"Normally, we don't get Wakers from the Tower until spring," Barrik said, rubbing the back of his neck. "So you'll have to make do with what's left from the fall batch. Not much, I'm afraid."
His tone carried a note of guilt, like the blankets and food he'd offered weren't enough.
"No, thank you, this is plenty enough." Lira replied, answering for the group.
She then glanced around at the others, many of whom were still huddled near the fire or sipping quietly from their cups.
"Can you tell us what's going on?" she asked, as several others nodded in agreement, their eyes turning to Barrik with the same question.
Barrik sighed and leaned back into his chair, the weight of memory settling into the lines of his face. His eyes flicked toward the hearth as if the flames might give him better words.
"Ah. So Aetherion didn't explain properly," he muttered. "Figures. The further Wakers drift from the usual cycle, the worse that old echo seems to perform."
He shook his head—not in frustration, but familiarity. Like this wasn't the first time the system had faltered. And it wouldn't be the last.
Lucas sat still, watching him closely. The name Aetherion rang like something half-remembered. The golden projection… its words still echoed in his head. Severed from history.Rebirth. But none of it had told him what he was now. Or what he was supposed to become.
"As for your question…" Barrik continued, "The answer's simple enough. Though it won't satisfy you."
He paused, let the room still.
"No one knows."
A murmur rolled through the group—uneasy, uncertain. Some lowered their gazes. Others shifted, glancing to their neighbors as if someone else might know more than the old man in the chair.
"No one in Hollowrest. Not the guilds, not the mayor, not even the royal wizards," he said. "What we do know is this—twice a year, the Tower opens. Once in the fall. Once in the spring. And each time, people like you come through. Memory wiped. Confused. Changed."
He looked directly at them then, voice lowering like the fire itself had pulled him closer.
"Why it happens? The Tower doesn't say. It just delivers."
Lucas felt his shoulders tense. So this was a cycle. A ritual. He wasn't the first to wake with nothing. And he wouldn't be the last.
"But that isn't what truly matters," Barrik said, his voice hardening. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and the flames cast jagged shadows across his face. "What is important—what I must impart to you all—is what comes next."
He let the silence breathe.
"Life here in Hollowrest isn't a second chance. It's not a clean slate. It's survival. Every day. Every breath."
"To the east," Barrik continued, "are the ruins. What's left of a fallen nation. The things that dwell there—twisted, feral, corrupted by old magic and time—aren't bound by reason or mercy. Monsters in form. But worse in hunger."
Lucas felt the chill again. This time, it wasn't the wind.
"And to the north," Barrik went on, "sits the Iron Confederacy. A nation of bastards who'd trade their children for ruintech. Greedy, bloodthirsty, and blind. They want the East. They want Hollowrest. And they've tried to take both."
He smirked, but there was no warmth in it.
"They failed."
His voice lingered in the air like smoke.
"This town has stood for over three hundred years," he said. "Three centuries of holding the line. We're not the heart of Varnhold—but we are its teeth."
That drew a quiet breath from someone near the wall. The dancer girl. Her arms were still wrapped tightly around herself, but something had shifted in her posture. A faint sense of safety. Or maybe awe.
"But I digress," Barrik said with a shrug. "You don't need a history lesson. You need a direction."
He stood slowly, joints cracking with age, and began to pace the edge of the room. His steps were deliberate. The silence in the manor followed him like a shadow.
"You've got three choices. Three paths to carve your place here."
He raised his hand leaving up three fingers ruff and wore.
"First—the Vanguard Corps. The military arm of the crown. They protect the borders, push back against raids and monsters. If you've got grit, discipline, and don't mind spilling blood for a cause… they'll make you into something useful."
He glanced at Lira again. That same knowing look. She met it without flinching.
"Second—the Explorers' Guild. They map the ruins, hunt for relics, and pull lost knowledge and treasure out of places better left buried. They make good coin. Most die young."
"Third—the Artisan Hearth. Builders. Crafters. Healers. They keep the others alive, forge the gear, mend the wounds, and feed the town. It's quieter. But don't mistake quiet for safe."
He stopped pacing, turned to face the fire again.
"You'll have time to get familiar with each. The System doesn't fully awaken until the third moon. Until then, learn what you can. Watch. Listen. Decide."
