Eden wakes to fog.
Not the kind that rolls over fields at dawn, but something heavier—thicker. It presses against his thoughts, dulling them, keeping them distant. For a moment, he doesn't remember where he is. He doesn't remember who he is.
Then pain returns.
It begins as a distant pulse behind his eyes. Slow. Rhythmic. Then it sharpens. A spike of heat runs along his ribs, and when he inhales, something catches in his chest as if his lungs still remember being crushed. His spine feels wrong—tight, strained—as though something had tried to bend it past its limit.
He exhales slowly.
The air tastes metallic.
Memory follows.
The Desire.
Its distorted limbs. The way its voice had layered over itself. The force of its blows. The moment its power surged and nearly tore through him.
A shadow moves above him.
White hair comes into focus first. Pale strands falling loosely around sharp yet composed features. Calm eyes, almost silver in the dim light, studying him with quiet intensity.
Vassiel von Machtburg.
Relief flickers across Vassiel's expression—brief, controlled—before it smooths back into restraint.
"You're awake."
Eden pushes himself upright.
The movement is a mistake.
Pain tears down his spine, and his breath leaves him in a strained hiss. His hand instinctively braces against the wooden floor. The boards are cracked beneath his palm. Sticky in places. He doesn't look down to confirm what dried there.
Whatever damage the Desire inflicted hasn't faded. It lingers, threaded through muscle and nerve. A reminder.
He forces himself to stand.
His legs tremble. Not from fear—from strain. He steadies himself against a broken pillar. The manor around them is silent now, but the silence feels wrong. Furniture lies splintered across the room. Deep gouges score the walls. Burn marks crawl along the ceiling where energy had flared out of control.
Vassiel folds his arms.
"I told you not to go alone," he says quietly. Not angry. Not raised. Simply stated. "You could've died."
Eden brushes dried grime from his coat. His hand trembles once before he closes it into a fist.
"There was a Desire," he says. His voice is hoarse. "I killed it."
He drags his sword forward and angles the blade toward the corpse several paces away.
The body is twisted unnaturally. Limbs bent at wrong angles. Skin stretched too tightly over bone. Yet beneath the distortion, it is unmistakably human.
The final strike—through the chest—is clean.
"It had full control," Eden adds. "Power-type."
Vassiel approaches the body and crouches beside it. He studies the remains without flinching. His fingers hover near the wound but don't touch it.
"Desires that take over completely usually erase more than this," he murmurs. "Memory. Identity. Sometimes even bone structure."
His gaze sharpens.
"This one left too much behind."
Eden watches him.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning either it was interrupted…" Vassiel's eyes flick briefly to Eden. "…or it wasn't finished."
Silence stretches between them.
Eden sheaths his sword with a faint wince. The motion pulls at his ribs. His gaze drifts across the walls.
Torn banners hang from iron brackets.
Blank.
Where crests should be embroidered, the fabric has been scraped clean. Not ripped. Not burned.
Removed.
He steps closer to one and runs his fingers across the threadbare cloth. The outline of something is still faintly visible beneath the surface.
"Someone erased them," Eden says.
Not destroyed in chaos.
Erased.
They begin moving through the manor room by room.
The first chamber holds shattered glass and overturned chairs. A dining hall. Plates still set at the table, now coated in dust and dried blood. One chair is pushed back slightly, as though someone had stood in a hurry.
The next room is strangely untouched.
A study.
Books remain neatly aligned on shelves. A candle burned down to its base. Papers stacked carefully across a desk. Eden steps closer and scans the documents.
Blank.
Every page has been wiped clean. Ink scraped off so precisely that the parchment beneath remains intact.
Vassiel moves to a bookshelf and scans the spines.
"Family records removed," he mutters. "Property ledgers gone. Correspondence missing."
"Why leave the rest?"
"To send a message."
They move on.
Deeper into the manor, the damage worsens. Scratch marks along the walls—not from claws, but from something heavy dragged across the floor. A trail that leads down the hallway.
The air grows heavier the farther they walk.
