Night lay thick over the roadside inn.
The building groaned softly in the wind, old wood shifting against old stone. A single oil lamp burned low beside the bed, its flame flickering and bending as if disturbed by unseen breath. Shadows crawled along the walls, stretching and shrinking with every wavering pulse of light.
Tomora lay unconscious beneath rough linen sheets.
His chest rose and fell unevenly. Sweat darkened the collar of his tunic. Even in sleep, his brow was knotted tight, as though his thoughts refused to loosen their grip.
Around him, the others rested in silence. One slumped in a chair near the door, head bowed. Another lay on the floor wrapped in a cloak. No voices. No movement. Only the slow rhythm of breathing and the faint crackle of the lamp's wick.
Then the flame dimmed.
The room did not fade—it thinned, as if reality itself were being peeled back. The shadows stretched unnaturally long, crawling up the ceiling before dissolving entirely.
Tomora's breath slowed.
And the world folded inward.
Firelight bloomed.
Not sudden. Not violent.
A steady, ancient fire burned before him, its glow warm and alive. Embers drifted upward into a sky without stars, vanishing before they could fall back down.
Tomora stood barefoot on blackened earth. The ground beneath him radiated heat, but it did not burn. He felt no pain—only presence.
Across the fire sat two figures.
One crouched close to the flames, elbows resting on his knees. Pale sparks curled around his fingers as if drawn to him. His posture was relaxed, but there was something sharpened beneath it—like a blade kept carefully sheathed.
Dave.
Mimic.
He looked older here. Not in years, but in weight.
Beside him stood another.
The fire leaned toward him.
Shadows gathered at his feet, breathing, twisting, alive. His hair drifted as though submerged in deep water. His eyes glowed faintly—void-dark rimmed with an impossible violet sheen.
Mournveil.
They were not speaking.
Their conversation had ended before Tomora arrived—or perhaps long before time itself. The silence between them was heavy, deliberate.
Then, slowly—
They lifted their heads.
And looked straight at Tomora.
The fire went still.
No crackle. No shifting embers. The flames froze mid-dance.
The only sound left was Tomora's heartbeat, pounding louder with each breath until it filled the world.
The space around them widened.
The sky pulled back like a torn veil.
And Tomora felt it.
Not eyes.
Not presence.
Something watching through him.
Mournveil stepped forward.
Each step drained color from the fire. Shadows stretched and twisted behind him, clinging like memories that refused to fade.
His voice came low and slow, echoing twice—once in the air, once inside Tomora's skull.
"You think you are ordinary, Tomora?"
The name struck like a hammer.
The ground beneath Tomora's feet cracked, thin lines of violet light leaking upward as if something buried below was straining to rise.
Mournveil circled him calmly, studying him the way a hunter studies unfamiliar prey.
"You saw what was never meant for mortal eyes," he said.
"Chains. Kings. Flames that scarred history itself."
The air fractured, splitting like glass under pressure.
"Only gods were meant to remember what you remembered."
Tomora tried to speak.
No sound came.
Dave stood now as well.
He didn't look afraid.
He didn't look angry.
He looked like someone seeing a reflection for the first time.
"Your path," Dave said quietly, voice steady, "has already crossed ours."
The fire flared white-hot for a heartbeat—
Then collapsed inward.
The world lurched.
Tomora stumbled backward as the cracks widened, violet light spilling out in violent streaks.
The ground vanished.
The sky folded.
The world rushed forward—
Straight into Tomora's eye.
FLASH.
Tomora gasped awake.
He bolted upright in the narrow inn bed, breath tearing from his lungs. The oil lamp beside him flared violently, then steadied, casting wild shadows across the room.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
His vision burned.
For a split second, his reflection shimmered in the polished metal of a nearby blade—
Eyes glowing purple, bright as lightning trapped in shadow.
A voice bled into the room, distant but unmistakable.
"…You are more than human."
Mournveil's voice faded like a whisper carried off by wind.
The glow vanished.
Tomora sucked in a sharp breath, clutching at his chest as his heartbeat slowed. The room was still. The others slept on, unaware. The lamp flickered gently, innocent and unchanged.
"…What… was that?" he whispered.
No answer came.
Outside, the wind howled across the road.
Somewhere far beyond the inn's walls, something ancient stirred.
And Tomora lay awake, knowing—
This was just the beginning.