The world was quiet again.
I was on my back, elbows scraped, breath burning. The girl lay in my arms where we'd landed, light as a coat and colder than the rain. Above us the sky was whole—no crack, no glow—just the Yellow Moon starting to push through the clouds, slow as a bruise spreading.
The rift was gone. No proof it had ever been there but the ringing in my ears and the ache in my ribs.
I shifted, easing her onto a patch of clean stone. Her head lolled, a strand of pale hair dragged across her cheek. Up close, she didn't look like anyone from Duskfall—skin too clear, nails trimmed and neat, not a single scar on her hands. Her clothes were thin, seamless—not stitched by a tired neighbor in a lamplight, not patched a dozen times to survive the rain.
Her pulse was steady against my fingers. That shouldn't have been possible. People don't fall out of the sky and live.
Something slid out of her pocket and tapped the stone beside us—a flat rectangle of black glass. No rune lines. No bone inlay. It didn't even hum. I picked it up and the surface flashed once, then died, reflecting the moon like a small, fake sky.
"Great," I muttered. "A useless mirror."
Her eyelids twitched. A breath hitched, then another. She opened her eyes—gray-blue, sharp even through the daze—and recoiled like I'd burned her.
She was awake all at once. "Don't touch me!"
I raised both hands. "You fell. I caught you."
She shoved at my chest anyway, scrambling back until her shoulders hit a low wall. "Where am I?"
"Evervale," I said. "First layer."
Her mouth opened, then closed. "That's not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be."
She glanced around—the cracked street, the leaning chimney stack, the marrow-lamps casting that sick blue halo through fog—and I watched it hit her. She went still in the way people do when the floor drops out from under their thoughts.
"I… I was just walking," she said, voice fraying. "Blue hour. The transit lights were on. Then the air—split. I saw—"
"Colors." I heard my own voice and didn't recognize it. "Like glass breaking."
Her head snapped toward me. "You saw it too."
"I saw enough." The words felt dry. My coat was soaked. My palms shook. "What's your name?"
She hesitated. Something like suspicion flickered across her face. "Isabella Solder."
"Dagian."
We stared at each other like that for a beat. Fog drew a line between us and the rest of the city. Somewhere distant, a door slammed and kept being distant. The smell of ozone still clung to everything.
She hugged her arms around herself. "This isn't… Astren."
"You're from the third layer," I said, and it came out flatter than I meant.
She flinched at the word. "Yes."
Of course she was. No one down here owned fabric that clean.
Her gaze skittered back to the sky, then to me. "What is this place? Why is it so dark?"
"It's always night down here." I stood, every muscle complaining. "You're in Duskfall. We live under moons, not suns."
"That's not—" She stopped, breath shaking. "I fell," she said, like she didn't trust the memory unless she said it out loud. "I remember… light. Windows. Worlds beside each other. Like mirrors touching. I saw one burning. I saw one that felt—alive. And then I was here."
Alive. The word crawled under my skin. I didn't ask what she meant. I didn't want to hear it twice.
"Are you hurt?" I asked instead.
"I don't think so." She looked down at her hands, palms uncut. She looked confused that they were uncut. "Did—did you actually catch me?"
"Yeah."
She looked at me longer this time, like she was lining up my face with whatever kind of person would do that and not liking the overlap. "Why?"
"Instinct," I said, because the other answer was messy. "And because you were about to turn into soup."
She made a sound that wasn't laughter but also was. Then her eyes landed on the rectangle by her boot. She snatched it up, thumb pressing the side. The glass woke in a soft white glow that made my shoulders tense. Not marrowlight. Not lanternlight. No hum. Just… clean.
She frowned at a small symbol in the corner. "No service." She tried again; the symbol didn't change. "Of course."
"What is that?"
"A phone." She glanced up, saw I didn't have a word for it. "It's—communication. Maps. Music. Everything." Her voice dimmed. "Just not here."
"Everything that doesn't matter," I sounded bitter
She was still shivering. The Yellow had crawled higher; its warmth didn't reach skin. I took off my coat and wrapped it around her before she could argue. The thing swallowed her.
