The moon above Wushan had waned to a silver sliver, its glow like a blade cleaving the veil of mist that rolled over the hills. Elwin stood on the outskirts of the border town, where the fading lanterns gave way to the encroaching wilderness—the threshold of the Boundless Mire. He had spent three nights gathering information, piecing together faded rumors and half-truths from travelers and vagabonds. Every trail led to the same place.
Aymelle had passed this way.
He could feel it in his bones, as if her presence had stitched itself into the fabric of the land. Her sorrow echoed faintly in the wind, drawn toward a place long shunned by mortals—the Mire, a cursed land said to trap both time and memory. Its bogs swallowed the unprepared, its whispers promised salvation but led to ruin. And yet, Elwin knew this was where he had to go.
At his side, the silver-bladed rapier hummed softly. It had grown warmer to his touch since Wushan—responding, perhaps, to the trail of tears she had left behind. Not literal tears, but fragments of emotion, echoes of grief made manifest. The closer he drew, the heavier they became, as though the Mire fed upon sorrow.
"You're really going in there?"
Elwin turned toward the voice. A cloaked figure leaned against a broken signpost nearby, her voice sharp and clear despite the muffled wind. Her hood was drawn low, but strands of dark auburn hair escaped its edge, framing a face that seemed carved of both strength and weariness.
"I have to," Elwin replied, his tone steady.
The figure scoffed lightly. "Then you're either desperate, or foolish. Probably both."
"Maybe," he said. "But I'm not turning back."
The woman stepped forward, the movement swift but measured. She studied him for a long moment before speaking again. "Name's Meyr. I've been in and out of the Mire more times than most. People call me a guide, though I prefer 'survivor.' If you're going in alone, you won't last."
Elwin narrowed his eyes. "You followed me?"
"No. I was watching the Mire. You just happened to walk into my line of sight." Her lips curled slightly. "You reek of grief. Whatever you're chasing in there, it's already sensed you."
Elwin didn't answer immediately. He glanced past her, toward the dense fog swirling just beyond the crooked trees. "If you know a way through, help me."
"I don't help for free."
"Name your price."
Meyr's gaze didn't waver. "When we come out—if we come out—you tell me what she means to you. The girl."
Elwin tensed. "You know about Aymelle?"
"I know enough. And I've seen what happens to those who follow love into the Mire. It never ends the way they think it will."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Fine."
She gave him a half-smile, cold and fleeting. "Then we move at dawn."
As she turned and walked toward a makeshift camp hidden among the ruins, Elwin remained rooted to the spot. The wind stirred again, and somewhere in the depths of the Mire, a faint cry rang out—not of a beast, but something far more human.
Something familiar.
Aymelle.
He gripped the hilt of his blade.
Wait for me.
The silence of the Crying Remains was absolute—so still, it devoured the echoes of her breath.
Aymelle moved cautiously through the submerged corridors of what had once been a temple—now little more than cracked stone choked by vines, the walls weeping with condensation and time. The air was thick, too heavy for a place so hollow. The deeper she went, the more she could feel it: the weight of mourning not her own, grief ancient and suffocating.
It clung to her skin like oil.
Her tears had stopped hours ago, but her powers stirred restlessly inside her, reacting to the anguish embedded in the stones. The relic she carried—the Tearbound Amulet—had begun to hum faintly again, its crystalline core pulsating with a soft light whenever she drew near certain carvings.
She paused before one such symbol now—an emblem half-drowned in shadow, depicting two interlocked figures. One wept openly, the other held a sword through their chest, yet both had identical faces.
"Sacrifice… to preserve the soul," she murmured, tracing the image.
The moment her fingers touched the stone, the ground trembled. Faint ripples broke the still surface of the water at her feet.
And then—whispers.
Countless, overlapping voices spilled from the dark, rising like mist.
You should not be here… You are bound to weep… Your tears shall birth us again…
"No," Aymelle whispered, stepping back. Her pulse quickened, but she didn't run. She couldn't. She wouldn't. Not this time.
The water churned. From the black pool ahead, a shape began to rise.
Another Crying Remain.
Unlike the malformed one she had faced before, this creature seemed almost human—a woman, cloaked in rotted silk and veiled in long, wet strands of hair. Her arms were bound with iron bands, her eyes weeping not tears, but ink.
And yet, Aymelle felt no malice in it—only grief, overwhelming and pure.
"You…" she whispered, heart pounding. "What are you?"
The creature did not answer in words. Instead, it extended one hand—its touch a breath from her cheek. And then Aymelle felt it.
Not pain. Not rage.
But a memory.
A child abandoned at the edge of the Mire. A voice promising return. A promise broken by war.
The sorrow was so raw, so immense, that her knees buckled.
The amulet at her neck blazed.
"No… I won't let you be lost again."
Power surged from her, unbidden—a pulse of tearlight erupting from her chest, casting the chamber in radiant silver. The creature howled—not in rage, but release—and its form dissolved into thousands of motes, like stars scattered across the sea.
