I could not remember the last time I had slept so soundly.
There were no worrying thoughts rattling against the walls of my mind, no distant calls of duty dragging me awake, no sterile classroom waiting with its gray, stagnant hours. It felt—strangely—like a Sunday morning from a lifelong forgotten, where time itself had the decency to slow its crawl. The bed beneath me was far from luxurious—coarse, uneven, and shifting whenever I moved—but somehow, it had been enough to cradle me into hours of deep, undisturbed rest.
Yet sleep was not what occupied my mind now.
As my eyes fluttered open, I was greeted not by a familiar ceiling, but by a rough, dark wooden roof looming overhead, its beams cracked with age, the grains of the timber running like ancient veins. The air was dry but rich, thick with the faint, bittersweet aroma of distant flowers. Their scent weaved between the splintered wood and the dust, as if desperately trying to mask the age and decay of the place. I lay atop a heap of what seemed to be burlap sacks, stuffed with something soft and round—vegetables, perhaps, though I dared not trust the assumption yet.
There was silence, save for the occasional chirp of insects hidden in the walls, their rhythm hollow and slow.
I did not remember how I had come to be here.
The last memory etched into my mind was of the golden tree—a tower of light in a world cloaked in its own shadows. I remembered staring up at it, its leaves scattering motes of gold through the air, their glow burning in the depths of my chest.
I should have been afraid, perhaps. Or at least more cautious. But my body ached less from fear and more from the strange stillness that clung to everything, the sense that movement itself would somehow be a violation of the silence that had settled here. Still, I had lingered long enough. I'd been awake for a while now, feigning sleep, straining to listen for any sign of life—friend or foe. But the time for waiting had passed.
With a slow breath, I pushed myself up, feeling the coarse fabric of the sacks shift under my weight. My boots found the ground, rough and splintered, but solid. No chains. No bindings. Only the throb of stiff muscles greeting the morning—or whatever hour this was.
Just as I shifted my weight forward, a voice called out from somewhere near the entrance.
"It's better to rest a while longer."
The voice was rough like gravel and low, but it carried a warmth that spoke of many winters endured and many fireside tales told. A man's voice. Old. Weathered not just by years, but by something heavier, something that aged the soul more than the body.
I froze for a moment, listening.
The words were not a threat. Nor a command.
Merely a suggestion, worn at the edges by familiarity and habit.
Still, I did not heed it. I needed to know where I was, who I was with, and what manner of world I had stumbled into. My hand brushed instinctively toward my side—but there was no weapon, no familiar weight. I would have to rely on wits, then.
I rose fully, standing still for a moment as blood rushed through my legs. Everything felt... ordinary. Solid. Real. No trick of the senses.
Stretching my arms and rolling my shoulders to shake off the last remnants of stiffness, I took in the room for the first time.
It was small, barely wider than a barn stall. The walls and floor were fashioned from the same dark wood, stained with years of dust and wear. The ceiling sloped unevenly, and from the corners hung cobwebs that swayed gently in the dry draft that slipped through unseen cracks. Every inch of the space was cluttered—garments piled without order, broken pottery half-mended with twine, old wagon wheels leaning against the walls, a rusted lantern resting atop a battered chest. It was a room not built for comfort, but for survival.
At the far side, near the entrance where the early dim light pooled in a thin, weary beam, sat a figure.
An old man.
He hunched over something I could not quite see, hands moving slowly and with purpose. He was dressed in a patchwork of faded cloth and rough leather, his long hair and beard knotted and gray as storm clouds. Despite my movement, despite the clear break of silence I had caused, he did not raise his eyes to me.
It was as if he had known I would rise. As if he had been waiting, not for the act, but for what came after.
I watched him for a moment longer, uncertain whether to speak, to step forward, or to simply wait. The world outside the doorway behind him was a smear of dusty gray and pale gold, as if the sun itself had grown tired of burning bright.
I exhaled slowly, my breath stirring the dry air.
"Where am I?" I asked finally, my voice rough from disuse.
The old man, still without looking at me, smiled faintly under his tangled beard.
"You're where you were meant to be," he said, the words falling heavily between us, "whether you believe it yet... or not."
And with that, he returned to his quiet work, as if my awakening was merely a ripple in the endless pond of his solitude.
"Where I was meant to be," I thought to myself, the words ringing hollow in my mind.