"With what you're wearing," I said, "every patrol in Evervale will spot you from across a field."
She blinked. "I—thanks."
The quiet settled again. Not peaceful. Waiting.
Footsteps drifted toward us through the fog. Faint at first, then more of them. Metal on stone. Boots. Voices behind lantern glass.
The hair on my arms lifted.
"Get up," I said.
Her eyes went wide. "What—"
"Hunters. They saw the light. If they find you like this, they don't ask questions."
She stared at me, then at the coat. "You said—hunters? Like you?"
"Like me," I said, and grabbed her hand. "Move."
I took a narrow alley, the kind that cut between two buildings where the drainage never worked. Our steps drowned in the wet. I kept to the shadow seam where fog pooled deepest and pulled her along. She didn't fight it, not after the second corner; her grip just tightened until it hurt.
We reached a crumbling archway and I flattened us into it, shoulder to wall, breath small. The street we'd been on burned blue with marrow-lamps now, a cleaned-up constellation marching toward the last place the sky had been wrong. Lanterns hissed. I counted helmets. Too many.
"…there," a voice snapped. "I saw it from Alderra's ridge. Whole sky lit like a slit."
"Anything come through?" another asked. "Beast?"
"Looked like a person," a third said. "Or I'm cursed in the head."
"You were cursed in the head before tonight."
Laughter, thin and mean with adrenaline. The kind of laugh people make when they don't want to sound afraid.
A captain's voice cut through. "Sweep this block and the next. Report to the Citadel if you find anything out of place—blood, ash, tools—anything."
"And if it was a person?" someone asked.
"What kind of person falls out of a tear in the world?" the captain said. "If it breathes, bind it. If it doesn't, burn it."
Lanternlight fanned across the mouth of our alley. I felt Isabella's breath on my wrist stutter. I pressed my finger to my lips. She nodded once, hood shadowing her face.
The patrol's edge drifted past like a slow river. I recognized one of them from a previous mission. If he turned his head another inch, he'd see the black of the gap we hid in. He didn't. The fog did its job for once.
When the echoes thinned, I didn't move. I waited through ten heartbeats. Then ten more. Then I let out the breath I was holding and eased us back into motion.
We cut left, then right, then through a patch of broken fencing where grass had beaten wood. I kept the lamps to our backs. The city hummed louder behind us. More patrols. More orders. People shouting about omens. Someone said "Red Moon" like a curse they shouldn't give voice to.
Two blocks later, I finally stopped under a collapsed awning and let her go. She didn't drop my hand at first. When she realized she hadn't, she did, too quickly.
She pulled the coat tighter. "They would have… if they found me…"
"They would've made sure you never climbed high enough to be a problem," I said. "Or they would've handed you to someone who knows what to do with problems."
She absorbed that in silence. The coat's collar swallowed her mouth and half her nose. Her eyes were all that moved.
After a moment: "Why are you helping me?"
The question shouldn't have made me angry. It did anyway. I looked past her, at the lamps jerking through fog like fish under ice. At the city that only breathed because people like me threw dead things on its fires. At the sky that had dared to open.
"Because I want to know what the world above mine looks like," I said.
She studied my face. I didn't look away.
"And because you'd be dead already if I left you," I added, which was true and easier.
A beat. Then she nodded, small. "Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay I'll… do what you say." The corner of her mouth twitched like she hated saying it. "For now."
"Good enough." I scanned the alley's opposite end. Clear. The Yellow was higher, painting the fog a tea-stain color. That meant shift change soon; patrol routes would thicken before they thinned. We had a window, not a door.
I shrugged out the rest of my coat and refitted it around her properly, tugging the hood low. My fingers brushed that pale hair, it didn't feel real. I cinched the belt to hide the clean lines of whatever she wore underneath.
"Keep your head down," I said. "Don't talk unless I tell you to. If I stop, you stop."
"I'm not a child."
"Pretend you are."
She glared. "Does that work on people here?"
"Nothing works on people here." I jerked my head. "Come on."
