The forest was louder at night.
Not with beasts or monsters, not the kind Rhea could burn with a glare, but with frogs, and owls, and leaves brushing each other like gossiping old women. Rain still clung to the air from earlier, and Elias's boots squelched softly in the underbrush. Somewhere behind him, Rhea stepped in a puddle and muttered something about "nature's rudeness."
"We should've brought socks," Elias said over his shoulder, adjusting the bundle of camping supplies on his back. "Extra socks. That's what I've learned today."
"I told you I don't need socks," Rhea grumbled, half-sulking, half-tired. "I have… internal heat regulation. My toes are immune."
"Really?" he asked, glancing back. "Because last time you stubbed one, you declared vengeance on the entire floorboard family."
She glared up at him, hair clinging damply to her face, and didn't deny it.
It had been two days since the Bell of Purity had rung in the town square. Two days since it had turned, seemingly of its own divine will, and pointed straight at Rhea.
That had gone about as well as expected.
They were lucky no one had seen the light leave her fingertips, or the whisper of darkness rise like smoke around her shadow. Elias had shoved her cloak tighter, faked a coughing fit to draw attention, and dragged her straight out the back of the crowd. No one had stopped them—yet—but the tension had changed. The city felt colder. The guild master's warning echoed behind every stare.
And now they were here. Again.
In the same forest where he'd first found her—naked, amnesiac, and yelling at a squirrel.
"How far are we going?" she asked. "I think my left sock betrayed me."
"You just said you don't wear socks."
"I lied."
Elias sighed. "We'll find the same ruins. There's shelter there."
"And creepy glyphs. And spiders. Don't forget the spiders."
"You like spiders."
"I like spiders when I can control them. Out here, they've got their own schedules."
They pressed on.
Eventually, the moon emerged, pale and distant. A hush fell between them that wasn't uncomfortable—just full. Elias glanced sideways. Rhea had started humming, low and tuneless, but oddly calming. He recognized it after a second. It was the same melody from the music box he'd once found in her old palace—the one that played when the throne room was empty.
They arrived by midnight.
The ruins were still as eerie as ever: a broken archway of black stone, half-swallowed by vines. Moss clung to the shattered floor. Glowing glyphs faintly pulsed in the dark, like breathing. The warning was still etched into the central wall in deep infernal script: Do Not Love Her.
Well, too late for that.
Elias unpacked their bedrolls and lit a small protective fire. Not with magic—he'd learned that mistake—but with flint and old-fashioned patience. Rhea stood quietly at the entrance, arms crossed.
"It's happening again," she whispered.
He didn't ask what she meant. Her eyes were glowing faintly—not with light, but with depth. Like the night sky before a storm. She didn't look like a child in that moment. She looked like something waiting to remember itself.
"I feel it when I sleep," she continued. "When I close my eyes. It's like… something beneath me. Coiled. Old. Not angry—just huge. Like the sun pretending to be a star."
Elias swallowed. "Revantra?"
She flinched. "I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe she's not even separate. What if I'm just her shadow walking ahead?"
"You're not a shadow," he said firmly. "You're a girl. A little too smart. With terrible socks."
That got a small smile out of her. "They really are awful."
He patted the bedroll. "Sleep. We'll figure it out tomorrow."
Rhea didn't sleep.
Not really.
The dreams came in flickers—memories that weren't hers, or maybe were. A throne room wrapped in fire. Soldiers made of obsidian kneeling. A scream that split mountains. A man—no, a boy—reaching out with shaking hands.
"You said you'd protect me," dream-Rhea whispered.
"You said you'd let the world burn before you let me cry."
She woke with a gasp.
It was still night. Elias slept beside her, chest rising slow and even. There was a smear of dried dirt on his cheek. His hand was outstretched toward her, even in sleep.
She touched it.
In her palm, a flicker of warmth sparked to life. She didn't know if it was magic or something else entirely.
"I don't want to be her again," she whispered, barely audible. "Even if she was strong. Even if she was right. I want this."
The fire cracked.
Morning came with fog.
Elias was already up, frying some sad-looking mushrooms over a rekindled flame. He'd tried to smile as she woke, but the weight in his shoulders hadn't lifted. She saw it. He wasn't just tired—he was scared. For her.
"Guild sent a hawk last night," he said eventually, offering a charred mushroom. "Didn't spot us, but it circled."
"Did you shoot it?"
"I waved. Politely."
"Lame."
They ate in silence for a while.
"I don't think we can go back," she said.
He nodded. "Not yet."
"But we can't keep running either."
He poked the fire with a stick. "I know."
Another pause.
"You ever regret saving me?" she asked suddenly. "Back then?"
His head snapped up. "Never."
"Even now? When a literal holy artifact says 'bad news over here' and points straight at me?"
Elias looked her dead in the eye.
"You could wake up tomorrow as a lava dragon. You could grow ten heads and demand tribute. You could set my house on fire again, and I'd still—"
"You're really bad at metaphors."
He grinned. "I'd still choose you. Every time."
She stared at him for a moment. Then, quietly: "You shouldn't."
"But I will."
She looked away. Her cheeks were pink. Probably from the cold. Probably.
"...Idiot."
He laughed. "Takes one to raise one."
Later, they explored deeper into the ruins.
More glyphs. Some dormant. Some blinking faintly like they knew she was here. She reached out once, and one flared blue—a symbol of protection.
Elias frowned. "That's celestial script."
"Why would celestial runes protect a demon queen's tomb?"
They looked at each other.
That night, they sat by the fire again. She curled up beside him, head on his shoulder.
"Tell me a story," she said.
"Alright. Once upon a time, a man found a girl yelling at squirrels in a cursed forest—"
"No, not that story."
"Too late. It's a good one."
She yawned. "...Fine. But next time, I pick."
"Deal."
Somewhere deep in the forest, a second Bell of Purity—older and cracked—rattled faintly in its stone housing.
But it did not ring. Not yet.
And above it, something unseen stirred.
Something beginning to remember.
To be continued…