I shifted my weight, uncomfortable with the silence between us.
"Can I go out... see what's there?" I asked, my voice breaking slightly against the heavy air.
The old man didn't answer. He simply gathered what he had been working on—a small bundle of tools and cloth—rose to his feet with a slow, practiced grace, and stepped out through the doorframe without a word. The wooden door creaked, the sound long and tired, before settling back into its hinges.
Left alone, I stood there for a moment, hesitating. Something in me warned not to rush.
But that same something told me I could not linger either.
I made my way cautiously toward the door, each step creaking over the uneven floorboards. As I crossed the threshold, the world unfolded before me.
The sky was a suffocating black.
No moon. No stars.
Only the distant light of a giant tree painting the land in a harsh, blinding glow. Its golden luminescence seemed almost... wrong against the ink-black heavens. Like a flame burning in a place it was never meant to touch.
I squinted against the sharpness of its light, feeling it prick at the back of my eyes.
The surroundings were barren and sparse. A small, weather-beaten cabin behind me—the one I had just exited—and a larger, sturdier house a short distance away, maybe ten meters or so. The larger structure was humble but intact, its roof slightly bowed under years of neglect, its walls patched with whatever materials had been at hand. Despite its size, it felt hollow, like a shell left behind by something long dead.
The old man was already moving toward it, his back to me, his gait slow but sure. Without even glancing back, he disappeared into the larger house, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud.
The air was colder out here. Not the kind of cold that bit at your skin, but the kind that sank into your bones, made your muscles heavy and your thoughts slower. I looked down at myself—my old clothes were gone. In their place, a roughly stitched leather jacket and worn leather pants clung to my frame. My feet were bare against the dry, cracked soil. The ground was firm but dusted with fine ash, as if the world had been burned clean and left to forget itself.
I stood there a while, staring into the distance.
The black sky loomed like an endless ocean above me, and yet the oppressive vastness of it all did not crush me.
The shadow from before—the one that had brushed against my mind when I had first seen the golden tree still lingered. A faint impression. Not quite fear. Not quite awe. Something older. Something nameless.
I had entered the labyrinth.
Of that much I was sure.
But it was not the labyrinth I had imagined.
No endless twisting corridors. No gleaming walls of mirrored stone.
Only a silent, ruined world. A place where time clung in the air like a fever.
"What now?" I thought, the question slipping out of me like breath.
There were no answers. Only the stillness.
The door to the larger house creaked again, drawing my attention. I turned to see the old man emerging, his arms cradling two crude wooden cups, steam curling from their rims like ghostly fingers.
Without a word, he walked slowly toward me.
His eyes, sharp beneath heavy brows, met mine with a gaze that was neither welcoming nor threatening—merely tired. Tired in a way that went beyond the body.
As he neared, he extended one of the cups toward me.
"Drink," he said simply, his voice dry as parchment.
The cup was warm against my chilled fingers as I accepted it.
The liquid inside smelled faintly of herbs and something else—something metallic and bitter.
I looked at him, searching for some hint of reassurance.
Instead, he walked a few steps away from the cabin, where a small bonfire crackled and spat embers into the still air.
It was clear he had prepared it before waking me.
A rough circle of stones bordered the fire, and around it, the earth was hard and scorched.
I followed him.
We sat down without words, the fire throwing long shadows behind us.
The cup in my hands still steamed, the strange scent curling into my nostrils.
The old man gave me no care and started taking the liquid as if it was no way near warm.
I stared at the black drink and decided to give it a try.
I took a cautious sip.
Immediately, a grimace twisted across my face.
It tasted bitter and metallic, the aftertaste dry and clinging to my tongue.
It wasn't repulsive, but it certainly wasn't pleasant.
The old man let out a low chuckle, raspy but not unkind.
"Not what you're used to, I imagine," he said, taking another casual sip of his own drink.
He stared into the fire, the flames dancing in his tired eyes.
"We call it Myrren's Draught. Made from roots that grow only beneath the spire's shadow. It keeps the mind... still. Keeps the wildness from slipping in."
I nodded slowly, trusting his words more than the taste.
Now that we were both in the firelight, I could see him more clearly.
He wasn't as ancient as I had first thought.
The long, tangled beard and weathered clothes had given him the look of a man far into his winters, but his movements were too steady, too deliberate.
The lines on his face were not from age, but from living too long in a place that had forgotten how to change.