Aymelle collapsed to one knee, gasping.
And in that moment, she saw it.
A vision—brief, flickering.
A man with silver hair, stepping into a swamp wrapped in moonlight. A woman beside him with fire in her eyes.
Elwin… and someone else…?
The vision vanished. The air stilled.
But something had changed.
Aymelle looked down at her hand. A mark had formed over her palm—an eye, weeping a single drop.
The Second Seal had awakened.
And she was no longer just fleeing the past.
She was walking into it.
The air grew colder.
Aymelle pressed forward through the mist-shrouded path, the stone beneath her feet slick with condensation. The walls of the abyss pulsed faintly with residual sorrow, as if the very stones had once wept. Her cloak clung to her body, heavy with moisture, yet she didn't falter. The deeper she ventured, the more the whispers of the fallen intensified—memories without voices, emotions without form. The "Crying Remains" were everywhere, invisible yet suffocating, pressing against her heart.
A tremor ran through the ground.
She froze. Not far ahead, the shadows twisted and parted—something moved. Not one of the faceless, screaming husks she had fought earlier. This presence was calmer, quieter… but no less dangerous.
From the fog, a figure emerged.
He was tall and slender, clad in tattered robes that fluttered slightly despite the stillness. His face was partially obscured by a cracked porcelain mask etched with unfamiliar runes, a single crimson teardrop painted beneath one eye. Silver-white hair spilled from beneath a hood, brushing his shoulders like flowing moonlight.
Aymelle raised her hand instinctively, channeling the tear-born light that now responded to her emotions. But before she could speak, the stranger tilted his head and spoke—not with hostility, but with something colder.
"Are you the one who stirs the Remains?"
His voice was clear, steady. Not cruel, but ancient—like one who had been wandering for far too long.
Aymelle kept her distance. "Who are you?"
The man did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped aside, revealing a shattered monument half-buried in the earth behind him. Its inscription had long been worn away, but the aura it gave off made her shudder.
He finally answered. "I am called Meyr. A watcher. A trespasser. A remnant." His gaze settled on her. "But I think… you might be the first hope I've seen in a long time."
Meyr's words struck something within her. The Remains around them seemed to still, as if watching the exchange.
Aymelle lowered her hand slightly, wary but curious. "Why are you here? In this cursed place?"
"I came searching for something long lost," Meyr replied. "Or perhaps... someone. But unlike you, I forgot what I was searching for. That's what this place does. It feeds on memory and sorrow until you no longer know which belongs to you."
He took a step closer. "But you… you still remember your sorrow. You carry it like a blade."
Aymelle's eyes widened slightly. His words echoed what Elwin once told her during their training. "Sorrow sharpens you, Aymelle. It's a wound, yes—but one that can teach your heart how to cut through the dark."
"I have to find someone," she whispered. "Someone who matters more than anything."
Meyr's expression did not change, but there was a flicker in his eyes behind the mask.
"Then hold fast to that memory," he said quietly. "Or this place will take it from you."
Without warning, the mist behind Meyr shifted—and from its depths rose a monstrous silhouette. A Crying Remain, larger than any she had faced, its body composed of fused sorrow and forgotten memories. A face writhed across its torso—multiple faces, all screaming silently in agony.
Aymelle stepped forward, her hands already aglow with the light of tears.
"Stay back," she said.
Meyr remained still, his voice low. "This one won't fall easily. It's been feeding for decades."
"I'll handle it," she said, more to herself than him.
The air trembled. The creature roared—and Aymelle launched forward, tear-light forming wings along her back, her steps weightless.
The battle began—not just against the creature, but against the grief it tried to push into her heart. Every blow it landed screamed with memories of pain, every strike she delivered echoed with her will to endure.
Meyr watched from the sidelines, unmoving.
And slowly, silently, the cracked mask upon his face began to weep.
The air beneath the cursed chasm turned frigid, not from the natural cold, but from something ancient and watching.
Aymelle descended further into the darkness of the Crying Remains, her bare feet tracing the path lit by glimmering tears embedded in the walls—silent remnants of those who had once wept and vanished. The whispers of forgotten souls surrounded her, brushing against her skin like thin silk soaked in sorrow. The further she went, the more her heartbeat synchronized with the pulse of the cavern.
Until it stopped.
A figure stood at the very edge of the abyss—a lone silhouette, half-shrouded in shadows, half-illuminated by the weeping light.
Aymelle's breath caught. This presence was different. Not like the mindless Crying Remains she had fought, nor like the cursed souls she had felt. This one… was watching. Aware.
"You're not one of them," Aymelle said quietly, gripping the haft of her staff.
The figure did not answer at first. The air trembled as if even silence bowed to his presence. Then came a voice, smooth as falling ash, yet laced with something weary and ancient.
"No. But I have stood among them for far too long."