We moved again, cutting between buildings that leaned into each other like drunks. A stray dog watched us from a porch with its head on its paws and didn't bark. Laundry lines ghosted overhead; shirts turned to soft flags in the moonlight. Someone had left a bowl of marrow-paste on a window ledge to cool. It steamed in the Yellow glow.
We passed close to the old stone culvert where runoff from Alderra used to pour down like a dirty waterfall. Now it trickled in threads. The smell of that water had raised me. I could smell the difference now: less rot, more metal. Fewer Red Moons. Less fuel. Lights would go out if that kept up, and the guild masters would blame the hunters instead of the sky.
My mind kept going back to the light. The split. The colors. Her silhouette cutting through it like a dropped coin through tar. I didn't have room in my head for awe. I filed it next to fear and called them both "later."
"Dagian," she whispered, and I almost told her to save it, but there was something in the way she said my name that wasn't panic. "Those men… the Hunters. Do you know them?"
"Some."
"If they had found me, what would you have done?"
"Picked a fight I couldn't win," I said, and her eyes got wide like she couldn't tell if I was joking.
"I don't want you to do that."
"Don't give me a reason to."
We hit the edge of the district where the houses thin and the road forgets it's stone. Fog opened its hands and the fields beyond Evervale's ribs showed in strips—the stiff grass silvered by the Yellow. My home sat far enough from here that we could reach it if the patrols stayed busy. The thought surprised me by feeling like relief.
We ducked through a gap in the last wall and paused once more. Behind us the city moved like a sleeping thing with a bad dream. Ahead of us the path cut dark through the field, a vein leading out.
She tugged the coat close and looked back the way we'd come. "They saw the rift too," she said. Not a question.
"Everyone who had a window open did."
"And the beast?" Her face shifted as the memories collided—house, blood, a shape feeding in the dark. She swallowed. "It ran when the sky—"
"It ran." My jaw tightened. "It'll find a hole to rot in and we'll dig it out later."
She nodded once, as if she didn't want to press on that image. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere I can close a door," I said. "Somewhere no one looks unless they have a reason."
"And after that?"
"We make a plan," I said, and heard how thin it sounded. "We figure out how a person falls through the world and lives. We figure out how not to let the wrong people figure it out first."
She fell silent. The Yellow washed her eyes the color of old coins. "I saw those worlds," she said after a while, almost to herself. "I wasn't supposed to. It felt like… like the spaces between them were breathing."
"Don't say that," I said, before I could stop myself.
"Why?"
"Because things that breathe can get hungry."
The wind stirred, and the grass answered in a ripple like scales. That old, wrong quiet pressed in again for a second, then let go.
I looked at her. The coat made her look smaller, but the way she held her chin said she wasn't. She was shaking, but she was moving.
"Stay close," I said.
"I am," she said, and for the first time she didn't sound like she was arguing.
I stepped onto the path. The Yellow Moon hovered, filling the world with a light that wasn't warmth but pretended well. Behind us the patrol calls faded into the fog.
**
The fields stretched for miles, a patchwork of withered grass and stone fences half-swallowed by moss. The fog that blanketed the city didn't reach this far; out here, the air felt thin, almost raw. Each breath burned my lungs in a way I'd forgotten was possible.
The Yellow Moon hung wide and low, its light washing the world in that tired gold hue that meant evening in Duskfall. It never truly rose; it just drifted like a lantern that didn't know when to die out.
Isabella walked beside me in silence for a long while, the hem of my coat brushing her boots. Every so often, she'd glance up at the sky like she was expecting something to fix itself. It never did.
Eventually, she spoke. "It's… quiet."
"It's always quiet once you leave the walls," I said. "Most of the noise comes from people trying not to be alone."
She hugged the coat closer. "And the beasts?"
"They don't like the open ground. No corners to crawl out of. They come from the Pit, and the Pit's back that way." I pointed toward the city's dark outline—its rooftops jagged like broken teeth against the horizon. "They rise from below, not above."
She was quiet again. The moonlight caught in her hair—silver threads glowing faintly against the gold. It looked out of place, too clean for this world.
After a minute, she asked, "How far does Duskfall go?"