As I drank again—more out of courtesy than need—I found my eyes drifting back toward the vastness beyond.
Toward the tree.
It loomed in the distance, its golden light staining the night.
"What is this place?" I asked finally, my voice almost lost to the crackle of the fire.
"And that tree?"
The old man didn't answer immediately.
He took a long sip from his cup, as if weighing something in his mind.
I mirrored him without thinking, letting the liquid slide down my throat.
Only then did he set his cup down beside him, the hollow thud against the stone like a quiet punctuation.
"The tree," he said, his voice slow and deliberate, "has many names,"
He took another sip.
"But most here call it, the Aurean Spire."
He turned to look at me fully now, his eyes searching mine.
"And you? Do you know what this place is?"
I hesitated.
The word Labyrinth lingered on my tongue, but something warned me against speaking it aloud.
Not yet.
Instead, I shook my head.
"I don't know," I lied quietly.
The old man raised an eyebrow, studying me for a long moment.
"Strange," he said, almost to himself.
He leaned back, propping himself up on his hands, gazing up at the endless black sky.
"What was your dream... in your old world?"
I stared into the cup in my hands. He knows.
The fire's reflection shimmered on the surface of the liquid.
My mind groped for an answer, but found only silence.
"I don't know," I said again.
He frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening.
"Do you realize," he said slowly, "that you are dead?"
"Yes," I answered, with a certainty that surprised even me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The fire crackled between us, the heat licking our skin.
The old man watched me carefully, as if waiting for something else.
Finally, he asked, "And before you died... did you have any regrets?"
I lowered my eyes.
I didn't answer.
Not aloud, at least.
A part of me wondered if the regret still lingered—the small, pathetic wish to see my mother one last time, to tell her something, anything—even if it was just goodbye.
Another part wondered if it was regret for a life lived half-asleep, dulled by fear and the endless repetition of meaningless days.
But I said nothing.
I only stared deeper into the murky drink.
The old man sighed heavily, dragging a hand through his tangled hair.
He lifted his gaze to the darkened sky.
"This world…" he began, voice thick with memory, "was not always like this."
He shifted closer to the fire, speaking as if to the flames themselves.
"It was once filled with colors you would not believe. Skies blue as dreams. Rivers that sang to the stones. Lands that stretched wider than any heart could hold. It was a gift, you see. A world spun from the last wishes and broken dreams of those who had been forgotten. Here, every longing was made real. Every hope was answered."
He paused, his face heavy with old grief.
"But it was not enough."
"They wanted more."
He stirred the embers with a stick, sending a flurry of sparks into the night.
"They fought. They bled. They burned the paradise given to them. Until all that remained was ashes and sorrow."
His voice dropped low, nearly a whisper.
"And from their ashes, from the dreams and the regrets of the dead... the Aurean Spire was born."
He looked back at me, the firelight catching in his tired, sharp eyes.
"A monument to what we once were. And a warning to what we have become."
The old man's words hung between us, heavy and slow, like smoke.
He didn't speak again right away.
He simply sat there, staring into the fire, his face carved with lines of something deeper than sorrow—something older, heavier.
His fingers idly traced the rim of his cup, slow, absent.
The fire crackled.
The night remained unmoving.
I pulled my knees to my chest, feeling the rough earth beneath me.
The bitterness of the drink still lingered on my tongue, though my body was beginning to feel lighter, clearer somehow.
Finally, after what felt like long minutes, the old man shifted, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.
His gaze stayed pinned to the flames.
"You must understand," he said, his voice rasping low, "the Spire is not a gift. It is not a curse, either. It simply... is."
He reached down, picked up a twig, and began idly breaking it into pieces between his fingers.
"When the dreams of the dead piled high enough to touch the heavens, the Spire was born."
He paused, letting the broken pieces fall into the fire one by one.
The flames hissed at each offering.
"But dreams are hungry things. They never die quietly."
The wind picked up slightly, carrying with it the dry scent of distant ash.
The old man turned his face toward it, closing his eyes for a brief moment, as if listening to something I couldn't hear.
When he spoke again, his voice had a faint tremor to it—not of fear, but of old exhaustion.
"The Spire grows by feeding on longing. On the ache of souls who still believe they can find heaven here."
He let out a hollow chuckle, but there was no humor in it.
"It is a monument of wishes. But it is built atop a graveyard of their makers."
