The temple had grown colder.
Though no wind entered, the fire had died without sound, and the walls breathed an old sorrow.
The girl, now awake but silent, sat cross-legged beneath a tattered mural. Her eyes flicked over symbols she could not read, yet somehow knew.
The boy sat beside her, legs kicking the dust.
"You don't remember your name?" he asked softly.
She shook her head. "No. But I remember… a scream. And someone calling for help. Maybe it was me."
The Traveler stood at the entrance, watching the sky. A mechanical bird passed overhead, its wings stitched with copper veins. It did not cry. It clicked.
He tensed.
"They've found us."
Somewhere far east, beyond the acid rivers of the Marshes, beneath the canopy of bone-willows, the Council of Teeth gathered.
Nine beings—none human.
Each was a broken clock in a shell of rotting nature, some plant, some steel, some stitched from things that should not grow together.
At the center of their table: a bowl of melted god-flesh, still steaming.
One of them stirred it with a finger carved from obsidian.
"The girl... the Hollow Seed... She dreams again."
Another rasped. "She remembers. Too early."
A third bled from the mouth as it spoke:
"He is with her. The Broken One. The False Knight."
"Should we send the Eater?" asked the tallest.
"No," said the one made of beetles. "We send the Vulture of Echoes. Let her see what she's forgotten."
Back at the temple, the girl blinked.
Her breath came in short gasps. Her fingers trembled.
"Something is… wrong."
The Traveler stepped forward. "Tell me what you feel."
She looked at him—eyes glazed white like cracked porcelain.
"I hear… myself… but from somewhere else."
The walls groaned.
The shadows twisted.
The boy ran to her side. "What's happening?!"
And then—without warning—a door appeared in the air.
It opened backward.
Through it stepped a man wrapped in crows. No eyes. No mouth. Only a voice that echoed inside your bones.
"We meet again, Seed."
The Traveler moved instantly.
The sword—still weeping with silent resonance—left its sheath in a flicker.
But the Vulture of Echoes did not dodge.
It let the blade pass through it.
Like memory.
"You cannot kill what is already forgotten," it whispered.
The girl clutched her head, screaming.
The boy tried to pull her away, but the Vulture's shadows wrapped around them like smoke, showing them visions:
A city of light burning beneath an ocean sky.
A woman stabbing a mirror and weeping.
A child holding a dagger to their own throat.
A god falling from a tower of gears.
The Traveler struck again.
But this time, the sword sang.
Not music—regret.
And that regret cut the Vulture.
Its form scattered like ash in a storm.
Before vanishing, it whispered:
"She is waking up. And when she remembers, your oath will mean nothing."
The temple collapsed behind them as they fled.
They traveled north—into the Ashcoast, where time no longer obeyed rules.
The girl spoke little now. But when she did, her words carried weight.
"I've seen that thing before," she murmured one night. "In a memory that wasn't mine."
The boy asked her, "What's your name then?"
She looked up at the broken moon.
And then whispered a name that made the Traveler stop walking.
"Elen."
Far beyond, in a floating tomb of glass and thorn, a chained being stirred.
Her body was smoke. Her veins, stars.
She opened her eyes.
And said,
"My daughter lives."