"Far enough," I said. "Two layers. Evervale at the bottom, Alderra above it. Both stuck under the same sky."
"And you've never seen beyond them?"
"No one has," I said. "Not unless they were chosen."
"Chosen?" she repeated softly.
"To ascend." The words tasted bitter. "A handful every few years get pulled up to the Third Layer. They say it's reward for service. Truth is, it's a death sentence with better lighting."
Her brow furrowed. "You sound like you've seen it."
"I've seen what happens before it," I said. "How people start talking different once they get the letter. How they stop saying goodbye like it means something."
She didn't ask the name I didn't want to say—my father's—and I didn't offer it.
We kept walking. The grass whispered around our boots. A cluster of bonefire lamps glowed faintly in the distance, marking the last patrol post before the outskirts gave way to nothing. I led her off the main path toward the dirt road I used on longer hunts.
She looked up at the sky again. "You said the moons… change color?"
"They decide everything here," I said. "Blue Moon means day. Yellow means evening, when most people try to sleep if they can. Golden's night, when things get restless. Red…" I paused. "Red means Hunt."
"The Hunt," she echoed. "That's what the Guild does?"
"That's what we all do," I said. "When the Red Moon rises, every Hunter works. The beasts crawl out of the Pit in numbers you can't count. The Guild calls it 'cleansing the veins.' But it's never clean. It's blood and screaming and fire until morning."
"And you do this often?"
"Often enough."
She didn't respond right away. Her steps slowed, crunching softly against the dry dirt. "You said you're a Hunter. How long have you been one?"
"Four years."
"You look older than that."
"I'm only nineteen." I said. "You grow fast when you don't have time to live slow."
She tilted her head. "You don't sound proud of it."
"I'm not."
"Then why do it?"
I looked at her, then away. "Because there's no one else who will."
That ended the conversation for a while. The Yellow Moon climbed higher, washing the road in dim amber light. Crickets—tiny, colorless things that only lived near the surface—sang in the tall grass. For a place so dead, Duskfall had a way of pretending it wasn't.
After a while, she said, "In Astren, we have sunlight."
"Sure you do."
"I'm serious," she said, smiling faintly. "Real sunlight. Warm. Bright enough to make your eyes water. It hurts if you stare too long."
"Sounds unpleasant."
She laughed softly. "It's not. You'd like it, I think."
"Doubt it. I've seen enough fire to last a lifetime."
Her smile faded a bit. "You really hate it here, don't you?"
"I hate what it became," I said. "This place wasn't always like this. My mother says once there were gardens that grew under the Blue Moon, lakes clear enough to see the bottom. Now all we have is ash and rain."
"And yet you stay."
"Someone has to."
Her eyes softened. "You sound like my mother."
"Guess she was smarter than mine," I said, half-smiling.
She gave a quiet laugh at that, then looked back at the horizon. "Astren isn't perfect, you know. We have our own rot. It's just… prettier. Hidden behind glass and lights."
"Must be nice having the choice to hide it."
"I didn't have a choice about falling here," she said, her voice suddenly smaller. "One moment, I was walking home. The next, the world cracked open beneath me. I saw other skies. I thought I was dead."
"You should've been," I said quietly. "People don't fall through the world and live."
She didn't answer. Her grip tightened on the coat's collar.
The silence between us stretched. It wasn't uncomfortable, just heavy. The kind that makes you realize how big the world really is—and how alone you are in it.
Then she stopped walking.
I turned back. "What?"
"The moons," she said, pointing upward. "They're changing."
I followed her gaze. The Yellow Moon shimmered faintly at its edge, threads of pale blue bleeding in, almost like veins forming beneath the surface. Not enough to signal a new cycle—just a flicker.
"That shouldn't happen," I muttered.
"What does it mean?"
"Could mean nothing," I said, though the lie was obvious. "Could mean the rift shook something loose."
She studied the sky like it might open again. "Does it… do that often?"
"No," I said. "The sky's never supposed to break."
We walked again, this time slower. Her breathing steadied as we moved farther from the city. The lamps of Evervale were just pinpricks now, swallowed by fog. But she didn't see it yet. Her eyes were still on the moons.