There is a stillness here that doesn't belong to abandoned buildings. It feels watched. Preserved.
Only one door remains unopened at the end of the corridor.
No crest above it.
No marking.
Vassiel steps in front of Eden.
"There's no insignia anywhere in this manor," he says. "No registry stamp. No servant markings. Whoever lived here has been removed from record."
He meets Eden's eyes.
"That's deliberate."
Eden studies the door.
His ribs ache with each breath, but the pain has dulled into something manageable. Background noise.
"We're not leaving without answers."
He turns the handle.
The smell reaches him first.
Rot.
Thick. Suffocating. It fills his lungs before he can stop it. His body locks in place.
Vassiel steps forward behind him. "Why are you—"
He stops.
Inside, the missing body parts are arranged with deliberate precision.
Arms extend upward from the center of the room, palms upward, fingers curled around severed hearts placed carefully within them. Legs are positioned in mirrored angles along the walls, knees bent at identical degrees. Heads are stacked in four precise rows against the far wall.
Each forehead carved.
Not randomly.
Differently.
The dried blood across the walls is not splattered chaos. It traces lines. Curves. Patterns measured and controlled.
Intentional.
Eden's breathing changes.
It becomes shallow. Controlled. Too controlled.
His fists tighten slowly. His nails dig into his palms hard enough to draw blood, but he doesn't seem to feel it.
"This wasn't rage," he says quietly.
His voice doesn't rise.
"It was planned."
Vassiel forces himself to step forward. His face pales, but his posture remains upright. He kneels carefully near one of the heads and examines the carving etched into its forehead.
"These marks…" he murmurs.
Eden steps into the room despite the smell. Despite the sight. His eyes scan the arrangement—not with horror now, but with focus.
"They were made into a message," he says.
His jaw trembles once before going still.
"I'll find who did this."
It isn't loud.
It isn't dramatic.
It is a promise spoken as if it already exists.
Vassiel exhales slowly.
"You're in no condition to chase anyone," he says. "Right now, we bury them."
Eden doesn't argue.
Together, they begin the grim task.
The bodies are heavier than expected. Limbs that once moved with life now resist in death. The soil outside the manor is hard at first, compacted from years of foot traffic. Eden drives the shovel down repeatedly, each strike sending pain through his ribs.
He doesn't slow.
Rain begins halfway through.
It starts as a light drizzle. Then thickens. The earth softens beneath them. Mud clings to their boots. Blood seeps into the soil and disappears.
Vassiel pauses beside one of the heads before lowering it into the grave.
"These symbols," he says again.
He retrieves a splintered board from the manor and kneels beneath the shelter of a broken archway. With the tip of a blade, he carves carefully into the wood.
A circle.
A diamond inside it.
Two horn-like curves extending from the top.
He studies it in silence.
"I've studied noble crests," he says quietly. "Religious insignias. Forbidden ritual seals locked in archives most don't know exist."
His grip tightens slightly on the wood.
"This belongs to none of them."
Eden looks at the carving.
Memorizes it.
Rain runs down his face, washing away dirt and blood alike.
"Remember it," Vassiel says.
Eden nods once.
They finish the graves in silence.
When the last of the soil is pressed down, Eden remains standing there long after Vassiel steps back. The rain soaks through his coat. Through his shirt. It clings to his skin, cold and heavy.
"I wasn't strong enough," he says quietly.
Not to Vassiel.
To himself.
Vassiel approaches and places a hand on his shoulder.
"Then become stronger."
The words are simple.
Not comforting.
Not gentle.
True.
Eden closes his eyes briefly.
Then opens them again.
He doesn't speak of revenge.
He doesn't shout.
But the symbol has already carved itself into his memory.
The erased crests.
The precise arrangement.
The unknown mark.
Someone orchestrated this.
Someone deliberate.
Together, they leave the hill as the rain continues to fall.
The road stretches ahead of them, long and uncertain.
Their path leads toward Lexria.
And somewhere beneath its ordered streets, something waits.