I stared at the distant tree, its light still burning a hole through the blackness.
It didn't look so beautiful now.
After a few moments, the old man tilted his head toward me, studying me with those sharp, worn eyes.
"You are not the first to come here," he said.
"Nor will you be the last."
He leaned back, exhaling slowly, the breath misting faintly in the cold.
"But you are different."
He paused again, longer this time, as if choosing his next words carefully.
"You came without a dream. No ambition. No prayer to be answered. No ladder you wish to climb."
His gaze darkened slightly, not unkindly—but with something close to pity.
"And the Spire... does not know what to do with those like you."
The fire between us snapped and popped.
I lowered my eyes, feeling the weight of his words settle in my bones.
It was true.
I had no great ambition.
No golden dream I had clutched to my chest as the world slipped away from me.
Just a dull ache, a quiet regret too faint to scream.
The old man stood up slowly, brushing off the dust from his coat.
He gazed up at the black sky, where no stars watched us.
"This world was made to be a cradle for dreams," he said, almost to himself.
He glanced back at me, something harder behind his eyes now.
"But when the cradle rots, all that's left is the hunger."
He nodded toward the distant golden Spire.
"The Aurean Spire still reaches for the heavens... but it carries with it only the dead weight of forgotten dreams."
He picked up his cup, drained the last of the bitter liquid, and tossed the empty vessel into the fire.
The flames licked it hungrily.
Without looking at me, he spoke one last time before turning toward the larger house.
"If you want to survive here, boy... you'll need to find something worth dreaming for. Or the Spire will find it for you."
And then he walked away, his figure swallowed by the dark.
Leaving me alone with the fire, the empty cup, and the unblinking gaze of the Spire.
The old man's steps faded into the cold.
The door to the larger house creaked open, then closed with a hollow thud.
I stayed by the fire.
The flames had grown low, sputtering with tired breaths, casting long crooked shadows across the dirt.
The bitter drink still clung to my mouth, the taste of dried roots and something older, something bitterer.
I turned the cup in my hands absentmindedly, watching the embers catch the rim with brief flickers of light.
Find something worth dreaming for, the old man had said.
Or the Spire will find it for you.
I didn't know what I was supposed to dream for.
What could a man like me even wish for now? In fact, didn't I come here to find it in the first place. Something that would thrill me, make me want to live a life I had never lived before. The world above worlds. Where nobody had reached. The labyrinths peak.
The silence around me was vast, thick enough that I could almost hear my own blood humming beneath my skin.
The night pressed heavy against the earth, an invisible weight.
Above, the sky remained starless. Only the Spire's golden light burned against the black, defiant and cold.
I sat there for a while, knees tucked up, hands folded around the empty cup, feeling the weight of myself, the emptiness inside me.
Maybe it was minutes. Maybe longer.
Time moved differently here. Or maybe I had just stopped bothering to count.
Eventually, the stillness began to feel wrong.
Not dangerous, not yet—but too still, too expectant.
I stood up slowly, brushing dirt from my pants. My bare feet pressed into the cold earth, the sensation grounding me.
A deep ache stirred in my legs from sitting too long.
I needed to move.
Not toward anywhere in particular—just... somewhere.
Stalling, wandering—maybe that would clear the weight from my head.
I took a few tentative steps away from the fire, toward the dark open land beyond the cabin.
At first, there was nothing.
Just the black, the dry grass whispering in the low wind, and the constant burn of the Spire against my vision.
But as my eyes adjusted to the distance, I noticed it.
Faint lights.
Tiny, scattered glimmers far off in the darkness.
Barely visible, like embers choking on their last breath.
They weren't stars.
They were too low, too irregular.
Settlements, maybe. Or camps.
Other people.
The realization settled in slowly.
I wasn't alone. Not entirely.
The thought brought no comfort, only a cautious tension tightening in my chest.
I didn't know what sort of people lived here now.
I didn't know what they dreamed of—or what they were willing to do to keep their dreams alive.
Still, standing still wasn't an option.
The cold crept deeper into my skin. The questions in my head grew heavier with each passing moment.
I needed to move.
To stall, if nothing else.
Even if every step led only deeper into the unknown.
I took a slow breath, feeling the air burn dry against my lungs.
Then, without another glance at the old man's house or the half-dead fire, I started walking.
One step.
Another.
Toward the nearest faint light, across the empty plain that had once been a cradle of dreams.
