The sky above the marsh remained sealed with a gray pall, thick with haze and low-hanging fog. Sunlight had long forgotten how to break through here. The group moved quietly through the wetlands, boots squelching against mud and moss, the only sound the occasional distant call of unseen creatures and the lazy churn of slow-moving water.
It had been two days since the temple.Two days since the flower.Since the whisper.
Nyxia hadn't spoken much. Her gaze had grown sharper, but her focus seemed pulled sideways. As if she were tracking something no one else could see. The mark on her arm hadn't dimmed—it pulsed faintly beneath her skin, the glow barely visible in daylight. But she could feel it. Crawling under her flesh like a second heartbeat.
"You're twitchier than usual," Boo said, eyeing her from across the trail. "Something wrong?"
Nyxia shook her head. "No."
"Cool. Liar."
They pressed forward through reed-choked paths, the water thinning into trickling veins of bog. A flock of birds burst out of the trees ahead, startled by something. Or nothing.
Nyxia's fingers brushed her arm.The mark shifted under her skin. Just a ripple. Like the Veil was stretching.
She clenched her jaw. "It's just… louder today."
Zhurong glanced back. "The Veil?"
Nyxia nodded once.
Boo squinted. "Still not used to that. Saying 'the Veil' like it's a person."
"What if it is?" Zhurong murmured.
Boo blew a sharp breath through her nose. "Don't start that again."
But Zhurong kept walking. "It speaks through relics. It touches our minds. Picks its favorites. That's not a phenomenon. That's agency."
Nyxia said nothing.
Because the voice had spoken again last night. Not in words. In feeling. In knowing. It didn't give commands—it offered suggestions. Memories. Pieces of something ancient and broken, asking to be remembered.
"Whatever it is," Boo said, brushing aside a low-hanging vine, "it needs to work on its communication skills. Whispers and creepy flowers don't inspire confidence."
A flash of silver caught Nyxia's eye. Movement.She turned.There—beneath the tangled bramble where she'd last left him.
Loque'nahak was gone.
She froze."Stop," she ordered.
Boo and Zhurong halted, hands already drifting toward weapons.
"What is it?" Zhurong asked.
"I left him here," Nyxia said, stepping toward the thicket.
"Left who where?"
"He never moves unless—"
The snap of a twig behind them cut her off.
They turned.
Loque'nahak stood ten paces away, watching them from the edge of the clearing. His silver coat shimmered faintly, runes rippling subtly beneath the fur. He looked untouched by time, sleek and powerful, but his expression…
Judgmental.
He paced toward them, tail swishing with controlled irritation.
Nyxia's heart jumped. "You're okay."
She stepped toward him, but Loque huffed, turned dramatically, and sat facing away.
Boo blinked and asked questioningly, "Is he yours and why does he seem… mad?"
"Yes and he's sulking," Nyxia said flatly.
Zhurong raised an eyebrow. "Did your cat just ignore you on purpose?"
Nyxia knelt beside him. "I didn't forget about you."
Loque flicked an ear and refused to look at her.
"Okay. I waited too long."
Still nothing.
Nyxia sighed and reached out. Loque allowed the touch but shifted just enough to make her effort mildly inconvenient. His tail slapped the mud with theatrical disapproval.
"Oh my gods," Boo muttered, watching with amusement. "He's you."
"He's worse," Nyxia grumbled.
Zhurong crouched to get a better look at him. "Interesting… the fur near his shoulder's still regrowing, but his energy is stable. Stable and… dense."
Loque bared his teeth at Zhurong with a low rumble. Not hostile. Just warning.
Zhurong stood. "Fine. Noted."
They made camp before nightfall beneath the roots of a giant cypress tree, its trunk hollowed and half-sunken, leaving just enough dry space for a fire and a scattering of bedrolls. The humidity clung to their clothes. Distant croaks echoed through the dark.
Loque circled the camp before finally settling down, nose turned away from the fire. But even facing the other direction, his ears flicked toward every sound, every breath. Always listening. Always watching.
"Has he always been like this?" Boo asked Nyxia, untying her boots with a wince.
"He doesn't trust easily," Nyxia replied. "But he's loyal."
"Loyal and moody."
Nyxia almost smiled. "You'd get along."
