." She laughed. "Child, I've been here ninety years and witnessed maybe a dozen. Witnessing isn't about quantity. It's about depth."
Doran frowned.
"You witnessed a dying man in an alley. A bird as a child. Your grandmother." She leaned forward. "Have you visited the bird lately? Sat with it? Learned from it?"
Doran hadn't.
"That's the difference. Surface witnessing fills you. Deep witnessing transforms you." She sat back. "Choose carefully, Witness. Not every moment deserves to be permanent."
That night, Doran visited the bird.
He stepped into the moment—seven years old, holding a dying sparrow, feeling its heartbeat slow. He looked at it closely for the first time in twelve years.
It was just a bird. Ordinary. Its death was sad but not special.
But it had taught him to see.
He stayed until he understood. Then he left, carrying the moment differently now—lighter, though the weight remained.
In the morning, Lian was waiting outside the inn.
"There's someone else you need to meet." His voice was quiet. "Someone who went into the depths."
The house was on the edge of the city. The man who answered the door looked ordinary—until Doran saw his eyes.
Empty. Not blind—empty. Whatever had been behind them was gone.
"Kell," Lian said quietly. "Went down thirty years ago. Came back three weeks later. Hasn't spoken since."
Doran looked at the empty eyes, the still face.
"He witnessed something."
Lian nodded. "Something that's still inside him." He met Doran's gaze. "Whatever's at the bottom doesn't let go. Not ever."
Kell stared at nothing.
Beneath their feet, something waited.