Before the fog.
Before the stone gate.
Before the first step east—
I find Thane.
He's by the tree line, sharpening a short-handled axe with quiet precision. The morning mist curls around him like smoke. Birds don't sing near him anymore. Even the wind seems careful.
"Thane," I say.
He looks up. No surprise in his eyes. Just recognition. He's grown used to me slipping in and out like a ghost.
"You're leaving again," he says, not a question.
"For a while."
He nods slowly, returning to his blade.
"I don't like how still the forest's gone," he mutters. "The smugglers moved faster than we expected. And the rats in Stonefold will come sniffing soon."
"They will," I agree. "That's why I need you to stay."
He pauses.
"Stay and do *what,* exactly?"
"Watch. Record movements near the Hollow. Any strangers. Any shifting patrols. You've got the best eyes in this place—and I need to know this village is safe when I return."
"And when will that be?"
"When I'm stronger."
His gaze lingers. Then he sheathes the axe and stands fully.
"You're going to train."
I don't deny it.
"There's a place. Hidden. I won't be able to contact you while I'm inside, but I'll return the moment the balance tips."
He snorts. "The balance has *already* tipped, you just keep standing on it like a lunatic."
Still, he offers his arm.
I clasp his wrist. Strong grip. Steady.
"I'll keep Marga breathing," he says. "And I'll keep Syra from setting the trees on fire."
I nod once. "That's all I ask."
He watches me walk until I disappear behind the birches.
---
The eastern path curves like a snake across the edge of Darnem Hollow. I slip through it unnoticed. No gear beyond my cloak, blade, and ring. The token rests near my collarbone, tucked close to skin. It pulses faintly, sensing the veil ahead.
By midday, the light turns strange.
Thick gray fog rolls in from nowhere. I've entered the edges of Stillwater Reach.
I remember this place. Not from my past life—but from legends. Locals call it "the lake of lost voices." Even the elders feared it.
Not for monsters.
For what it *remembers.*
The trees here twist differently. Moss clings like veins to bark. Water drips from nowhere. The air tastes metallic.
I follow no trail. The token glows brighter the further I stray from known paths.
By dusk, the lake reveals itself.
Still. Black. Mirror-flat.
And there—just beyond the reeds—stand the stones.
Three of them. Forming an arc. Old. Weathered. Marked with runes too faded for common tongues.
The token in my hand flares. Once. Twice.
Then turns cold.
I step forward.
But not through yet.
I kneel at the water's edge and stare at my reflection.
The mask is not on yet. My face is still my own.
Still that boy from Darnem Hollow. Scarred. Worn. Half-built.
But this lake won't remember *him.*
Only the one I'm about to become.
"Not yet," I whisper to the water.
Tomorrow, I'll pass the gate.
Tonight, I remember who I was.
And I say goodbye.