The earth closed over him without ceremony.
No prayer followed. No marker was placed.
They worked quickly, nervously—hands shaking as they shoveled soil back into the pit, every scrape of metal against stone sounding louder than it should have. Someone kept glancing over their shoulder, as if expecting the ground itself to object. Another refused to look down at all, eyes fixed on the horizon until the last mound was smoothed over and made to resemble undisturbed land.
When it was done, they stood there in silence.
Nothing happened.
No tremor. No scream. No sign that the thing they had buried was anything other than a body finally at rest.
That, more than anything, unsettled them.
The mayor was the first to turn away. "We've done what we can," he said, too quickly. "There's no reason to stay."
No one argued.
They left in fragments—families gathering what they could carry, carts creaking under hastily packed belongings, livestock driven forward by fear rather than guidance. The town emptied itself not in panic, but in resignation. Whatever protection the walls had once promised had been broken, and whatever had stood between them and the dark had been lowered into the ground by their own hands.
By the time the sun dipped low, the road was lined with tracks leading away from the settlement.
The town was quiet.
Too quiet.
Night fell.
Wind moved through the abandoned streets, lifting ash and dust into slow spirals. Doors swung open and shut where they had not been properly barred. Somewhere, a shutter finally tore loose and clattered to the ground, the sound echoing far longer than it should have.
At the edge of the square, the burial site lay untouched.
For hours.
Then—subtly—the soil shifted.
Not upward.
Inward.
As if something beneath it had exhaled.
The mound sagged almost imperceptibly, collapsing into itself by the width of a hand. A faint crack split the surface, thin as a vein beneath skin. No light escaped. No sound followed.
Only pressure.
Deep below, awareness returned slowly.
Not pain—he had learned to live beyond that—but weight. The cold density of earth pressing from all sides, damp and unyielding. His chest rose and fell out of habit rather than need, breath passing through lungs that had already adapted to far worse conditions.
Chains still bound his wrists.
Not the physical ones—they were gone—but the residue of them lingered, etched into muscle and memory alike.
For a long moment, he did nothing.
He listened.
The world above was empty. The town's presence had thinned to nothing, leaving behind only echoes and abandoned intention. No footsteps. No voices. No fear left to feed on.
They had left him here.
He had expected that.
What he had not expected was the stillness beneath the soil.
No distortion pressed against his senses now. No immediate threat. Just silence layered upon silence, heavy enough to feel like a test.
He reached inward—not for power, not yet—but to confirm himself.
The box was still there, pressed against his side, its edges familiar even through layers of dirt and cloth. The Rider card rested inside, inert, sealed away by his own hand hours earlier. Its presence was quiet now, but not gone. Like a blade returned to its sheath, waiting.
Good.
He shifted slightly.
The earth resisted.
Not magically—just naturally. Soil compacted by weight and time, reluctant to give way. It would be easy to tear through it, to let strength surge and scatter dirt and stone alike.
He did not.
Instead, he placed his palm against the packed ground above him and applied pressure slowly, patiently. The soil cracked along existing faults, collapsing inward as he guided it, not fought it. Inch by inch, space opened.
When his hand broke the surface, the night air rushed in like a held breath finally released.
He emerged without spectacle.
No explosion of dirt. No dramatic ascent.
He pulled himself free like something crawling out of a shallow grave, movements controlled, deliberate. Soil clung to his clothes, to his hair, to the lines of his face. His brown hair—once unremarkable—was darker now with earth and shadow, strands already threaded with pale grey that caught faint moonlight as he straightened.
He stood there for a moment, listening again.
Nothing.
The town was truly empty.
He brushed dirt from his hands and shoulders, then knelt beside the disturbed earth. With careful motions, he smoothed the soil back into place, erasing the signs of his escape as best he could. Not for them—but because leaving traces invited attention, and attention invited worse things than fear.
When he was finished, the grave looked almost untouched.
Almost.
He retrieved the box from his side and held it for a moment, thumb resting against its lid.
The Rider card had saved him.
It had also taken something in return.
He could still feel the echo of it in his body—the heightened senses, the sharpened instincts, the weight of borrowed experience that had aged him beyond the years his face suggested. His limbs felt heavier now, movements carrying a subtle inertia they hadn't before. His skin bore a faint, sun-worn tone that no amount of rest would erase, as though time itself had pressed its hands against him and left marks.
This was the toll.
He accepted it.
The box closed with a soft click, final and resolute.
He tucked it away and turned toward the road.
He did not take the main path.
Instead, he moved through the outskirts of the town, past fields gone fallow and fences left half-mended. Somewhere along the way, he found a shallow stream and washed the dirt from his hands and face, the cold water biting just enough to keep him present.
By the time dawn approached, he was already far from the settlement.
The land changed as he traveled.
Forests grew denser, their canopies knitting together overhead to block out light. The air carried a faint metallic tang—not blood, but something older, something wrong. He followed no map, guided instead by the distortion that had become a constant companion. It was weaker now, dispersed, but it still tugged at him in subtle ways, pulling him toward places where the world felt thin.
He moved carefully.
Too carefully.
It was only when the sun finally crested the horizon that he realized he was no longer alone.
Footprints appeared in the mud ahead of him.
Human.
Fresh.
He stopped, crouching to examine them.
Booted. Multiple sets. Purposeful spacing.
Not refugees.
Not hunters.
Organized.
He straightened slowly, eyes scanning the treeline.
Humans learned quickly when fear was involved. They adapted. They shared stories. And sometimes, they decided the safest solution was not to run—but to remove the problem at its source.
He adjusted the strap of his pack and continued forward, deliberately letting his steps be heard.
If someone was watching, he would not give them the comfort of surprise.
The forest ahead remained silent.
Too silent.
Somewhere in the distance, a branch snapped—not by accident, but by weight.
He exhaled once, steady and calm.
So this was how it would be.
Not with a Sin.
Not yet.
But with people who believed they were doing the right thing.
His hand drifted toward where a blade could be called into being, fingers flexing in quiet anticipation—not eager, not angry.
Just ready.
The road ahead darkened beneath the trees, and he stepped into it without hesitation.
Because betrayal, like fear, was something he had long since learned to survive.
And this time—
he would not be buried again.