"They're beautiful," she said softly. "Even if they're wrong."
I looked at her then, at how the moonlight painted her face, soft and unfamiliar against all this ruin. For a second, the bitterness in me quieted.
"You're the first person I've ever met who thinks anything in Duskfall's beautiful," I said.
"Maybe I'm just not used to ugly yet."
"Give it time."
She smiled faintly. "I'll try not to."
The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of rain. The air grew colder, damp enough to raise goosebumps on her skin. I noticed her shiver and offered, "We're close. Just keep walking."
**
From the edge of the field, I could see the faint glow of the Citadel ahead, its towers stabbing through fog like dark fingers reaching for the moons. Around it, Evervale's upper streets wound outward in uneven rings—rows of brick and soot, chimney smoke mixing with marrow-light haze.
My house sat on the last curve before the main avenue leading toward the Citadel. Close enough to hear the bells, far enough to avoid the patrols.
The perfect place to be forgotten.
Isabella trailed behind me, wrapped tight in my coat, the hem dragging against the stones. Her eyes darted to every sound—the whisper of a shutter, the low bark of a marrow hound somewhere far off. The fear in her face wasn't just from the dark; it was the realization that the dark here mattered.
"You live near that thing?" she asked quietly, nodding toward the Citadel's looming shadow.
"Close enough," I said. "Hunters have to report there sometimes."
She looked back at it. "It looks… holy."
"Depends who you ask," I muttered. "They say the Citadel connects to the upper layer—Alderra. The people who work inside swear the air there smells cleaner. I think they just burn better incense."
Her expression flickered somewhere between awe and disbelief, but she didn't argue. We crossed a narrow bridge where the canal below ran black with rainwater and ash. The lamps reflected weakly in its surface, more memory than light.
I turned down the lane where my house stood. It wasn't much—two rooms stacked like one tired thought on top of another. The wood was old, the windows fogged, the roof bent under years of rain. But it was mine.
"This way," I said, motioning to the side gate. "Window's faster."
She blinked. "You really do this often?"
"Too often," I said, prying the frame open. "Keeps Ma from worrying when I'm late."
I climbed through first, landing quietly on the worn boards of my room. The smell of bonefire smoke clung to the air—faint, comforting. I turned back and helped her in. She hesitated on the sill, then slipped through, landing lighter than I expected.
Her eyes swept the space—one bed, a narrow desk covered in notes and empty vials, and the faint glow of marrow-lamps strung along the ceiling. It wasn't much to look at, but it was cleaner than most of Evervale's rooms.
At least I tried.
"This is your house?" she asked softly.
"Home," I said, setting Vireth against the wall. "For now."
She wandered toward the desk, her fingers hovering over a small sketch pinned to the wall—a drawing of a Hunter standing under the Golden Moon. "Did you draw this?"
"My mother did," Walking over to the desk, sitting down on it. "Before her hands started shaking."
"She's still alive?"
"Yeah. Upstairs."
Her face softened. "I'd like to meet her."
"Eventually," I said quickly. "She doesn't need more stress tonight."
Isabella turned, eyes drawn to the wall where my weapon rested.
Vireth.
Even dormant, it radiated faint light—soft blue running along the curved blade, mist bleeding off it like smoke that refused to die. The golden veins that had appeared earlier were gone… almost.
"What is that?" she whispered.
"My Eidolon Arm," I said. "My soul, if you believe the ceremony."
Her brow furrowed. "Your… soul?"
"The weapon a Hunter manifests. We all get one if we survive the rite. They say it's shaped by what's inside you. Fear, hate, love, whatever. You summon it, and it listens."
She stepped closer, eyes wide. "It listens?"
"Not like a voice. More like a feeling. Like a thought that pushes back."
"That's…" She paused, struggling to find a word. "Beautiful."
"Or cursed. Depends on the day."
"May I—" She caught herself mid-sentence. "Never mind."
"Go on," I said.
"May I hold it?"
I raised an eyebrow. "No."
She smiled, a little embarrassed. "You don't trust me."
"It's not about trust. It's about the laws of the soul."
