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Time moved differently now. Since the tomb. Since the blood. Since the shard began to whisper.
By rough estimation, three days had passed since the sky last showed its sun. Three days since the relic pulsed to life in Marcel's hand. Three days since Tarin almost died.
They were somewhere deep in the ruins now, just beyond the reach of the old village. A collapsed outpost swallowed by moss, stone, and time. Its walls sagged under centuries of weight. Vines curled like veins through the cracks, and silence pressed on them from all sides—dense, watchful.
The kind of silence that had memory.
Marcel sat with his back against a root-tangled pillar, breath shallow. Blood had dried stiff across his side, black now instead of red. He pulled back his torn shirt and peeled away the blood-soaked cloth covering the wound.
A hiss escaped him.
The pain wasn't just surface-deep. It throbbed with something internal—like the shard itself was trying to knit the flesh together too fast, too roughly. Not clean healing. Not natural.
He watched as the skin crawled to close, veins threading like roots, the bruises already fading. He should've been grateful. Instead, it unsettled him. Every time the shard acted on its own, it felt like more of himself went quiet—pushed down, replaced by something colder.
Tarin sat nearby, arms wrapped around his knees. His face was pale, but no longer trembling. Not visibly.
"I almost died," he whispered suddenly.
Marcel looked up, surprised by the break in silence. The boy's voice was low, brittle.
"He had the knife right here." Tarin pointed to his throat. "I felt the cold. I saw... I saw his eyes. He wanted to kill me. And I just—froze."
Marcel said nothing.
Tarin's breath hitched. "But you didn't. You didn't freeze."
"I didn't have a choice," Marcel replied.
Tarin looked at him, eyes narrowing. "You moved like something else. Not just fast. Like—like the air bent around you."
Marcel shook his head. "That wasn't me. That was the shard."
"Then what does that make you?"
The question hung heavy between them.
Marcel stared at the ceiling—arched stone darkened with moisture and shadow. High above, something dripped steadily onto rock. A slow rhythm, like a second heart. He clenched his fists.
"I don't know," he said.
They sat in silence again, broken only by the system's faint chime.
> [Vital Recovery at 62% – Neural Strain Unstable]
[Integration Side Effects Likely: Emotional Drift | Identity Distortion]
Marcel closed his eyes. The shard wasn't just a relic. It was a tether—to something old. Something vast. Every time he used it, it demanded a piece of him. His thoughts. His rage. His fear. All edged closer to something he couldn't name.
His body grew stronger.
But his sense of self?
That felt like it was bleeding from the edges.
Across the room, Tarin slowly stood and paced toward one of the moss-covered murals along the broken wall. His fingers brushed the surface, wiping away dust.
"I think we're supposed to get stronger," he said, not turning around.
"Because of what happened?" Marcel asked.
Tarin shook his head. "Because of what's going to happen."
The mural was old. Ancient. It showed nine figures seated in a circle—faceless, robed. In the center stood a tenth shape. Vague. Broken. A smear of faded gold across gray.
Below them all, lines of flame etched through a forest.
Marcel rose to join his brother. They stood side by side, both staring at the mural. The air felt heavier here—denser with age and meaning. The stone beneath their feet thrummed faintly, like some long-sleeping heartbeat was stirring beneath.
"Do you think this is part of the Nine?" Tarin asked.
Marcel nodded slowly. "Or something older."
Outside, a gust of wind stirred the dead branches. The sky beyond the ruined dome was still a blank sheet of cloud. No light. No warmth. Just the promise of something gathering.
> [Warning: Pulse Interference Detected – Unknown Relic Source Nearby]
Marcel's hand tightened around the shard.
"We rest tonight," he said. "But tomorrow—we find whatever's waking."
Tarin glanced at him. "And if it finds us first?"
Marcel looked back at the mural. At the faded gold.
"Then we make sure we're not the same as we were yesterday."