Zhurong stirred a pot of alchemical broth over the fire, the smell sharp with mossroot and arc spice. "He'll warm up," he said. "Most predators are just protective until they figure out the new hierarchy."
Boo stretched out, one arm behind her head. "Let me know when he stops trying to psychic-blast me with disappointment."
Loque opened one eye, gave her a long, slow blink, and shut it again.
That night, Nyxia woke gasping.
Her breath caught in her throat, not from fear—but from pressure. A heaviness pressed against her chest, not physical, but inside her. The mark on her arm pulsed wildly, glowing even in the darkness of the camp. She sat up quickly, the light vanishing just as fast.
Loque was there beside her. Watching. Tail flicking slowly.
"I'm fine," she whispered. She wasn't sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.
She stood and walked to the edge of the clearing.
The swamp whispered beyond. But something was off. Her reflection in a pool of water didn't move quite right. It blinked a second too late. Its lips curled into a smile she didn't make.
She staggered back.
Zhurong woke to the sound and came to her side, his voice low. "Another vision?"
"No," she said, still shaking. "Not a vision."
"Then what?"
"I think… I think something is inside me."
Loque growled low and stepped between her and the water.
The next morning, Nyxia sat at the edge of camp sharpening her blade. Boo approached with two cups of tea, handing her one.
"You look like someone crawled into your brain and redecorated."
Nyxia said nothing.
Boo sipped. "So. Now that we've both been violated by god-magic… how much do you think we're being manipulated?"
"Entirely."
Boo whistled. "Comforting."
Nyxia glanced at her. "You're not scared?"
"Oh, I'm terrified," Boo said. "But I'm also curious. Which is worse."
They sat in silence.
Then Nyxia added, "I saw Vylira again. Briefly."
"Was she… better?"
"No. She was whispering to something. Not pleading. Not praying. Like… promising."
Boo's jaw tightened. "That's not the kind of redemption arc I was hoping for."
Later that day, they crested a low ridge and saw what looked like a burned glade ahead—trees twisted into spirals, the ground scorched with glyphs half-swallowed by ash.
Zhurong crouched beside one. "These aren't from the cult," he said. "This is something else."
Loque hissed low and bristled.
"What is it?" Nyxia asked.
He stared at the glade and took one careful step back.
"Something died here," Zhurong said. "And something else took its place."
They moved on.
That night, the fire was smaller. Zhurong had used filtered peat and flame-stones to produce a low, steady burn that wouldn't draw attention. The air around them had grown too quiet, like something was listening for them.
They took turns keeping watch. Boo told a story during her shift, half-whispered, about a smuggler queen who married a kraken, just to see what would happen. Zhurong listened with raised brows, while Nyxia just cleaned her weapons in silence.
Eventually, Boo sighed and leaned back on her bedroll.
"You know," she said, "I used to think people were either chosen or forgotten. All that destiny stuff."
Nyxia glanced up.
Boo stared at the stars—or rather, the gray expanse where stars should have been.
"Then I got marked. And now I think maybe being 'chosen' just means getting in the blast radius first."
Zhurong stirred the fire. "Or being able to survive it."
No one answered that.
The next morning, something new greeted them.
A sound—high-pitched, persistent—echoing through the trees. Like a violin string drawn too tight, vibrating in the marrow of the world.
They approached cautiously, and found a clearing where the ground had split apart. From the crack rose fine tendrils of mist, and nestled in the fissure was a flower.
White. Familiar.
This one was wilting.
The petals curled at the edges, darkened by ash. And around its base, etched into the stone like scars, was a single word: "Listen."
Loque growled and backed up immediately.
Nyxia reached out—but this time, it was Zhurong who grabbed her wrist.
"Not again," he said. "Not without knowing what it wants."
Boo knelt beside it and looked closer. "It's dying."
Nyxia frowned. "So what happens when a Veil flower dies?"
Zhurong answered quietly. "Something else blooms."
That night, Nyxia didn't sleep.
She walked again, this time without Loque, but he followed anyway. A silent sentinel in the mist.
She paused at the edge of camp. The wind shifted.
And then, very faintly, she heard it—not the whisper of the Veil, but a voice behind it.
Her voice.Screaming.
And from the dark, another voice rose to meet it. One she'd only heard once before.
Vylira.
"Come find me," the voice said. "Before the others do."
The wind carried that final warning away.
But the silence it left behind screamed louder than any whisper could.