The scythe settled against his back like it had always belonged there. No strap. No sound. Just weight—real and quiet and his.
Morana smiled. Not wide. Not soft. Just a small flicker at the edge of her mouth, like she'd been waiting for this moment longer than she wanted to admit.
Then Stray jerked.
One breath too sharp. One hand flying to his temple like something inside had turned sideways.
"Hey—" Morana stepped forward.
He staggered.
The world split.
Not the ground. Him.
He clutched his head, the scythe clattering against stone behind him, and the forest bent in closer.
"No—no, not again—" he whispered.
But it wasn't again.
This was new.
Shapes rippled from the treeline. Shadows peeled off bark. One. Then two. Then five. All of them him.
Too tall. Too thin. Too perfect.
Their limbs moved like marionettes in the wrong hands. Their eyes—his eyes—didn't blink.
And all at once, they spoke.
"Himani."
He flinched.
"Himani."
Morana drew her blade—curved and dark, like it wasn't made to cut skin but memory.
The village lights behind them flickered.
Then vanished.
A crack tore the horizon.
Down the center of Thorne's Edge, the world split. Not like an earthquake. Like a zipper.
Like a second scar opening its mouth right through the heart of everything. Right down the middle of the villager.
Wooden beams tilted. Doorways caved. People screamed—but too quiet, like the sound was falling behind them.
Villagers dropped one by one into the tear. Some didn't even resist. They just… faded.
Morana didn't look back.
She moved to his side, fast. Close.
"Stray," she said. Calm but urgent. "On me. Now."
He barely heard her.
The mimic shards were closer now. Faces flickering like broken screens. Their mouths still forming the same word.
"Himani. Himani. Himani."
"Stop!" he shouted, pressing his palms harder to his ears. "Don't say her name—don't say her name—"
"Stray."
His knees buckled. Not from pain—from pressure. Like something inside him was being peeled.
Morana spun, back against his.
"I need you here," she said, voice lower now. "With me."
"I can't—" His voice broke. "She's not supposed to be here—"
"She's not," Morana said. "That's the point. That's why it hurts."
The shards closed in.
No steps. Just presence. Like bad dreams filling in a room.
And Morana, still steady behind him, whispered the word that would ground him—anchor him—not the one the scar gave, but the one she did.
"Emrys."
His breath caught.
The mimic shards froze.
The world didn't stop shaking.
It shuddered, low and deep, like something ancient had just woken and didn't know its name.
The light from the cracked sun bent sideways, casting shadows in directions they weren't supposed to go. Grass leaned toward the scar.
The sky thinned until stars showed through places they didn't belong.
Stray stayed on his knees, shaking. Hands clamped over his ears. But the voices got through anyway.
"Himani."
"Himani."
"Himani."
Each time it landed, it felt sharper. Less like a name, more like a puncture.
The kind of word that scraped against bone.
The mimic shards crept in slow, flickering closer with every repetition. They weren't hunting him. They were becoming him. Piece by piece.
Then the pain cracked open.
Not outside. Inside.
It started in his ribs, then climbed fast into his skull—white-hot, splitting, like two versions of him had stopped agreeing on who deserved to stay.
And the scythe appeared.
Not summoned. Not drawn. It just was, gripped in his palm like his body had finally caught up with itself.
He didn't think.
He moved.
The blade arced once—clean and wide, like a breath exhaled sideways through grief.
The nearest mimic split down the center. No blood. Just memory—shattered glass and static, dissolving as it hit the ground.
"Morana—" he gasped.
She was already reaching for him.
He moved faster.
Grabbed her hand. Yanked her down beside him, the motion rough but precise. The next swing came from below—upward, brutal.
Three shards vanished in the spray of green light. The edges of their faces lingered in the air a half-second longer than they should've.
And then they were gone.
Just dust. Just fragments. Just silence.
Morana hit the dirt beside him, caught in the aftershock. She stared—not at the blade, but at him.
"What…" her voice came slow, wary. "What did you just do?"
His breath was still catching. His arms ached like they'd been swinging for hours. But the scythe didn't shake. It pulsed steady in his grip.
He turned to her. Not wide-eyed. Not broken. Just raw.
"You called me something."
Morana exhaled, steady now.
"I named you," she said. "Emrys."
He froze.
She leaned in closer, not touching him—just near enough that her voice didn't need volume to carry.
"Emrys Katsunori," she said again. "That's your name."
The last mimic shard dissolved behind them.
He didn't speak right away.
Didn't need to.
The silence between them was thick—not empty, but full. Of recognition. Of breath. Of memory shaped into something sharp enough to survive.
Then, low—almost too quiet to hear—
"…Thank you, Morana."
Her smile didn't reach her mouth.
Just her eyes.
That was enough.
"We need to make it to the Scar. The first one, the one near
He didn't speak right away.
Didn't need to.
The silence between them was thick—not empty, but full. Of recognition. Of breath. Of memory shaped into something sharp enough to survive.
Then, low—like the name still felt too big for his mouth—
"…Thank you. For giving it back."
Morana's smile didn't reach her mouth.
Just her eyes.
That was enough.
Then he blinked hard, like something behind his eyes had shifted. He looked toward the trees—then the sky—then the empty space where the mimic shards had stood.
And said, almost to himself:
"We need to move."
Morana tilted her head. "Where?"
