Closing his eyes, Zerin retreated into his Soul Sea, slipping free of his senses for a brief moment. Even so, there was no escaping the reality of what he had just done. Yet he forced his thoughts elsewhere—onto his runes—beginning with the Veinborne.
Veinborne: [Blood Wraith]
Rank: Awakened, Tier VI.
Class: Terror.
Description: [A corrupted creature that once held faith in the Daemon of Repose. But in death, the Temptress reached first. With the Mother vacant, its loyalty faltered. And, what rose again wasn't shaped by old devotion, but by a new choice entirely.]
Attributes: [Revenant], [Oathbound].
[Revenant] - "A being shaped by lives that never truly ended, and by the death that finally did."
[Oathbound] - "Carries a sworn duty to the one who restored or reshaped it."
Veinborne Abilities: [Scarlet Clones], [Harvest], [Red Door].
[Scarlet Clones] - "This creature shapes blood into hardened replicas that are extensions of itself."
[Harvest] - "This Veinborne draws blood as the tide draws water."
[Red Door] - "In its first life it possessed the gift—now reborn thrice, the Veinborne can drag another through the passage—The Red Door."
He drew a breath, closing his eyes as he gathered his thoughts.
"Another Awakened…"
It was foolish to complain, yet he couldn't help but wonder—had the Fractured Peaks been tucked away in some corner of the Dream Realm where only Nightmare creatures of Awakened or lower reigned?
Zerin scoffed, his right hand lifting to rub the side of his face.
'If that were the case it wouldn't change the fact that I am struggling this much...'
His gaze dropped to his feet, to the red reflection staring back at him from the calm sea of blood at his feet.
No. Impossible. The Spell had said it. That the Kaldrmenn was loyal to this Daemon of Repose. That… That was his target.
Then, he was struck with sudden clarity.
This Daemon—this Mother—wasn't hostile to him at all. He knew that because he had seen her while trapped in that trance.
The image remained etched into his mind with near-absolute clarity: she wore a hat far too large, almost comical, though nothing about her presence invited humor. Her visage was as delicate as a snowflake, yet she carried the intensity of a blizzard. And her eyes—those eyes—had pierced straight through the haze, through the confusion that had plagued him.
Yes.
When he found her, he would ask.
Not who, but why. When. And how.
Zerin didn't need The Spell's interpretation beyond just sparking his memory. It had already made it clear just how untrustworthy it was in the grand scheme of things; if that weren't the case, humanity probably wouldn't have struggled this much.
And the final nail in the coffin was when it referred to Wisteria as a Temptress.
Just how rotten was The Spell?
Far more than most would admit.
He shifted focus from the Veinborne runes and turned his focus to the memory he'd claimed from the Keeper.
Sentinels are unlike any other class. While Nightmare creatures chase survival or destruction, Sentinels pursue neither.
Spell Scholars speculate they possess nothing of their own except the singular burden they uphold. When a Sentinel falls, that burden passes to the one that slew it—usually as a memory.
Observers note that this gift always exceeds the Sentinel's own rank. These burdens carry not only power but knowledge of the Sentinel itself, sometimes even keys to understanding The Spell. For that reason, Sentinels are prized above almost all else with hopes that their fall might push humanity forward.
He summoned the memory without glancing at its name.
Suspended from a delicate silver chain was a dreamcatcher necklace, exquisite in its simplicity.
A thin silver hoop cradled a web of fine threads, woven tightly and shaded in a cool color gradient. At its center rested a mandala-like pattern, intricate and somehow serene. From the bottom hung three slender ice shards—faceted, elongated, tapering down to points, each holding a faint frosty glow as they swayed.
It was a fascinating piece—a beautiful necklace that compelled him to inspect its runes.
Memory: [Living Moment]
Memory rank: Divine
Memory Type: Tool.
Memory Description: ["There are those that will weave your path for you, threading ambition, duty, and fate into your life before you can speak your own desires. But the heart cannot be bound without its consent. Remember that child who wished only to play while the world spun schemes."]
[Unwoven Path] - "Resists another's will being imposed on its wearer, yet does not hinder choices made willingly."
