The chapel stood at the edge of the settlement, built from the same dark wood as the rest of the village but shaped with more care, more reverence. Tall spires rose on either side of its sloped roof, and between them, where a cross or statue might have once stood, was only open air. A wide, circular aperture had been carved into the front wall, its edges smooth and clean like something holy had passed through it. It wasn't glass. It wasn't barred.
It was open.
And through it poured the moonlight.
Silver and unbroken, the light stretched across the central aisle of the chapel like a divine path, illuminating the floor in quiet brilliance. Dust motes drifted within it, suspended like prayers unspoken. The pews sat in tidy rows, worn but dignified. A few villagers had already gathered—families, elders, children too young to understand the weight of the world. They all faced forward, where a low wooden pulpit waited, bathed in moonlight.
Elias stood at the back.
He didn't remove his armour or mask. He didn't speak.
Riley, still nestled within the man's perspective, could feel how his heartbeat slowed, and calm filled him.
The service began with soft voices—hymns carried not by melody but by breath, half-whispered, half-remembered. Then the elder stepped forward.
His robes were plain. His voice was steady.
"What a beautiful moon we have tonight," he said. "It has bathed this land in silver for generations, watching over every birth, every death. It has seen joy. And it has seen grief. And yet, it continues its cycle no matter what it's witnessed. Always rising. Always setting."
He paused, eyes sweeping the room.
"Do you know one of the differences between us and the moon?"
He leaned forward.
"There are many differences, of course, but one of the differences between us and the moon… is time."
A hush settled.
"Time is the gift we're given. We don't have forever, but we have enough. The moon has led by example for an age and has shown us how time as a tool can be used."
He turned, glancing toward the open arch where moonlight spilt through—clean and constant, touching the pulpit like a silent benediction.
"Let me be very clear... time is the cure-all. It's a powerful tool. And a powerful healer. No matter what it is—pain, loss, guilt, sorrow—if you are given time… use it."
Elias didn't move.
But Riley felt the words land in his chest like a quiet blow.
The elder's voice dropped to a murmur. "Use it wisely."
The service continued. Prayers rose like smoke. Heads bowed. The moon drifted higher, pouring through the open wall like a witness—unwavering, unjudging, and cold.
And Elias stood there, mask cracked, body pulsing with strength, and hands crossed in front of him, unmoving.
Riley could feel it.
This was a man not running out of time…
******************************
Sunlight pushed through the shutters, pale and slow, like it had no right to be there.
Elias stirred.
Riley felt it before the man even opened his eyes—the heaviness in the limbs, the subtle sting in the ribs, and the creeping heat rising along the cheek. Something pulsed beneath the skin where the dragon's tail had struck. Not quite pain—more like something waking up.
Beside him, Thalia slept, her breathing steady. Her dark hair spilt across the pillow like ink in water. But Riley's gaze was drawn not to her, but to the ring resting on her bedside table.
Delicate. Silver. Engraved with the same unfamiliar script he'd seen in the abandoned town.
The same ring that had been lying in the dirt when this all began.
That can't be a coincidence, he thought.
The sheets rustled. Thalia shifted, blinking herself awake. Her eyes took a moment to focus, then landed on Elias's face.
She froze.
"When did you get that?" she asked sharply, sitting up. Her fingers reached out but hovered just shy of touching the wound—a deep gash that cut from his cheekbone toward his temple. It hadn't looked this raw the night before. The skin around it had darkened, and beneath the surface, faint vein-like lines crept outward like cracks in glass.
"You didn't say anything," she murmured, brushing her hair back.
Elias said nothing.
In the corner, his armour lay in a pile—dented, streaked with ash and dried dragon blood. The black wooden mask rested on top, split clean through where the tail had struck.
Thalia exhaled, looking away. "I thought you came back to rest. Not to bleed."
She circled the bed and sat beside him. Instead of touching the wound, she reached for the ring on the table and slid it onto her finger.
"I hate this," she whispered. "Not knowing when it's going to be the last time. You always make it look easy, Elias. Like you can't break. But I see you when no one else does."
She turned her gaze toward him again. Her voice steadied. "You forget I carry some of this weight, too."
Riley felt the emotion ripple through Elias's chest. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't fear. It was the weight of being seen.
And strangely, Riley didn't feel like an intruder here. The home, the quiet honesty between husband and wife, the morning light against stone all felt familiar. Grounded. Like something he'd almost had, or almost could have had.
