Darkness was around merrin, deep, oppressive, damning. Damnation had come, it had mocked him. Now, it swallowed him whole. But it was not as expected. No devils aimed for him, instead intuition told him of another truth.
Merrin heard the whispers of weeping—a cacophony of cries that weighed on his heart. He was awake now; this he knew. Yet, he remained in darkness, his eyelids shut so tightly that the strength to pry them remained absent from his body. But he had to. He had to see what was happening… what he had done.
But what exactly was it?
A distant pain burned within him, as though his body was slowly being warmed by a nearby flame. It didn't subside or fade; it simply grew. And with every passing second, it intensified… growing immense in its warmth. Soon, it would consume him. He knew this too.
Is this damnation? Merrin saw no light, only darkness. It seemed likely. But what about the bird? Hadn't it said he was not in damnation? Wasn't that moment meant to be his great unveiling? The gate—the one he had reached for—was supposed to show him his fate.
I failed.
He winced, or at least he believed so. Perhaps it was the rising pain or the memory of his grand failure. Regardless, he had been meant for something, hadn't he? But as he reached for it, to finally claim the destiny set before him, it refused him. That was what had happened, right?
Merrin had no other way to see it. He had reached for the gate—to ascend—but instead, he burned. He could remember it clearly, and though the flames had not inflicted pain, they had done something worse. They proved something. He had burned. He had fallen.
A groan escaped him. The pain surged fiercely through his body, unrelenting. He smiled bitterly, his heart sinking into the abyss. Another failure. Another burden to accompany him in this worthless existence.
The one who will never die… What a joke. He had once reveled in that revelation from the Ardents. Perhaps it wasn't some great calling but merely the afterlife; a fate all souls shared. Just another myth, like the belief that virgin women accompanied the dead.
What if that was it? What if what he saw was not fate but truth? The truth of death and what awaited men beyond. The great door—perhaps it had been the entrance to the Almighty's abode. And if he had been rejected, didn't that mean he had been denied entry?
He had burned. He had fallen. What else was there?
Merrin curled into the darkness, letting it swallow him. The pain still roared, and the echoes of weeping persisted. Maybe these were the souls of the damned—the wretched he would soon join.
In my next life…
He did not truly believe in such things, but after what he had seen, perhaps the Aspirants were wrong. If the Almighty's realm was not one of golden light, perhaps reincarnation was possible too.
In that case… I would want a different life. Something new. A good man, unburdened. Maybe even a caster who hunts the fallen.
A fool's dream, but a failure like him couldn't wish for anything else.
The cries and pain escalated. The latter flared like fire licking at his skin. The former—oddly—shifted. Less of a distant, formless wail, now something distinct. Words.
He could hear something. But what?
Merrin shook his head—or so he thought. What could he possibly hear? The wails of the damned? He already knew despair; what need had he to suffer the pains of others? Worse, what if it was the slaves he had failed to save?
Yet curiosity gnawed at him. If not for anything else, then for the knowledge of what awaited him. If these were truly the damned, their voices might offer a warning.
He listened.
A voice broke through the cries. "Ah, this not right!" it said. "You're meant to—you acted prophecy. Or is me wrong? Ah… Again, Ron mistake again."
Ron.
Merrin's heart clenched. Was that Ron—the giant Odium he had mistaken for Liem? An odd mistake. Was he dead? Had the Sisters killed him as punishment?
Why? They had never met him. Unless Ron had openly revealed their connection, no harm should have come to him.
Had he revealed it? Or had the Sisters discovered it through other means?
If that was true…
Merrin felt like weeping.
If that was true, then even after his own death, what was he doing? He was still taking. He was still killing.
What a curse.
"What is this?" Ron's voice rang out, startled. "Tears! He lives! It is so. It is written. This is so!"
Merrin stiffened. Lives? Those were not the words of one suffering damnation. Had the pain broken Ron's mind? Or… was it something else?
I think you know that. the voice that hunted him spoke.