The dirt was rough beneath my feet, but the cold kept me awake, sharp, grounded.
The Spire watched from the horizon, unblinking.
And I moved forward, into whatever waited beyond the edge of the light.
The cold was sharper out here, unfiltered by the broken walls of the old man's home, and each breath felt like dragging a blade across the inside of my throat. Still, I pressed forward, my body moving in a slow rhythm, step by step, over the uneven ground that crumbled and shifted beneath the weight of my bare feet.
I walked for a long time, time enough that my legs grew numb and my mind began to drift into half-thoughts and fading memories, pulling me inward, toward a place where the night was not so heavy and the world was not so empty.
But each time I faltered, the sight of the golden Spire looming behind me, and the faint, flickering promise of lights ahead, drove me onward.
The first signs of life—or what had once been life—came in the form of ruined camps scattered across the plain like the remnants of a long-forgotten battle.
Torn tents flapped weakly in the dry wind, their colors bleached and worn to nothingness.
Charred fire pits, encircled by bones stripped clean and left to bleach under the endless night, marked where travelers once gathered, laughed, fought, or simply waited for dreams that never came.
Broken tools, rusted iron scraps, and the occasional shredded banner lay half-buried in the cracked soil, like the artifacts of some ancient, doomed pilgrimage.
I passed them without stopping, though each ruin seemed to watch me as I moved by, their silent emptiness whispering that they had been abandoned not willingly, but by the slow suffocation of despair.
Still, I kept walking.
Because farther ahead, the lights were brighter, more clustered—less like scattered embers and more like the steady glow of a living place.
Eventually, cresting a low ridge, I saw it:
A settlement.
Small, crude, but alive.
Smoke curled from the chimneys of a dozen squat houses, the fires within painting warm orange glows against the black sky.
Wooden fences leaned drunkenly around fields long gone to rot.
A few shadows moved slowly between the structures, carrying buckets or bundles, hunched low against the cold.
For the first time since awakening under the old man's roof, something like hope stirred faintly within me.
Maybe here, among these survivors, there would be answers.
Maybe they would take me in, offer me a place among them, or at least tell me what this world had become.
I adjusted the worn leather jacket around my shoulders and tightened my arms across my chest, feeling smaller than I liked to admit under the vastness of the dark.
And I started toward the settlement.
It wasn't far—maybe half an hour's walk—but each step grew heavier with an unease I couldn't name.
A coldness not from the wind, but from something deeper, something woven into the very soil.
By the time I reached the outskirts of the village, a few of the villagers had noticed me.
I saw heads turn, quiet conversations fall silent.
A woman drawing water from a half-frozen well paused mid-motion, her eyes narrowing.
A man repairing the frame of a door leaned back, setting down his tools and wiping his hands slowly on his pants, watching me approach without a word.
Still, I held onto the fragile hope that they would welcome me.
I wasn't armed. I wasn't threatening.
I was just another wanderer, another soul adrift under this broken sky.
But as I drew closer, something shifted.
Their expressions hardened, not with fear, but with a grim sort of recognition.
A few of them whispered to each other, eyes darting not to me—but to the direction I had come from.
To the hills where the old man lived.
Mothers called to their children in low, urgent voices, gathering them up in their arms or by the hand, pulling them hurriedly into their homes.
Doors slammed shut with heavy finality.
Curtains were drawn.
Windows, some cracked and filthy, were hastily boarded from the inside.
Within minutes, the once-living settlement had become a hollow shell.
No greetings.
No offers of shelter.
Only silence—and the cold stares of those few who still lingered long enough to make it clear:
I was not wanted here.
And all because of where I had come from.
Because of him.
I stood at the edge of the village, alone again, the weight of unseen history pressing down harder than ever.
The Spire loomed behind me, its golden light stretching across the dead fields, touching the shuttered homes and the frightened faces hidden behind the wood.
I let out a slow breath, the steam curling into the night like a ghost, and wondered how far I would have to walk before I found a place that would not turn its back.
If such a place even existed.
I stood there for a long while, my feet rooted to the cracked soil, staring at the closed doors and darkened windows.
A strange, almost stupid ache gnawed at my chest—a kind of hollow embarrassment I couldn't quite shake.
Why did I expect anything else?
I wasn't sure what I had expected, really.
Some gesture of welcome, maybe. A few words.
