The wind outside the sanctuary was colder than he remembered.
Lysander stepped out into the crumbling passage alone, the stone door grinding shut behind him. No grand farewell. No divine light or epic sendoff. Just him, a worn satchel, and the faint burn of the mark on his palm.
Erevan gave him a map. Old, hand-drawn, brittle in some spots. It marked a place far south—Thorne Hollow, a ruined border town swallowed by the earth after the Divine Concord razed it. One of the fragments was buried there.
Or so they believed.
Lysander didn't have a plan. Not a good one, anyway. Walk south, stay alive, don't die. Simple enough.
He climbed out of the hidden tunnels by dawn, slipping back into the surface city like a ghost. The slums of Veltryn were still asleep—just the smell of wet stone, distant smoke, and rats picking through broken stalls.
He pulled up his hood.
He wasn't ready to be seen again.
Not yet.
---
He moved quiet for the next few hours. Got supplies—bread, dried meat, a canteen. Traded a silver coin Erevan gave him for a travel cloak. No one asked questions. Good.
Then he headed for the east gate. The outer roads were mostly unguarded. After what happened at the Temple, the city watch was more focused on keeping the nobles safe. No one looked twice at a traveler.
But someone was watching.
He felt it.
It started near the old market district. A flicker. A shadow moving just a step too close. When he turned, no one was there. But the feeling didn't go away.
He kept walking.
Five streets later, it hit again.
Footsteps—too light to be random, too steady to be drunk.
He turned a corner into an empty side alley. Waited.
Then—
A hand grabbed him from the side.
He twisted hard, elbowed the figure in the gut, and kicked backward. They staggered, coughed—but didn't fall.
It was a woman.
Young. Thin. Hair dyed red, buzzed short on one side. She wore ragged armor—leather and faded cloth, strapped with knives and one short sword. A tattoo glowed faintly across her collarbone.
She smiled.
"Fast for a street rat."
"Who are you?" Lysander backed up slightly.
"Someone who should've killed you last night."
Her blade was already out.
Lysander ducked the first swing. She moved fast. Not flashy—precise. She wasn't trying to intimidate. She was trying to cut.
He dodged another strike and swept her legs. She rolled with it. Came up. Flicked a small knife at him—he barely shifted in time.
It grazed his shoulder.
"Why are you attacking me?!"
"Because you're wearing a dead god's curse, genius."
He blinked.
Then, the pain hit. Not from the cut—from the mark.
It flared. Glowed through the bandage wrapped around his palm.
The woman's eyes widened.
"…You really have it."
"You didn't know?!"
"I had to be sure."
"You tried to kill me!"
She shrugged. "That's usually a pretty good way to test."
Lysander clenched his teeth. "What are you?"
She slipped her knife back into its sheath and leaned against the wall like they were just chatting now.
"The last person who saw Elira alive."
That name again.
His heart skipped.
"You knew her?"
She nodded. "Trained with her. Fought beside her. Watched her go completely off the edge."
"What happened?"
"She touched something she wasn't ready for. A sealed fragment, just like the one you're chasing. It warped her."
Lysander frowned. "Warped how?"
"She thinks the Fallen God should burn the world back to ash. Start over. She doesn't want balance. She wants a purge."
"And you're trying to stop her?"
The girl didn't answer right away.
"…No. I just want to see what kind of disciple you'll become."
Lysander narrowed his eyes. "What's your name?"
She smirked.
"Call me Roan."
He didn't trust her. Not even a little. But she wasn't lying. Her eyes held something raw—like she'd seen too much and stopped caring halfway through.
Roan pushed off the wall and walked past him. "You're heading to Thorne Hollow, right?"
He paused. "How do you—?"
"I was watching you, remember?"
"…Are you following me now?"
"No. I'm coming with you."
"Why?"
"Because if you're going to awaken another piece of that god's soul, I want to make sure you don't turn into another Elira."
"And if I do?"
She smiled coldly.
"Then I kill you."
---
They traveled for two days in silence.
Roan didn't talk much unless she was making dry, sarcastic comments. But she was good in a fight. They ran into bandits once. She had two down before Lysander could even draw his dagger.
She didn't kill them. Just... broke them. Fast. Efficient.
When they camped at night, she never slept deeply. Always one eye open, one hand near her blade. Paranoid, maybe. Or just prepared.
Lysander sat by the fire, turning the map in his hands again.
"Do you believe any of this?" he asked quietly.
Roan didn't look up. "Believe what?"
"The whole… destiny, god fragments, chosen disciple thing."
She poked the fire with a stick. "I believe power makes people crazy. And when gods are involved, people die."
"That's not an answer."
"No. But it's the truth."
He looked at his hand again. The mark pulsed softly in the firelight.
"What if I don't want any of this?"
She glanced at him. "Too late for that."
---
On the third day, they reached the edge of Thorne Hollow.
Or what was left of it.
The town was broken.
Half the buildings were sunken, swallowed by cracked earth and black roots that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. Fog clung to the ruins, thick and slow. No birds. No animals. Just silence.
Lysander stepped forward slowly.
The air was heavy.
Wrong.
Roan unsheathed her blade. "Something's still alive here."
"You mean a guardian?"
"Maybe. Or maybe something worse."
The mark on Lysander's hand flared.
He felt it before he saw it.
Something deep beneath the ruins... responded.
Like a heartbeat.
One slow, thundering pulse.
Then another.
Roan froze. "You feel that?"
"Yeah."
Lysander swallowed.
The first fragment was close.
But so was whatever was guarding it.