Chapter Eight – We Do Not Forget
Part Two – The Girl Who Stepped into the Void
The forest did not greet her.
It simply opened.
Trees moved in silence, branches parting like old hands remembering her form. The stone path vanished half a mile from the Lyceum gates, swallowed by moss and frost. But Selka did not stop. The Doctrine's border laws were not her concern.
Not tonight.
The wind whistled behind her, trailing against the hem of her coat. It carried with it the sound of students calling her name, a Doctrine aide asking questions, footsteps from a tower window far behind her.
She ignored them.
If they truly wanted to stop her, they would've drawn their weapons.
But no one did.
Because something in her pace said: Let her go.
She moved like someone who had already chosen.
Not anger. Not rebellion.
Grief, resolved.
The Lyceum fell away.
The Veil deepened.
She didn't know where she was going.
But her glyph did.
It stirred beneath her left shoulder, humming faintly—resonance threads catching in the wind like chords strummed beneath the skin. Solara had once called it "gutcasting"—when your Veilmark pulled you toward something before you consciously reached for it.
Selka's hum didn't flare. It searched.
She followed it.
Through trees bent by Riftstorms, along hills burned in forgotten scars. Small flickers of static clung to the underbrush—remnants of cast sites. Some from Doctrine patrols. Others from Riftborn.
And then—something else.
She stopped.
Half-collapsed in the frost-laced clearing lay a Rift fracture. Inactive now. A blackened crescent cut into the earth, edges still faintly pulsing with hum-torn energy.
Selka stepped closer.
There, in the ash beside the rim, were bootprints. Not large. Not heavy. Familiar.
She knelt. Touched one.
The hum from her glyph shivered against her palm.
He was here.
She stood again. Looked to the trees.
Wind passed through the pine line—and with it, a thread of blue.
She found him in a hollow knotted beneath an old Veilmark tree.
The roots bent around the crater like fingers clutching something sacred. And there—partly slumped against the base, half-asleep, barely breathing—was Zephryn.
His cloak was torn. His boots split at the seams. His arms trembled, even in rest.
But it was him.
Not a shadow.
Not a ghost.
Not a memory echo.
Zephryn.
Selka didn't cry.
She didn't speak.
She moved.
Kneeling beside him, she reached for his hand—dirt-streaked, fingers curled inward—and slowly turned it over.
The glyph pulsed beneath the skin of his wrist.
Unstable. Faint. But there.
She pressed her palm to his. Her own glyph activated. A single ring of light.
Their resonance flared—just for a second.
His body stilled. Breath steadied.
The hum recognized her.
And Zephryn, barely conscious, whispered:
"Solara…?"
"No," she said softly. "Not this time."
She stayed beside him for a while, waiting for his breath to strengthen.
There were no stars above them—just drifting clouds and a sliver of Veil light peeking through the forest ceiling. The cold had softened, but the world still felt half-asleep.
Selka placed a hand against the side of his neck. The warmth was faint, but it beat true.
He hadn't died.
He had wandered.
He had fractured.
But he was still here.
She looked down at him.
This boy who had saved her life in the woods six years ago.
This boy who had held Solara's final hum in his arms.
This boy who had vanished—because he thought the world was better without him.
Selka didn't say anything poetic. She didn't have to.
She just leaned forward, brushed the ash from his cheek, and whispered:
"You idiot… I would've forgiven you.
If you'd just come back."
Zephryn stirred.
His eyes cracked open—barely.
He looked up at her like someone waking from a century-long hum.
"Selka?"
She didn't flinch.
"You're late."
He blinked. The light behind his eyes was faint—but there.
"Did they believe him?" he asked. His voice was hoarse.
She knew what he meant.
Kaelen. Yolti.
"No."
He nodded once, slowly.
"Good," he murmured. "They weren't supposed to."
Selka tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
But he didn't answer.
His eyes closed again.
Selka exhaled, long and quiet, then leaned back against the tree, hand still clasped with his.
She didn't let go.
Not until the hum in her chest stopped shaking.