(Namur POV)
He always picks the worst path.
Ereshgal slipped into the cursed ground where the Guardian's Child had appeared, the bloodstained wind curling around his silhouette. I watched him shrink into the distance, his posture broken but stupidly proud. Then I exhaled. Slow. Even.
Not disappointment. Not concern.
"Hopefully I won't have to get my hands any dirtier" I murmured, voice light, almost amused. A joke. Human enough. Harmless enough.
I didn't move. Not yet. The Edict bound me. No real chance to act. Not until the variables aligned.
Azel lay unconscious. Shallow breaths. Clammy skin. The fire was nearly out.
I turned back to the cart. Gamir: silent. Pale. Dead.
Nothing unexpected. No deviation.
I approached the body. No sadness. No guilt. Just loss of function. Gamir had been useful: dependable, loyal, good instincts. Could've lasted longer. But he didn't. That was the only relevant data.
A memory emerged. Not summoned. Just... accessible.
Tavern. Low light. Mission newly assigned. My rune was already traced, just in case. I wore the mask of concern: softened eyes, voice quiet, persuasive.
"We should turn it down, Gamir. Doesn't feel right. Smells like a trap."
He chuckled. Took a drink, grinning like he always did.
"They all do. Doesn't mean we run. Came from the king, Namur."
I leaned in closer. Added weight to my words.
"You've got a family. If something happens... no one's coming for us."
His hand went to his scarf. A gift from his daughter. I saw it then, his internal resistance weakening. But he steadied.
"Exactly why I can't sit this one out."
Failure. Logical, emotional, ethical. Didn't matter. Opportunity given. Edict fulfilled.
...
I wrapped the body. His weight was unremarkable. My arms didn't tremble.
Carried him to the reeds. Dug with speed. Shallow grave. No ceremony. No prayer.
Marked the grave with a flat stone. Not for mourning. For future reference. I might need to know where he is.
That's all.
Back at the fire. Azel still out. His pulse fluttered but held. I crouched beside him. Watched.
Time crawled.
The Edict gnawed at me. Still no opening. Not yet. Not until the conditions were met.
Eventually, Azel stirred. Eyelids twitching. Then a breath. Then two. The moment approached.
I traced the rune in silence. Switched the mask. Sadness. Weariness. Sincerity. All reflected in my eyes, my brow, the subtle downturn of my lips.
"Didn't expect you to wake so soon."
The voice? Perfect. Azel blinked, coughed. Reached into his coat with trembling fingers and showed me a dull ring.
"Helps me recover spiritual energy. But... where are the others?"
Useful. Minor artifact, likely overlooked. Should take it later.
I dropped my gaze. Shifted my weight. Let the pause stretch. Furrowed my brow.
"Gamir didn't make it" I said, voice low as I turned away, jaw tight.
"Another one showed up after you passed out. He… tried to hold it off, but he didn't stand a chance."
I swallowed hard.
"The prince… he fell off the cart in the chaos. I couldn't reach him. I… lost sight of him."
Let silence speak. Held Azel's eyes with calibrated grief.
"I sped up to get you out. It was all I could do."
Truth and lie, woven in perfect tension.
Azel struggled to sit upright. Grimaced. Nodded.
"So… that's what happened" he said quietly.
There was no anger in his voice—just fatigue. "But there's still a chance he's alive, right?"
I gave a slight nod. Just enough.
He exhaled slowly.
"Then you need to go after him. Try to find him. Just be careful… if they catch you—"
I crouched beside him, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"I'll be careful."
My voice was warm. Steady. Reassuring.
Exactly what it needed to be.
But the words didn't matter. I just needed the right moment.
So I stood. Tested the threshold.
And the Edict... loosened.
No resistance.
Ereshgal had finally entered the space where gods allow knives.
The path was clear. His blood was now legal.
Azel's trust meant nothing. But it made the moment look clean.
Let the firelight flicker over my controlled expression.
Then turned.
Night had already settled, smothering the sky in silence. Trees bent like supplicants in the wind.