Barrik turned away then, his tone shifting to dismissal.
"I don't need a bunch of shivering, half-starved Wakers taking up space in my sitting room. Rooms are upstairs. Baths are in the cellar. My staff will help you find your way."
He paused at the doorway, voice softer, almost absent.
"May the Lord bless thy soul. You'll need more than that before this is over."
Then he was gone—disappearing into the deeper hallways of the manor, leaving only the fire behind to speak.
Lucas sat still, the heat from the mug in his hands doing little to thaw the chill behind his ribs. The fire crackled, but it felt distant. Duller than it should.
'Why is it that everyone we've met just leaves the moment they've said their piece?'
Barrik. The golden projection. None of them had stayed longer than they needed. None had truly engaged. Just enough information to nudge them forward. No questions answered. No time for conversation. Just... movement.
'It doesn't make sense.'
His eyes tracked the hallway Barrik had vanished into. There was no sound. No door closing. No weight in the air that said someone still lingered.
'Every word they say feels rehearsed. Like they're bound to a script they don't even know they're reading from.'
Lucas's grip tightened around the mug. His knuckles were pale.
'We ask, and they respond. But only with just enough to keep us walking. No more. Never more. It's like the world is built to keep us moving forward… but only where it wants.'
A shiver passed through him—not from cold, but from the thought that maybe none of this was as real as it felt. Or maybe too real, in the wrong kind of way.
'Are they people… or echoes? Just ghosts playing out their part?'
The fire popped.
And then, soft footsteps stirred the silence behind him—barely audible over the hiss of the hearth.
He turned.
A small procession of figures had entered the room. Not soldiers. Not villagers. Servants, maybe. Pale, quiet, their expressions neutral in that way that didn't quite read as tired or polite—just... blank.
They lined up with silent precision. One for each of the Wakers, waiting.
Just as Barrik had said.
"Dear Wakers," one of the servants said, stepping forward with a slight incline of the head. His voice was smooth, practiced—too formal to feel genuine. "If you would, please follow us to your rooms. We will most gratefully assist you."
He wore a more ornate uniform than the others—trimmed with silver thread, collar pressed sharp. Regal, in a way that didn't quite belong in a mountain manor built of stone and silence.
'Weird,' Lucas thought.
The servants had appeared out of nowhere. He hadn't seen them when they first entered the manor. No footsteps. No creaking floors. Just... there.
His eyes flicked to Lira.
She hadn't moved, but her expression had. Her gaze narrowed, the firelight catching a quiet calculation in her eyes. While the other Wakers still clung to warmth and confusion, Lira remained sharp—watching. Thinking.
Her fingers tapped lightly against her thigh. A small, restless motion.
'Nervous,' Lucas noted. 'But not afraid. Just… alert.'
'She feels it too. Something's off.'
Their eyes met.
A silent message passed between them—unspoken, clear. Neither trusted what they were being led into.
Then Lira turned to the group, her voice cutting clean through the hush.
"We'll follow."
No command. No explanation. Just certainty, sharp and sure.
The servants moved without reaction. No bows. No acknowledgments. They simply turned, gliding down the corridor with soundless steps. One by one, the Wakers rose and followed. Docile. Numb.
Lucas and Lira hung back, taking up the rear.
The manor's halls stretched before them, narrow and dim. Rune-lanterns clung to the walls, their glow pulsing faintly—tired, like the light itself was growing old. The stone beneath their feet whispered with each step, the sound barely more than a breath.
At last, the procession stopped at two adjacent doors.
"These will be your rooms," one of the servants intoned. "In about 30mins we will be back to take you to your baths. Enjoy."
Without another word, the group of them turned and left—drifting back the way they came, vanishing into the corridor like smoke.
Lira leaned close. Her voice dropped low, almost lost in the stillness.
"After the bath. My room. We'll talk then."
Lucas nodded silently and slipped into his room.
The door clicked shut behind him. The space was modest, the air faintly warm. Rune-etched stone. A bed with clean linen. A small table. Functional, impersonal. Too perfect.
He scanned the room slowly, quietly taking stock—not of what was there, but what wasn't.
What he could work with. What he could trust.
And what he couldn't.