The fire from the night before had long burned out, but its warmth still lingered in the air. Dawn spilled over the treetops, golden light dappling the forest floor as birdsong stirred the silence. Daelen sat alone now—Sylen had gone to scout ahead—his eyes fixed on the ashes, as if they might whisper secrets he had missed.
He had slept little. Every time he closed his eyes, that memory returned—not of the fight, not of the mercenary's blade, but of the Mirror. Its fleeting presence. The weight of its recognition. It was a strange thing, how it had felt. Like something ancient and vast had turned to look at him. Not just at his body, but at his very being.
There had been no system. No pop-up screen flashing in front of him, no guiding hand to show him what to do. But the pull of it was real. The recognition—the sense that the world had acknowledged him, just for a moment, in a way it never had before.
Daelen's muscles still ached from the fight. The mercenary's strikes had been heavy, practiced, and deadly. Yet he had survived. Not just survived—he had responded. Feral Counter. Martial Intent. His body had moved of its own accord, guided by some primal instinct. The feeling was alien, but not unwelcome.
Was it the Mirror? Or was it something more? Something else within him that had always been there, waiting to be unlocked?
A twig snapped, pulling him from his thoughts.
Daelen's hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his blade. But it was just Sylen, emerging from the trees with her usual grace.
"Eastward," she said, her voice cool as always. "Found signs of a trade road. If we're lucky, we'll find a village."
He nodded, grateful for the distraction. "What about pursuit?"
She tossed a small strip of red cloth at his feet—stained with mercenary markings. "They won't bother us again."
Daelen didn't ask how. The answer didn't matter. The mercenaries were behind them, but what loomed ahead was a much larger question—one that gnawed at him with every step.
They walked in silence for a while, the forest slowly thinning around them. The trees grew smaller and more spaced out, the sound of running water reaching their ears.
"You're quieter than usual," Sylen remarked, glancing at him over her shoulder.
He met her gaze but said nothing for a moment. He had to fight the urge to mention it. To ask her if she had ever felt it. That pull, that sense of being... seen.
"Just thinking," Daelen replied, his voice low. "About... fate."
She let out a short, sharp laugh. "Dangerous thing to think about."
"Maybe," he said, the words coming slower now, each one heavy with thought. "But what if some people weren't meant to be anything? No prophecies. No great lineage. Just... filler. A side character in a story they never asked to be a part of."
Sylen looked at him then, her expression unreadable, and for the first time, he saw something flicker behind her eyes—something close to recognition. Understanding, maybe.
"And what if they still refuse that?" she asked.
Daelen's eyes dropped to the ground, his feet crunching the underbrush beneath him as they walked. "Then maybe the world takes notice."
Sylen didn't answer at first. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the path ahead, her steps unhurried. The soft rustling of leaves filled the space between them, but the silence was different now—less tense, but more profound.
"Or maybe," she said finally, her voice softer than before, "the world just gets annoyed."
Daelen didn't reply. He wasn't sure what he wanted the world to do. Maybe he wasn't ready for the attention he had unwittingly drawn. Maybe he was still too caught up in the idea of being seen, of being something more than just another forgotten soul.
But somewhere deep inside, the Mirror's gaze still lingered, its weight pressing down on him like the heat of a flame he couldn't escape.