By the time Lysander reached the southern plains, the stories had already outrun him.
Farmers left offerings of water and salt by the roadside.
Children followed him at a distance, laughing, calling him the moon's herald.
He tried to live as quietly as possible—sleeping beneath trees, sharing bread where he could, mending words instead of wounds—but the world would not leave him alone.
For every blossom that grew in his footsteps, another rumor bloomed beside it.
And in the places where power still clung to the old temples, those rumors turned to fear.
In the fortress-city of Velhar, high priests argued by candlelight.
"The red moon burned again," one said. "The Veil stirs. If the Queen's essence has chosen a vessel, the balance will fail."
Another, older voice answered from the shadows.
"Then we must find him. Before he remembers too much."
The candles flared. At their center lay a silver coin of glass—the same kind that had formed in Lysander's fire.
It pulsed once, faintly, like a heartbeat.
Lysander knew none of this.
He walked through the grasslands until the horizon shimmered like a mirror, and every evening he sat watching the sky.
Sometimes, when the wind shifted, he felt Arenne's presence like a thought half-spoken.
Not command. Not guidance. Just a warmth that reminded him he was not alone.
That night, he reached a village built beside the remnants of an ancient wall.
The people were kind. They gave him wine, bread, and stories of how the moon had once been red.
An old woman pressed a ring into his palm.
"It was said the Queen wore one like this when she chose to walk among mortals," she said.
"It's nothing but metal now, but… keep it. It remembers."
He thanked her, though when he slipped the ring on, a tremor ran through the ground.
Later, as he slept, he dreamed of the wall beside which the village was built.
It was not stone but bone, carved with names that glowed faintly beneath the moon.
And beyond it, a vast shape moved—tall as a tower, cloaked in shadow, its eyes like dying stars.
It spoke in a voice that made the air vibrate.
You carry her echo. Do you even know what it costs the world for memory to live again?
Lysander tried to answer, but the dream folded around him.
When he woke, the sun was still rising—but the ring on his finger was warm, and the sky to the north shimmered crimson for an instant before turning blue.
He left the village quietly that morning.
As he walked, the rhythm in his chest—the double heartbeat—grew louder, no longer only inside him but in the earth itself.
When he paused beside a stream to drink, his reflection wavered.
For a breath, Arenne's face looked back at him, eyes serene.
"They will come for you," she said softly.
"They fear what they do not understand."
"Who?" he asked.
"Those who still worship the silence I broke. But don't run from them. Listen. Every voice, even fear, is part of remembrance."
Then the image faded, leaving only the water's quiet murmur.
By dusk, riders had found him.
Six in all—cloaked, bearing the mark of the old priesthood.
Their leader dismounted, silver armor gleaming dull under the fading sun.
"You carry the moon's taint," she said. "You will come with us."
Lysander stood calm. "I carry no taint. Only a memory."
"That is worse," she replied, drawing her blade. "Memories remake the world."
He looked at her—not angry, only tired.
"Then perhaps it's time the world remembered kindness."
The grass around them stirred.
Light rose from the ground like mist.
The riders' horses panicked, backing away.
When the light faded, the blade in the woman's hand had turned to silver dust.
She stared at him, trembling. "What are you?"
Lysander's answer was quiet. "Something between forgetting and forgiveness."
He left them unharmed, their fear trailing him like smoke.
And that night, as he camped beneath a stand of willow trees, he wrote one line in his journal before sleep took him:
The Queen was never gone. She only changed her shape.
Far away, in the ruins of Velhar's temple, the high priests gathered around their circle of light.
The coin of glass pulsed again—brighter now.
One of them whispered, "He's awakened the seed."
The eldest turned his face toward the moon.
"Then the age of stillness is ending," he said. "And the Queen will walk again—through him."