[Moment's Embrace] - "Shields the wearer from what would cripple the heart alone—fear that binds the heart in place. An embrace that allows one to live freely, but fully present."
[Thread of Renewal] - "Those who bear the divine flame keep it whole. A quiet gift, returning always."
A Divine memory? Even if he'd tried to conjure some false emotion, he doubted he could have managed it.
It's not that it wasn't impressive or surprising, there was just so much more to worry about. The [Unwoven Path] enchantment intrigued him, though. From what he could tell, it offered protection against mental attacks—perhaps even something stronger than a Palehollow, should he ever encounter such a thing.
But who was he fooling? It was entirely circumstantial. Useful, maybe, but not the sort of power that would help him carve through whatever was waiting for them.
[Moment's Embrace] left him more satisfied. The description claimed it rendered fear meaningless, and he would have been lying if he said fear didn't have a stronghold within him.
Then there was the final attribute; it was by far the vaguest.
"Those who bear the divine flame keep it whole..." He lingered on the words, reading them twice, then shook his head.
He got nothing.
Undoing the necklace, he dipped his head slightly, clasped the chain around his neck, and tucked it beneath his layers, feeling the dreamcatcher settle against his sternum.
He drew in a slow, deliberate breath and closed his eyes, letting the silence envelop him. The blood sea churned restlessly beneath him, the crowded darkness within his Soul Sea pressed close, and the Crimson Moon's rays settled across his skin.
He relaxed.
Wearing this Memory, he could finally feel the difference, he could finally see just how deeply fear had crippled him. All the burdens, the obligations, the struggle—they were distant now, mere suggestions. Nothing urgent. Nothing truly important.
For the first time in longer than he could measure, he simply... was.
Then, a voice—soft, tentative, sliced through the quiet.
"Hello?"
The voice was soft, familiar yet distant like a dream. "Zerin? It's me, Ecludia..."
In a flash his eyes snapped open, and the vast emptiness of his Soul Sea was no longer. He was back—cross-legged on the cold stone floor, with a cluster of Soul Cores resting in front of him after he dug it out of the Keeper's body.
His crimson eyes lifted to her, and there she stood in the entrance of the cell in complete darkness. Her eyes, blind, useless in this darkness, fixed nervously on the glow of his own.
"Are you okay?" Her lower lip trembled just for a moment.
An uncontrollable smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he rose back onto his feet, grabbing three Soul Cores on his way up. "Better than okay."
The memory that he had just equipped was doing wonders—far beyond anything he'd expected. Every flicker of doubt was present, and once it surfaced it melted away in an instant. He rose and stepped toward her. She could no doubt smell the blood and filth clinging to him, but he didn't give a damn.
She tensed up as he closed the distance, but he didn't slow. His cold, slick hands caught hers, pressing three cores into her palms. The sudden weight seemed to dispel any uncertainty; she gave a small, silent nod, her face still tilted up toward his glowing eyes. They were closer now.
"There are seven in total," he murmured. "I'll keep the rest... If you don't mind."
Her fingers stretched out into the blackness. "Injuries... Do you have any injuries? I can heal them." Her palm brushed lightly over his side, then higher toward his chest, searching beneath the grime and blood.
The smirk faded from his face the moment her hand made contact. "No injuries," he said, quietly. "Just tired."
His fingers closed around her wrist—firm, but not too hard—and he guided her hand slowly back down to her side, letting it linger there for second before releasing her.
She froze, lips parted, words strung up in her vocal cords as he turned away. The distance grew larger, then he spoke again.
"Please wait for me outside the cell with the others. I'll be out in a moment."
She didn't protest. She simply stood there, silent and still, as if leaving space for him to take it back. But he didn't.
"Okay," she whispered at last. "Please hurry..."
Her hands lifted, arms stretched out as she felt her way back toward the doorway of the cell.
Zerin watched until she turned left, vanishing out of sight. Then his hand rose to the necklace beneath his layers. His fingers closed tight around the dreamcatcher.
For a moment he held it—then, with a slow exhale, he dismissed it.