He didn't ask her to wait, she wouldn't have even if he did ask, anyway. So he stood, took her advice, and followed her.
She moved faster than he'd expected, but it was understandable, given his current state.
She went farther away from him with each step, but he continued struggling to catch up.
Her boots were soft against the broken ground, her cloak brushing past hanging vines. The fog parted around her as if it were used to her presence.
He limped, slower with every step, dragging pain up his leg. His ankle was sore, now swollen tight, but he didn't stop moving.
Something about her made him feel safer—not really, but close enough, and the pain was easier to ignore with her around.
They continued walking without speaking. The silence was strange, like the empty woods he found himself in.
Eventually, the trees thinned out again, and the path opened into a forgotten glade, stone ruins peeking from beneath mud-covered weeds.
Broken columns leaned sideways like old giants. A crumbling arch stood at the far end, half-swallowed by roots. The air was still heavy with the stench of dead bodies, but it didn't matter much anymore.
She stopped just ahead of him, glancing back at him once. Then she sat on a chunk of moss-covered stone, her sword balanced across her knees.
He limped toward where she was and sat opposite her, his knees weak from the continuous walk, hands trembling slightly as they rested on his lap.
He exhaled slowly. "That was new," he said finally.
She looked up at him, still silent.
"The wolves," he added. "I've seen Spectral Wolves before, they're sure, tough, definitely, but those weren't the same."
"Of course they weren't," she answered. "What you fought weren't true Spectral Wolves."
He frowned. "Then what were they?"
"Things that should have been dead a long time ago but decided to continue preying on the weak and helpless," she continued.
The words hurt him, but she wasn't lying about him being helpless.
"They emerged after the change."
"Change?" he asked.
She didn't answer at first. She stared past him into the mist, as if she were reminiscing something distant.
Then she answered, "You have seen it already, haven't you?"
"The land cracking, the trees rotting, the Emberlights dimming."
He nodded. "Yes, I have," he said, pain still evident in his voice.
"That's the change," she said.
He shivered—not from cold, though, but from the weight in her voice. Like the words she spoke carried more than they should.
"You knew they'd come?" he asked, holding his side.
"I knew something was going to happen," she paused. "I felt it."
That didn't really make any sense to him, but he didn't press.
She looked down at the sword on her lap, tracing the dull edge with her gloved finger as if she were a child.
Her voice came softer. "My name is Veyla. What's yours?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but then paused.
Her eyes lifted, waiting for a response, but he couldn't quite remember what it was.
His name was something he knew, but it felt just out of reach, like the word was on the tip of his tongue. He felt the weight but couldn't remember the sound or the letters.
He swallowed hard, then answered, "I don't think I remember mine."
Her head tilted slightly. "You don't feel like sharing it?"
"No, I mean... I can't. I can't remember it."
He turned his hand over, the rune still pulsing faintly, the same ember-red glow.
"After I messed up," he said, "everything went quiet. I woke up here. I'm sure I had a name before, but I can't just get my hands on it."
She narrowed her eyes, her gaze flicking to the rune. "That doesn't seem normal," she said under her breath.
"For real, it doesn't make any sense."
"Did you communicate with a Keeper about this?"
He shook his head slowly. "I am without a Flame Keeper."
Veyla shifted slightly at his response.
"I found a Site of Grace on my way," he continued, "it fizzled out like it saw me but didn't care."
"That's not supposed to happen," she said.
He gave her a flat look. "Starting to get the feeling that none of this is supposed to happen."
She leaned back slightly, arms crossing over her chest, her face unreadable.
"It means you're not supposed to be here," she said finally. "You have the mark, but you don't belong to any Flame. You weren't born in this cycle, and you weren't Called, either."
"Okay?" he muttered. "So, what am I, then?"
"That's what I'm trying to decide," she answered.
He laughed sarcastically. "Very helpful."
"You claimed to be familiar with Spectral Wolves, but you weren't raised here"
He hesitated, then answered, "To be honest, I played the game."
She blinked in confusion but allowed him to continue.
"This world," he intoned, "was all just a game to me. I played it, sure, knew the names of the monsters, their classes, their lore. But that's all it was to me—just names on a wiki. A build game made by developers, a story stitched into boss fights."
Veyla didn't speak. She didn't blink either, just stared at him.
He laughed again, more out of breath than humor. "I accepted a rank, and then I woke up here. Wearing this weird rune, holding it like it meant something."
He looked at it again. The thing pulsed slowly.
"I thought it was all a dream, or that I was dead, maybe, but then I bled when I was attacked. Then those monsters almost ripped me apart, and that's when it all became real to me."
She studied him for a while, trying to make out whether he was lying or he was mad, maybe both.
"And you decided to follow me. Why?" she said.
"Didn't have a lot of options," he muttered.
"You don't belong to Grace," she said, as if it were a fact. "It didn't summon you, nor did any of its enemies select you."
She stood, her cloak shifting with the fog.
"You're a crack in the pattern, a tear in the cycle."
He stood up as well, just slower, his ankle still screaming with pain. "So, what does that make me?"
Her eyes met his—sharp, cold, and honest. She responded:
"A hex," she answered.
He gazed at her. "A what?"
"That's what I'll call you until you remember what your name is," she said. "You're not a Cinder, not yet. You haven't earned it."
He didn't argue—didn't have the strength or words to.
The silence stretched between them again, but it was softer now.
Then, she turned to him. "Come on. We don't stay in one place for too long after dusk, not out here."
He limped after her, the ruins fading behind them. Ash fell like snow through the fog.
"Veyla," he called out as they walked.
She glanced back at him.
"Why did you help me?"
She faced forward again. "Because you're not the only one who doesn't belong."