"Please?" she said, the word small but somehow stubborn.
I sighed. "If it kills you, that's on you."
I walked over to Vireth and grabbed it. The air shimmered. Blue light sparked, the blade's energy materializing with a low hum. The energy thrummed against my palms, warm and steady. I turned the handle toward her.
She hesitated, then took it.
The hum died instantly. The glow snapped out, plunging the room into stillness. The weapon went heavy in her hands—so heavy she staggered before it slipped and hit the floor with a metallic thud.
She gasped. "It's… cold."
"Told you." I picked it up again. The instant my fingers brushed the handle, the blade reawakened—blue light blooming like a slow heartbeat.
Only this time, faint gold rippled across the edge again, just for a moment.
Her eyes widened. "It changed."
"It's been doing that lately," I muttered. "Started after the rift."
"What does it mean?"
"I don't know," I said quietly. "And I don't like not knowing."
She stepped back, looking thoughtful instead of afraid. "It reacted to me."
"Or to what you brought with you," I said, resting the scythe against the wall. "Either way, it's never done that before."
For a while, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint creak of the roof beams and the muffled drip of rain outside. The silence wasn't heavy, though—it just was.
Finally, she broke it. "You said it's called an Eidolon Arm. What does yours mean?"
I hesitated. "They say the shape reveals what your soul hides. Scythes are supposed to represent release… or loss."
She looked at me then, eyes steady and sad. "You lost someone."
I didn't answer. I didn't have to.
Her gaze softened, and she nodded as if understanding what I wouldn't say. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Loss is the only thing that keeps this world running."
She didn't argue, but I could tell she wanted to. Instead, she sat quietly by the window, pulling the coat tighter around herself as the rain started to fall. The glass fogged with her breath, the Yellow Moon blurring behind it like a fading lantern.
"Dagian," she said after a while.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not leaving me."
I exhaled through my nose. "Didn't do it for you."
"I know," she said softly. "But thank you anyway."
Her voice carried something I wasn't ready to hear. Gratitude. Maybe belief.
I looked at Vireth, still pulsing faintly beside the wall. The gold veins flared once more, dim but unmistakable.
The rain had started to soften against the roof — slow, steady drips that filled the silence like a rhythm meant to calm everything it touched. The Yellow Moon hung behind the clouds, turning the window light dim and syrup-thick. Isabella sat cross-legged on the floor, tracing the faint cracks in the wood while Vireth's glow pulsed quietly near the wall.
I'd almost forgotten how small the room was with someone else in it.
"You should sleep," I muttered, rubbing at my eyes. "You look like you haven't blinked since you fell."
She smiled weakly. "You keep saying that word like it was my choice."
I was about to reply when a knock came — three light taps on the door.
My heart skipped.
"Dagian?"
Ma.
Her voice was softer than usual, worn but still carrying that quiet sharpness that could cut through walls.
"Everything okay in there?" she asked.
I swore under my breath, stood up fast, and motioned to Isabella. "Stay quiet."
But before I could even think of an excuse, the door creaked open a few inches, and Ma peered in. Her eyes, tired and lined with illness, darted between me and Isabella — who froze mid-breath.
For a second, none of us said anything. Then Ma blinked. "Dagian," she said slowly, "Why is there a girl in your room?"
I scratched the back of my neck. "...She fell from the sky."
Isabella whipped her head toward me, eyes wide. "What?" she hissed.
I shrugged. "You did."
Ma blinked again, then let out the faintest laugh, the kind that carried both disbelief and resignation. "I've been alive too long for you to start telling fairy tales."
"It's true," Isabella said suddenly. "I—uh—I'm not from here."
Ma looked at her, really looked, and for a brief second I saw the recognition in her eyes — that she could tell Isabella didn't belong. The coat, the clean skin, the strange energy that followed her.
My mother leaned against the doorframe, breathing slow. "Not from here," she repeated softly. "Well… you certainly don't look like it."
"Ma," I cut in, trying to sound calm, "I was on patrol. There was a rift — blue light everywhere. She fell through it before it closed. I caught her before she hit the ground."