But the doors stayed shut.
The windows darkened.
I could still feel the weight of their eyes behind the cracks and curtains, pulling their children close, bolting their homes as if I carried some sickness.
I shifted my footing, brushing the dust from my pants out of habit.
It wasn't anger that filled me.
It wasn't even sadness.
Just a quiet realization, a reminder.
This place isn't going to make things easy.
Nothing here will.
I had always known better than to expect kindness from people who didn't know me, even back before all this.
And after everything that had happened... expecting it now was almost foolish.
Still, some small part of me had hoped.
I didn't blame myself for it, not entirely.
Hope wasn't weakness.
It was just... misplaced.
I pulled my jacket tighter around myself and took a breath.
The world here wasn't built to catch anyone who fell.
And if I was going to move forward, it would have to be on my own terms.
Without another glance at the shuttered windows, I turned away, choosing a path along the edge of the settlement, where the light from their fires barely reached.
There had to be something beyond this.
There always was.
I walked for what felt like hours.
The world stretched out endlessly — the land dry, cracked like an old scar.
And then, out of the monotony, something caught my eye.
Tucked between two collapsed homes, half-hidden by the sagging remnants of cloth banners, stood a structure that hadn't yet surrendered to ruin.
It was small, barely taller than a single story, and shaped unlike anything else in the settlement.
Its stone walls were smooth, unbroken by time.
And its arched doorway stood open — dark inside, but untouched by dust or decay.
I approached carefully, a part of me expecting the illusion to shatter the closer I got.
But the stones stayed firm under my hand when I pressed against them.
Real. Solid.
Alive in a way nothing else around here was.
Inside, it was cooler.
The air carried the faint scent of something metallic — not blood, exactly, but not clean either.
I let my eyes adjust to the gloom.
The walls were covered in carvings.
Lines, sharp and deliberate, etched into the stone with painstaking precision.
They spiraled outward from the center, forming a great tableau that dominated the far wall.
At its heart stood the Golden tree, towering and radiant, just as I had seen it from the distance.
Around it, men fought.
Their weapons clashed in frozen moments of violence, their faces twisted in desperation, hunger.
They weren't trying to worship the tree.
They were trying to tear it apart.
Their hands reached upward, grasping at the fruits that hung from the lower branches.
The fruits were strange — each one larger than a man's head, their surfaces marked with symbols.
Some I recognized instinctively: a flame, a tide, a jagged bolt of lightning.
Others defied recognition — spirals that seemed to fold into themselves, shapes that hurt to look at if you stared too long.
I stepped closer, tracing one of the carvings lightly with my finger.
The fruits weren't just nourishment, not just rewards.
They were something more.
Something dangerous.
Something worth dying for.
A low tremor ran through my fingers, a pulse almost too faint to feel.
I pulled my hand back.
For a long time, I stood there in the silence, staring at the frozen battle.
Trying to understand what this place was telling me.
What it wanted me to know.
Outside, the faint wind howled, and for a moment, I thought I saw the Spire's light flicker again — like something vast and unseen shifting just beyond the edges of the world.
I lingered for a while longer.
Long enough for the strangeness of the carvings to settle deep into my mind.
The longer I stared, the more the figures seemed to shift — not physically, but in the way dreams shift when you try to hold onto them.
The fruit.
The fighting.
The Spire.
I told myself there was nothing more to find here.
Without a word, I turned away from the wall and stepped back into the open.
The heavy air pressed against my skin the moment I crossed the threshold, carrying with it the dry scent of dust and old smoke.
The wind had begun to pick up, rattling the broken homes around me, tugging at the ruins like greedy fingers.
I knew I should feel more than I did.
Curiosity, maybe.
Fear.
But there was only a low, steady ache somewhere behind my ribs — like the dull weight of a memory trying to surface.
I made my way back toward the edge of the settlement.
Each step felt heavier, not from exhaustion but from a slow realization settling over me:
This place had been dead a long time.
Nothing here was meant for me.
Not the chapel, not the silent houses, not the people who would not look me in the eye.
Home.
The thought struck me unexpectedly.
If there was anywhere to return to, it was the small wooden cabin by the old man's house — as empty and strange as it had been.
At least it was something.
The Spire loomed behind me, its golden light cold against my back.
And somewhere far above, hidden behind that endless black sky, the heavens turned their gaze away.
I walked on, not looking back.