Night deepened over Vanhart estate like ink soaking into parchment.
The corridors grew silent one by one, torches guttering into faint orange embers. Wind whispered against shuttered windows, carrying the cold scent of weary earth and distant pine. Snow continued to fall—not in a rush, but in slow, deliberate descent, like ash from a long-forgotten pyre.
Kel walked alone.
His stride was neither hurried nor lazy; it simply existed with purpose. The oil lamps along the corridor cast light that touched him without claiming him. Each step was soundless despite the age of the stone beneath him, as if the hallway itself had learned to accommodate his presence.
He reached his room and closed the door behind him with a soft click.
The chamber was modest for a noble guest—stone walls, a single wooden bed draped in thick fur, a desk, a small stove glowing faintly with leftover heat. Moonlight spilled through the window, pooling silver across the floor.
Kel removed his coat and folded it neatly onto the chair beside the desk. Loose strands of hair fell across his eyes. He did not brush them away.
He sat on the bed.
The mattress dipped lightly beneath him.
The room breathed with him once.
Then—
Kel spoke.
His voice was low but carried like a thread of steel.
"Come forth, Zephryn."
The light in the room did not change.
There was no gust of wind.
Not even a whisper.
Only the shadows shifted… almost imperceptibly.
From the corner where the moonlight did not quite reach, a figure detached itself from darkness. A man—long coat of muted gray, eyes unreadable beneath hooded lids, movements so precise they barely disrupted the air.
He knelt on one knee, one hand across his chest.
"Young master," Zephryn said softly, head bowed. "What is your command?"
Kel studied him.
The only sound in the room for a heartbeat was the soft crackle of dying flames.
Then Kel reached to his left and lifted the leather-bound dossier Count Vanhart had entrusted him with—the compiled evidence of Rodrik Vanhart's experiments, testimonies, sealed and half-sealed inquiries that vanished into political silence.
Kel offered it forward.
Zephryn accepted without question.
Not even the faintest rustle of parchment.
"Take these," Kel said. "Deliver them to my father immediately."
Zephryn's expression did not change, but his posture deepened in acknowledgment.
"When His Grace reads them," Kel continued, gaze unwavering, "he will know what must be done. You will wait for his written permission."
A pause.
The next words carried just a fraction more gravity.
"Once he signs," Kel said, "send word to me. Directly. No detours."
Zephryn looked up, meeting Kel's eyes without raising his head.
"As you command."
He rose.
Kel's voice cut the air one last time as Zephryn turned toward the window.
"Zephryn."
The man stopped.
Without turning.
Kel's eyes narrowed.
"Use the route that bypasses council interception," he said quietly.
Zephryn breathed once.
"As expected," he replied. "I had already decided to."
Without further exchange, he approached the window.
He did not open it.
He simply stepped toward it—
and vanished into the cold dark beyond glass and moonlight.
No sound followed.
Only a faint ripple of presence, as if the shadows themselves bowed before leaving.
Kel remained seated.
He let the silence settle.
His gaze slid toward the window, where fresh snowfall continued to descend.
His reflection stared back faintly on the glass—face half lit by moon, half obscured by shade.
No pain from the curse.
No tremor.
Only the weariness born of motion that never truly ceased.
"…How long," he murmured into the cold air, "have I been walking?"
His voice did not seek an answer.
But one came—quiet, through the link thrumming gently at the back of his thoughts.
"From the moment you refused to die."
Sairen.
Kel breathed slowly.
He looked down at his hands.
They were steady.
Lifted curse.
New foundation.
He had moved through battles, through isolation, through the cold cracking of fate itself.
And now that the path was widening before him…
…he felt the years.
Not physical.
Knowing.
Twenty playthroughs.
One lifetime.
One body.
He let himself lie back on the bed, one arm beneath his head, eyes on the ceiling.
The lamplight flickered.
Shadows moved like waves across wooden beams.
He did not close his eyes.
"Funny," he whispered, voice calm. "In the game, this part was always when I saved."
Sairen's presence stirred faintly.
You do not have that luxury here.
Kel smiled softly.
"Who said I need it?"
Silence.
No answer.
Just the soft weight of night.
He shifted slightly, turning his face toward the window again.
Snow fell.
White on black.
Quiet.
He thought of the journey.
—from cold halls dripping with prophecy, breathing only pain—
—to the breath technique that gave him his first true inhale—
—to the first duel, the first acknowledgment—
—to leaving as a ghost.
—to hunting with strangers who became companions.
—to cold nights beneath uncaring stars.
—to a lake that healed wounds older than memory.
—to a name whispered for the first time in centuries.
—to a contract formed not from power, but from shared loneliness.
—to stepping through mist and realizing he could live.
"…I've walked far," he murmured.
His eyes softened.
"But this is still only winter."
His hair shifted gently against his cheek.
The snow outside thickened.
Tomorrow… everything moves.
behind his closed lids—
He could see the map again.
Harlroot fields.
Hidden waters beneath the land.
A path carved ahead… not by game code.
By his will.
He opened his eyes.
Cold—
but clear.
Tomorrow, he would begin to mend what others had broken.
Tonight…
he allowed himself to feel the weight of having survived enough to do so.
On the desk, a faint tremor moved through the ink jar.
As if something far beneath the land…
had stirred.
No longer cursed.
No longer bound to die.
The boy designed to fall became the one who walks forward.
Kel inhaled slowly.
Exhaled.
Snow kissed the window.
He closed his eyes.
The room fell still.
Only in the shadows where Zephryn once knelt did a faint imprint linger—
Like a signature hidden beneath moonlight.