I started walking. Then running. No rush. No uncertainty. Just purpose.
If he's still breathing, it's only because I let him.
Just a little longer.
I will finish what the gods won't.
And no one will know.
Because my voice will be calm. My hands steady. My face kind.
That's all they need to see.
I left the camp without rushing. My steps were measured—calm, deliberate. Ereshgal had his chance.
Almost at once, I spotted the blood trail. It weaved through the grass, staining crushed blades and broken stalks. A sharp trail—wide at first, then thinner.
"Losing more than he should. Won't get far."
Vegetation lay disturbed—bent, torn, trampled in places. Drag marks scuffed the dirt, scratches lined the exposed stone.
"Left leg—unstable. Arm dragging. Wound worsening. Why keep going?"
I kept a fast pace, but never careless. A wrong move could stir what should stay buried.
"If any of the Guardian's spawn linger, I can't afford mistakes."
Halfway down the path, a glint caught my eye—half-buried among the reeds, stuck upright in the soft soil. The sword. Ereshgal's.
I crouched. Brushed it free. The grip still warm, the blade stained but not fresh.
"Abandoned, not lost. Intentional, or a sign of collapse?"
But the trail continued. Blood—fainter, but consistent—led further through a narrow pass obscured by thick brush. I parted it carefully, finding a steep, rocky descent just beyond.
A natural arch marked the entry. Weathered. Cracked. Covered in creeping moss. It didn't look carved—just hidden.
"A tunnel… but no footprints beyond the slope. No breeze. Too still. Something's off."
Inside, the air pressed in like stone—heavy, unmoving. I didn't rush. Every step was measured, deliberate. If there was danger here, it wouldn't announce itself.
The blood trail led me forward—thin now, almost dry, but still visible. It guided me across the threshold and into the dark.
Symbols covered the walls, carved deep and worn smooth with age. I studied them briefly, careful not to touch. Not without knowing more.
Beneath my boots, the stone was stained—dark, old. Whatever had caused it wasn't recent. And yet, the space didn't feel empty.
I scanned the chamber again. No side paths. No alcoves. Just one way in—and one way out. If something moved, I'd have to react instantly. No time to hesitate.
So I stayed loose. Ready to pivot. Ready to run.
At the end, it became clear—This wasn't a cave.
"A tomb. Or something older."
A figure lay still at the end of the chamber. No breathing. No scent. No heat.
I moved closer, slow and quiet.
Its skin looked like cracked clay, flaking at the joints. The fingers had curled inward, as if grasping for something that had long since vanished. No blood. No wounds. Just complete, irreversible dryness.
But that wasn't the strange part.
The flesh around the mouth had contorted—frozen in a shape that didn't make sense. It looked like it had screamed... inward. Not out of pain or fear, but as if something had been pulled out of it from within.
Drained. Hollowed.
And not recently.
For a second, I sensed it. Not fear.
Rejection.
An instinctual denial.
This thing didn't belong. Not to the logic of the world.
The thought flickered, then died. Irrelevant.
Just a shell. Long dead.
It wasn't Ereshgal. The shoulder was whole—uninjured. Not like his. His had been mangled, missing flesh.
I stepped back.
Gave the chamber one last look. The silence here wasn't just absence—it felt like containment.
Pressure without a source.
Was this why the Guardian's Children were here?
I didn't wait for the answer. I turned and left, fast.
Outside, the forest had shifted again. The air was lighter, the path untouched. The blood trail ended there—no more drops, no disturbed soil.
"Whatever happened… it ended here."
I stood in silence for a moment, staring at the sword in my hand. The hilt rested against my palm, balanced and still. Familiar, in a strange way.
"No lies needed. The sword is enough."
When I returned to camp, the fire was burning low. Azel was still awake—barely—but alert. His eyes tracked me.
I crouched beside him and extended the sword. Didn't speak right away. Just let the weight of silence do the work.
My expression showed what it needed to—grief, weariness, and convincing loss.
Then I said it.
"He didn't make it."