Kaelen didn't remember walking. Didn't remember falling, either.
But when he opened his eyes, he was lying in the ash.
The land looked wrong. Twisted trees stretched like they were trying to crawl away. Rocks bled color they didn't used to have — sick blues and bruised purples. The air had gone still, but not quiet. There was a low hum beneath everything, like a sound only his bones could hear.
His hands stung. Both were cut, palms raw like he'd been gripping something sharp too tightly. He looked down.
There it was. Smooth and glassy, about the size of a river stone. Almost clear, but with a flicker of light swimming deep inside it — like it was breathing.
The shard.
It pulsed once. His hand tightened around it without thinking.
Some part of him whispered, Don't let go.
He staggered to his feet. The world spun for a moment, then settled into something ugly and real. No sign of the chapel. No sign of Tavrin, Yreya, or Bren.
Just smoke on the horizon where Miretown used to be.
Kaelen started walking. He didn't know where. Just... away. His legs worked, so he moved.
And the shard — it kept pulsing. Not warm. Not cold. Just there. Like it was watching. Or waiting.
He found shelter in the husk of an old mill by the second night. The stars were wrong — he didn't know how, just that they were. Everything felt shifted. Out of place. But he didn't stop. Didn't cry. Didn't think too hard.
That first week was survival. Just that.
Then, on the sixth night, it spoke.
Not in words. Not out loud. But in a feeling — like a pressure blooming in his chest. A question, simple and strange: "Will you open me?"
Kaelen almost dropped it.
But he didn't.
Because deep down, in the pit of his gut, he already knew the answer.
And that scared him more than anything else.