Ma's gaze lingered on me, seeing through the lie I hadn't even told yet. "And you brought her here," she said.
"I couldn't just leave her."
"You could've," she said gently.
Isabella looked down, guilt flickering across her face. "I can leave if—"
"Don't be ridiculous," Ma interrupted. "You'll catch the fever in less than a night out there."
She smiled, faint but warm. "Come downstairs, both of you. I was just about to put the kettle on."
"Ma—"
"Dagian," she said, cutting me off with that tone that used to stop me mid-tantrum when I was ten. "It's been too long since we had a guest."
I sighed. "Fine."
**
We stepped into the narrow kitchen. The air smelled faintly of herbs and marrow-ash, though Ma had tried to cover it with mint leaves drying on the counter. She moved slower than she used to — her hands shaking slightly as she poured water into a small pot — but she smiled through it, pretending not to notice my worried stare.
Isabella lingered near the doorway, awkward but polite, her wide eyes tracing every corner of the home like it was some museum exhibit of poverty.
"You can sit," Ma said, motioning to the old wooden table.
"Thank you," Isabella said softly, slipping into a chair.
Ma turned to me. "And you — make yourself useful. You're better with the knife than I am these days."
I groaned, but grabbed the old blade from the counter. Its handle was cracked, the edge dull, but it worked. I started cutting a few roots from the basket, their scent sharp enough to sting my nose.
"You cook often?" Isabella asked.
"More than I'd like," I said. "Less than I should."
"That's an honest answer," Ma said, stirring the pot with a faint smile.
"It's the only kind I have left," I muttered.
"He doesn't talk much, does he?" Isabella asked her, half-teasing.
"Oh, he talks plenty," Ma said, amused. "Just never about what matters."
I shot her a look. She only smirked.
The silence that followed was soft — not heavy like before, just human. The kind that fills small rooms and makes them feel alive.
Ma served the stew when it was done, thin but warm, the kind that tried its best to taste like something. Isabella held the bowl carefully, her hands trembling a little.
"Thank you," she said again.
Ma waved her off. "Eat. Talking can wait."
We did. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of spoons against ceramic, the faint hiss of rain outside, and the low creak of the roof settling.
When Ma finally spoke again, her voice had gone quieter. "Dagian," she said, "what will you do with her?"
I froze mid-bite.
"I haven't decided," I said. "For now, I'll keep her hidden. The Guild can't know."
"And after?"
I hesitated, staring down at the reflection of the Yellow Moon in the surface of my stew. "After… I'll figure it out."
Ma studied me for a long moment before nodding. "You always do."
**
Later, when Ma went upstairs to rest, the house grew still again. Isabella leaned against the counter, watching me clean up.
"She's kind," she said quietly.
"She's tired," I replied. "Kindness costs less than fighting."
"She didn't even question me."
"She's seen worse things than a stranger falling from the sky."
Isabella looked at the floor. "I'm sorry if this causes you trouble."
"It already has," I said, stacking the bowls. "But that's not why I'm doing this."
She looked up. "Then why?"
I paused, the knife still in my hand, its reflection catching the faint glow from the marrow lamp. The answer came out slower than I expected.
"Because I think you might know something," I said. "Something about the world above this one. About what happens when people leave."
"My father," I said. "He was a Hunter. Twelve years ago, after the Death Hunt ended, he was chosen to ascend to your world. Never came back."
Isabella's face softened. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," I muttered, setting the knife down. "I don't want pity. I want answers."
The rain hit the window harder now, louder, steady — like a heartbeat syncing with mine.
"If you really came from the Third Layer," I said, meeting her eyes, "then maybe you can tell me what kind of world takes people away and never looks back."
She didn't reply right away. Her gaze fell to the knife between us — its edge dull but catching the moonlight anyway.
"I don't know everything," she whispered. "But if there's a way to find out, I'll help you."
I nodded once, slow and steady. "Good."
The knife gleamed again as I picked it up to dry it. For a moment, I could see my reflection warped across the blade — tired eyes, a worn face, and somewhere deep behind that, the faintest shimmer of gold.
If this is the way I find him…
Then so be it.