Farah looked at him like he had just said something forbidden. Her eyes widened—only a fraction, but enough—and her mouth hung slightly open in a startled, speechless pause…
Then she looked away, inhaled sharply, and forced her composure back into place before speaking. "I suppose it makes sense you wouldn't know. You do have memory loss."
Something in her voice felt off, strained, almost uneasy. The boy immediately sensed it. To him, it was as if "Convictions" were supposed to be so normal, so fundamental, that forgetting them was like forgetting how to breathe.
Farah reached up, fingers sliding into her bangs. With a subtle tug, she swept them aside. On her forehead was a mark—a stark, unmistakable skull.
"Convictions," she began, "are your belief fully realized. Beliefs so powerful that they affect the real world—"
To demonstrate, claws suddenly extended from her fingers with a sharp, metallic whisper. Without hesitation, she dragged them across her own cheek.
A thin, brutal slash appeared.
The boy jolted upright, horrified, scrambling to look around for anything—cloth, water, anything—to stop the bleeding. He turned back to her—
—and froze.
Her face was perfect. Untouched.
A soft golden light shimmered briefly from the skull mark on her forehead, as if sealing her skin back together and erasing any trace of harm.
Farah continued calmly, as if nothing had happened.
"You too have one of these Convictions. But each one is unique. Even those based on the same belief can be completely different. So I can't tell exactly what yours is…"
The boy stared at her, wide-eyed, his mind scrambling to catch up.
"Then you…" he whispered.
Farah nodded. "Yes. I do have a Conviction. It's how I healed my scratch so quickly."
He nodded back slowly, thoughtfully, then dropped his gaze to his right hand.
On the back of it, a small, simple mark sat etched into his skin—the shape of a fountain pen.
Farah didn't wait for him to ask.
"That's your Conviction Mark. The one thing that proves you're a true Conviction-bearer. Its appearance is tied directly to your belief."
Thud.
The boy fell back onto the bed, overwhelmed. His mind spun wildly. He didn't know anything about the world, just his instincts and a faint shadow of knowledge.
He didn't even know his own name.
And worse… he didn't know his belief.
A belief strong enough to reshape reality and grant him abilities—and he couldn't remember it. The thought struck him deeply, leaving a dull, aching sadness in his chest.
Farah chuckled softly as she watched him flop back onto the mattress. She stood, stretched her arms above her head, joints popping lightly.
"If you need anything, don't be afraid to call me. I just need to handle some paperwork."
But the boy felt something.
A faint pulse beneath his skin.
The mark on the back of his hand began to glow, subtly at first—then brighter—as Farah turned to walk away.
Driven purely by instinct, he reached out and grabbed her hand with both of his.
"You're lying."
Farah froze mid-step. Her shoulders tensed. Slowly, she looked back at him—confusion, then realization flickering across her face as she spotted the glow of his mark.
It all connected for her in an instant.
She smirked, took both his hands in hers, and gently pulled him up to his feet.
"I figured out what your Conviction is," she said.
His heart skipped. His breath caught.
What could it be? How did she know? A thousand questions battled for space in his head, but only one made it out:
"What is it?"
Farah answered without any hesitation.
"Truth."