He stepped into the dim light. His cloak was frayed and layered, stitched with faded sigils. Hair like silver ashes framed his face, and one of his eyes was covered by a cracked lens, the other glowing faintly—a dim, ghostly violet.
"I have waited," he continued, tilting his head. "Waited for the one whose tears are not of grief alone... but of defiance."
"You're… Meyr," she whispered, not sure how she knew the name—but it echoed from deep within her tears.
A faint smile crossed his lips, melancholic and brief. "So even the tears remember me. Then there is still hope."
Meyr extended his hand slowly. "This place was not always cursed. Once, it was a sanctum for those who bore the burden of the Tearborne. We preserved the memories of the world. Until the 'weeping' began… and the Remains were born."
"You know of them?"
"I helped create them."
The words struck like a blow. Aymelle's grip tightened, her body flinching back. "Why?"
Meyr did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the flowing lines of light on the cavern floor—etched in circular patterns like ancient runes, all leading to a dormant seal at the center.
"I sought to preserve sorrow… and in doing so, imprisoned it. But sorrow, when trapped, festers. The Crying Remains are born not of death, but of forgotten mourning—tears that had nowhere to go."
He looked at her, his voice softening. "And now, they gather… not just in memory, but in hunger."
A low rumble echoed through the stone beneath them, like a distant scream swallowed by the abyss.
"They're waking," Aymelle murmured.
"They sense you," Meyr said. "You are the Tearborne Awakener. Your presence stirs what should never have risen. But it is not too late. Not yet."
"What do I need to do?"
"You must reach the Heart of the Remains," Meyr said, stepping closer. "And release what we failed to mourn. But beware, Aymelle—at the center lies the First Weeping… the origin. And it will try to consume even your light."
Before she could respond, the walls shook. Cracks split the sigils. A wave of chilling wails roared from the chasm behind Meyr, and shadows began to slither upward like hands from a forgotten grave.
"They're here."
Meyr turned, drawing a blade made of fractured crystal and broken steel.
"Then let us weep… and fight."
Aymelle's tears shimmered, not from fear, but from resolve. Her power surged again, stronger than before—wings of luminous sorrow blooming behind her as she took her stance beside Meyr.
Together, they faced the Remains.
And the deep began to scream.
The Crying Remains came like a tide of shadows—twisting, shrieking, crawling from every crevice and tear-etched rift. Some had humanoid forms, hollowed and skeletal, their faces blurred by constant weeping. Others were nothing more than clawed silhouettes, birthed from pain too deep to shape. They moved not by will, but by grief.
Aymelle stood firm, her staff aglow with weeping light. Beside her, Meyr moved with ghostlike precision, his crystalline blade humming with unspoken sorrow. They clashed against the Remains in unison—light and shadow twirling through a dance of resistance.
Each strike from Aymelle sent waves of tear energy rippling through the cavern. With every motion, her memories surged—Elwin's smile, the monastery's bell, the warmth of the sunlit library—all crystallized into strength. She no longer cried in silence. Her tears had purpose.
But the deeper they fought, the more the cavern changed.
The walls began to pulse like a living thing, veins of corrupted sorrow glowing a sickly blue. The Remains no longer came at random. They began to converge, form, combine.
Meyr stepped in front of her suddenly, slashing through a malformed beast that had melded with three others. "They're reacting to your presence. You're awakening something far beneath us."
Aymelle gasped, her knees trembling. "I feel it… calling."
"The First Weeping," Meyr said grimly. "The one sorrow that was never buried… never understood. It lies at the core of the Crying Remains."
"And if I reach it?"
"You may awaken what we sealed—an entity born from collective despair, bound by a pact the world has long forgotten."
A rumble surged beneath them. In the center of the chamber, the ancient sigil Meyr had shown her earlier burst open, revealing a spiral staircase descending into black fog. A cold wind, soaked with tears, wailed up through the passage.
"We're close," Meyr said. "But there's something you must understand before we descend."
He turned to her, serious now—not as a warrior, but as a witness.
"You are not the first Tearborne, Aymelle. But you may be the last. Those before you… perished before reaching the First Weeping. Some turned into the very Remains they sought to cleanse."
Aymelle's breath caught.
Meyr placed a hand over her shoulder, gentle but firm. "I won't let that happen to you. But you must be ready to let go. Not just of grief… but of the person you once were."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
But before he could answer, a shriek unlike any they had heard pierced the chamber. A massive figure surged from the fog—a towering Remain with six arms, chained eyes, and a crown of rusted thorns. Its presence made the air curdle.
Meyr shoved Aymelle back. "Go down! I'll hold this one off!"
"No! We fight together!"
He smiled faintly. "You've already awakened more than I ever did. You're the only one who can reach the truth."
Aymelle hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding. Her tears flowed again, guiding her as she dashed toward the spiral descent, the cries of Meyr and the monster's roar echoing behind her.
Each step into the darkness below felt heavier. The very air seemed to mourn her arrival.
Yet in her chest, the tears burned brighter.
The descent had begun.