No. No, please.
Merrin's heart pounded. But not as a distant echo from the gray world—closer. Internal. As though it pulsed deep within him.
Maybe souls have hearts, he thought feverishly. If the Aspirants were wrong about the afterlife, maybe they were wrong about the nature of souls too.
Or maybe that place had not been the Almighty's abode…
No! It was! I'm dead. I'm dead. Please, I can't live again… I can't live. I don't want to live.
"He moves!!" Ron's voice cut through the cries as they grew muffled. "He moves. Tending he needs. Somebody with marks, get something. Ah! I do it."
Please stop. I don't want to live.
Merrin screamed in his thoughts.
I want to die. Please stop. Don't do this to me.
Do what to you? You want to die after all this? This proves you have purpose.
I don't want it!
It doesn't matter. It has been given to you…
It's hard… It's painful. So hard…
Merrin could hear clearer sounds now. The insistent buzzing of lamps. The scurrying pound of feet. A faint heat brushing against his skin. It was as though he was rising from the abyss.
He wanted to stop. If he could. Because ahead, another dread awaited him.
A dread he did not want. Dead slaves.
A burden he wished had been given to someone else.
A heavy weight to carry without desire.
The darkness peeled away, and a blinding white light pierced his vision.
He had awoken.
A face loomed over him—dark-haired, high-cheekboned, pale skin stretched over taut bones. A true Nightfell-born. What was he doing here? The man clutched a rag, brown and filthy, dabbing it over Merrin's face. The cloth reeked of sweat and blood. Yet the man—no, the boy—was crying as he wiped him down.
"Thank you for saving me." The boy's voice trembled, tears falling onto Merrin's cheeks. Genuine tears—not of fear, but relief.
Relief?
Merrin bit his lip, then rasped, "You… you weren't killed?"
The boy flinched, his lips quivering, tears streaking his face.
"You saved us," he whispered. "You brought light!"
Merrin blinked. "I brought light?" He muttered, vision still blurred by the blinding glow. It seemed to stem from the lamp, but they weren't meant to shine so brilliantly. So how? Did he truly bring light? How?
The one who will never die… The words echoed in his mind, but he pushed them aside, focusing instead on the boy above him. "I want to stand." His voice was surprisingly strong, despite the unbearable pain. The boy hesitated, then wiped his tears away with the same dirtied rag. He seemed unfazed by the filth. Strange.
He grabbed Merrin by the arms, and pain surged as he did so. His skin felt like rough sand, scraping against an open wound. Agonizing, surely, but Merrin could not focus on it now. He needed to see. He needed to witness the outcome of what he had done. What awaited him? Pain, death, horror? Or maybe… something else. Something beautiful.
Merrin felt weak in the face of fear, but strength came. From the boy, perhaps, but it arrived nonetheless. Holding him was hope—hope for a future, the possibility of his own redemption. He had saved this one. Then maybe, just maybe, he could save others.
He was lifted from the ground, the white light slowly fading from his vision.
"Ah!" Tears streamed down Merrin's face.
He was surrounded—not by death, failure, or suffering, but by life… love, joy, and faith. They lived, encircling him in numbers beyond measure. Was this truly the number he had saved? Hundreds? Perhaps thousands. Men and women, all gazing at him—not with emptiness, but with passion, longing… serenity.
You did it!
Merrin turned to the boy supporting him. He still wept, his eyes red from the aftermath, but more than that, he smiled. He radiated joy.
"What is your name?" Merrin had to know. Yes, there were many he could ask, but he chose this one. The one who had helped him see this glory. This wealth. His name was the one Merrin wished to hear.
And the boy seemed right for the question.
He smiled through his tears and spoke softly, his voice light and warm. "My name is Moeash."
"Moeash…" Merrin looked at him, his smile unguarded. "Thank you." Tears slipped into his mouth, salty on his tongue. His voice cracked. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Moeash smiled warmly. "No, thank you. Thank you, son of light."