The inside of the cottage was nothing like Sylas expected.
Every surface overflowed with books, scrolls, and strange trinkets. Dried herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with a bitter, pungent scent. A cluttered hearth sputtered weak flames, barely warming the cramped space. It felt less like a home and more like a mind turned inside out—chaotic but alive.
Merith moved easily through the clutter, tossing a bundle of firewood into the hearth and stirring the embers. Her movements were sharp and efficient despite her age, a predator's grace beneath a grandmother's shell.
"Sit," she barked, pointing at a battered table surrounded by mismatched chairs. "Before you fall over."
Sylas obeyed, his muscles aching from days of travel. Alira remained standing, arms crossed, watching Merith with cautious respect.
The old woman rummaged through a pile of papers, muttering to herself, before finally dragging a heavy, iron-bound tome from the chaos. She slapped it onto the table with a loud thud.
"Show me."
Sylas hesitated. The shard burned cold against his chest, as if aware of the attention. Slowly, he unbuttoned his tunic and drew out the shard, still wrapped in cloth. Even through the fabric, it pulsed faintly.
Merith leaned in close, her breath catching. Her fingers, knotted and calloused, hovered inches above it but did not touch.
"Old," she whispered. "Older than the kingdoms. Older than names."
She stepped back, rubbing her hands on her apron as if scrubbing off invisible dirt.
"You shouldn't have this," she said. "No one should."
Alira's voice was steady. "Can you help him?"
Merith snorted. "Help? Girl, you don't 'help' someone carrying death in their veins. You survive it—or you don't."
Sylas clenched his fists. "There has to be a way."
Merith eyed him, measuring. Then, slowly, she opened the heavy tome and flipped through yellowed pages filled with cramped writing and unfamiliar diagrams.
"There's a ritual," she said finally. "Not to remove it—no one can—but to bind it. Weaken its influence, slow the corruption."
Sylas leaned forward. "What do I have to do?"
Merith's mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "You'll need three things: blood willingly given, a relic from before the Breaking, and the name of the shard itself."
Sylas blinked. "The shard has a name?"
"Everything old enough has a name," Merith said. "And names have power. Without it, the ritual is meaningless."
Alira frowned. "And if we can't find all three?"
Merith shrugged. "Then you die. Or worse."
A heavy silence filled the room.
Sylas felt Alira's eyes on him—steady, unwavering. For the first time, he realized she had already decided. She wasn't going to leave. Not now.
"What do we do first?" Sylas asked.
Merith tapped a crooked finger against a passage in the tome. "The relic. There's a ruin west of here. Old place. Forgotten by most. They called it Surnhall before the wars. Some say the dead still walk its halls, but what you seek is older than any ghost."
Sylas absorbed the words, feeling the weight of them settle in his gut.
A ruin. Unknown dangers. And a race against the thing festering inside him.
"How far?" Alira asked.
"Two days, if you move fast. Maybe less if you're willing to take the Wraith paths."
Alira's jaw tightened. "We'll take the paths."
Merith chuckled, low and dry. "Brave—or foolish."
She closed the book with a snap. "I'll prepare what I can for the ritual. But hurry. The shard wakes faster than you think."
As they prepared to leave, Merith pressed a small, leather-bound pouch into Sylas's hand.
"Salt, iron filings, and a sigil-stone," she said. "Protection spells. Primitive but better than nothing."
Sylas nodded his thanks, feeling the old woman's gaze burrow into him like roots through stone.
"One more thing," Merith said, voice dropping to a near whisper. "When you find the relic... don't trust what you see. The shard... it feeds on memory, on fear. It will twist the ruin to its liking."
Sylas met her gaze evenly. "I'll remember."
He tucked the pouch into his belt, tightening his cloak against the night air.
As they stepped back into the cold, the forest seemed to lean closer around them, the trees whispering secrets too old to name.
They were alone again.
But this time, they knew what they were walking toward—and that it might already know them in return.
Without a word, Sylas and Alira turned west, vanishing into the darkness, the first thin threads of a much larger fate pulling them deeper into the unknown.