Riley admired Elais; there was no doubt in his mind.
Then, under the warmth of that moment, the wound throbbed. Hotter now. Something unnatural stirred within it. Elias' eyes watered a little.
Thalia stood. "Check in with the healer today," she said, her tone practical but kind. "And drop your armor at the outpost."
Elias raised a hand in a silent thumbs-up as the sunlight hit his face, making the throb spike sharply. Riley wanted to flinch back. It felt like something was pulling at them both, dragging them toward the day.
Getting out of bed was harder than it should've been. But once up, Elias dressed mechanically, fastening each strap of armour with instinctual precision. He held the cracked mask for a long moment before sliding it back over his face.
Maybe it was better that other people didn't see what was happening beneath it.
Then both Elias and Thalia walked into the kitchen together. He pulled her into a hug and kissed her hair.
"You're amazing," he said, voice thick. "Thank you."
"Love you too," she replied, smiling gently.
Outside, the old man on the porch glared at them as always, charcoal dust smudging his fingers. He didn't speak.
Elias stared at the old man on the porch for a long moment. The man returned the look with a disapproving squint, his charcoal-smudged fingers still moving across the sketchpad in his lap.
Riley felt something bristle inside him.
I want to shove that grumpy bastard into the dirt.
The thought startled him. Not because it was cruel, but because it didn't feel like his. It came sharp and sudden, like a needle of anger poked straight through his chest. And for a second, he wasn't sure if it had come from Elias… or something else entirely.
The moment passed, and they moved on.
The sun greeted them like a slap.
White-hot and overbearing, it pressed against their skin and skull alike, bleeding into their bones. Elias flinched slightly but didn't stop walking. Riley felt it, too—a spike behind the eyes, a sudden tightness in the chest. It was like something invisible had wrapped around their ribs and was now slowly, insistently squeezing.
And then came the pressure.
It bloomed behind Elias's temples like a second heartbeat—too large, too loud. It wasn't physical alone. There was emotion in it. Grief. Fury. Something so immense it didn't even have a name. It pressed into them from within, and Riley's stomach turned, as if his own thoughts were being drowned out by something vast and ancient.
They passed the morning market stalls. Vendors called out with half-hearted cheers, but the sound felt muted, like it reached them through thick fog. Faces blurred. Colours bled at the edges. The cobblestones beneath their feet seemed to shift slightly, tilting, drifting, unsteady.
Riley's legs felt wrong. Too heavy. Not his. Not Elias's either.
Each step jarred vision loose in Elias's head, like the ground echoed beneath his boots. The wound on his cheek was no longer just sore—it was crawling. Something slithered beneath the skin, worming down his jaw, his throat, curling toward his chest like smoke with weight.
Riley wanted to scream.
This isn't normal. This isn't just an infection. He could feel Elias straining to hold himself upright, to breathe evenly, and pretend like nothing was happening. But there was little pretending now. Whatever strength held them together was slipping.
The outpost rose ahead.
And then Elias stumbled.
Just one step.
Then another. Uneven.
Riley felt panic spike through Elias's chest. The world pitched, sunlight stabbing into their eyes like shards of glass. He blinked—but the light didn't go away. It flared brighter, hotter, until all he could see were shapes. Motion.
Soldiers nearby waved. One laughed—then stopped.
Another stepped forward, smile faltering. Concern replaced routine.
"Commander?" the man asked. "You alright?"
Elias tried to answer, but no sound came. His mouth moved. His legs didn't.
His knees buckled.
He fell hard.
The ground didn't cushion. It took. Stone struck ribs. Shoulders jarred. Riley hit the earth with him, breath driven from his lungs as if by fire.
"Get the healer!" someone shouted above the haze.
Boots scrambled. Voices rose in alarm.
A shadow dropped beside them—one of the masked soldiers. He pulled the broken wooden mask from Elias's face and leaned close.
"You're going to be okay," he said quickly. "It's me—Damien. The healer's on his way."
Riley felt his chest rise and fall too fast, his breath shallow, burning. Elias's body twitched once, violently, like something had yanked it from inside. Sweat beaded across the skin, evaporating instantly in the heat. His eyes rolled beneath closed lids.
And somewhere deep inside them both, something shifted.
It wasn't a voice exactly—more like a presence. Ancient. Starving. Not asleep anymore.
It liked the sun.
And Riley knew, with a nauseating clarity, that whatever it was had just opened its eyes.