He swallowed. The scythe still buzzed under his grip. The name still echoed somewhere in his ribs.
"To the Vale Line… or the First Scar." He shook his head. "I don't remember which one's alive."
Morana's breath caught. Just a beat. Barely there.
"That's not a question most Strays ask."
"I'm not most Strays."
She stood, brushed the dirt from her coat, eyes never leaving him. "No. You're not."
He rose slower. The scythe didn't resist. It followed.
And then the air shifted again—small, but real. A pulse through the roots. A whisper behind the trees.
The scar hadn't closed.
It had moved.
Somewhere nearby, the ground exhaled. A ripple in the grass, bending toward a path that hadn't existed a second ago.
Emrys glanced at Morana. "Is it guiding us?"
"No," she said. "It's watching."
He adjusted the scythe over his back.
Then, quieter: "Let it."
They walked.
The path didn't feel safe.
But it didn't feel wrong either.
Just... remembered.
They walked in silence at first.
Not because there was nothing left to say, but because the world had finally quieted. For once, no memory buzzed at the edges. No mimic shards. No rippling trees. Just wind moving through grass that bent the right way. The path stretched ahead—soft, even, like it wasn't made but remembered.
Morana kept pace beside Emrys. Her eyes scanned, always scanning, but not out of fear. Out of habit. Survival ran deep in her gait. But something in her shoulders had softened.
Emrys glanced at her, then forward again. "You're quiet."
"So are you."
He let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Guess I'm still adjusting to hearing my name again."
Morana didn't smile, but her gaze flicked to him. "You wear it better now."
"It doesn't weigh as much," Emrys said. His hand brushed the scythe's handle as he walked, fingers tracing the grain like it might shift without him. "Still not light. Just… bearable."
She nodded once. "That's how you know it's yours."
They stepped over a fallen branch. The path bent with them. It didn't lead; it responded.
Morana slowed slightly. "The scar's ahead."
"I know." Emrys kept his voice steady. "I can feel it."
Morana stopped. Turned fully. "And?"
He looked her in the eye. "It still pulls. But not like before. It's background noise now. I can breathe through it."
Her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes did. Less calculation. More belief.
"I thought the scythe made you immune," she said.
"No," Emrys replied. "It just gave me something to hold onto when it hits. I still feel it. The ache, the static. But the pain… it's gone."
She tilted her head. "How?"
"I stopped fighting like I wanted to erase it." He adjusted the scythe against his back. "Started fighting like I wanted to understand it."
Morana didn't answer right away. She looked at the path—at the spiral grass, the way the trees no longer twisted inward. Then back at him.
"I told you the world would shape around you," she murmured. "Didn't think it'd surrender."
"It didn't." Emrys stepped forward, closer now. "It's just listening."
Then, without ceremony, without hesitation, he turned to the edge of the scar. It shimmered faint, the light thinned to threads—but no tremor chased his breath. No hum in his skull. Just pressure. Manageable. Familiar.
He looked at Morana. Just once. "If I don't come back—"
"You will," she cut in.
Emrys held her gaze. "But if I don't—make it count."
"I always do."
He nodded. Stepped to the ledge.
Then jumped.
The scar didn't swallow him.
It made space.
No flash. No scream. Just one figure vanishing through the fold.
And Morana, still standing above, whispered to the emptiness, "Hold him gently, Katsunori. He's earned that much."
Then she turned, and the path behind her closed—not violently, but like a curtain pulled by wind.
The scar had moved.
And for the first time, it wasn't a threat.
It was an invitation.
…
"I've never done anything like this…"
His voice fell into the scar like a pebble tossed in a well. No echo. Just a slow hush, like the world was listening.
Around him, time breathed out in layers.
A plastic spoon rusted beside a sword half-sunk in soil. Feathers that hadn't evolved yet drifted next to cracked glass lenses still warm with breath. Books without language.
Phones without signals. Every relic pulled from a world that once needed it. Or still did.
Extinct. Endangered. Thriving.
This scar didn't just run deep.
It remembered.
Emrys turned slowly, the scythe a quiet weight at his back. "But it feels like I've been doing this for years. Maybe I just didn't know…"
His breath caught.
"What does that mean?"
The scar moved.
Not violently. Not even with sound.
Just a ripple, deep and low, like something shifting beneath the foundation of the world.
You were meant to arrive slower, it said.
The voice didn't come from the air. It came from inside the bones of the place.
From between his ribs.
But you bled too fast.
Emrys flinched, but he didn't run. His fingers clenched. "You can speak."
I can remember, the scar corrected.
And you are made of memories too loud to rot.
His heart hammered once.
Twice. Then slower. Calmer.
He looked down at his hands—scarred, older than they should've been. Still not fully his.
He whispered, "Whose body was this?"
The scar pulsed, gentle.
A second heartbeat under his feet.
Yours, it said. Eventually.
He shook his head. "That's not an answer."
No, the scar agreed. It's a warning.
Time bent again—not forward, not back. Just… sideways. A flicker of school bells.
A whisper of gravel under running feet.
His name on two voices, both lost.
You made a promise, the scar murmured. And promises carve deeper than death.
Emrys pressed his hand to his chest.
The scythe buzzed faint against his spine.
He closed his eyes.
And the scar opened a little wider.
Not to consume. To show.
Because this time, it wasn't here to break him.
It was here to remind him what had been taken.
And what he still had left to remember.