The morning light filtered through the hut’s small windows, soft and gray. The forest outside stirred gently, wind brushing leaves like breath against canvas. Inside, the table was set with quiet care—three bowls, a pot of steaming roots, a chipped teapot.

  Grimoire poured the tea with quiet precision, filling each cup evenly. Her expression gave away nothing.

  Elsha took the first sip and paused, eyes flicking toward the steam.

  “Thalor’s breath,” she murmured. “Good tea.”

  Grimoire raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond.

  Ysar glanced at her. “Isn’t that just mountain sage?”

  “It is,” Elsha said lightly. “I like the older name. Found it in a book once. Said it clears the lungs and sharpens the mind.”

  She smiled, faint and dry, as she set the cup down. “Seems fitting.”

  Grimoire gave no reply. Her gaze rested too long, but said nothing.

  They ate slowly. The food was plain—boiled roots, hard bread, pickled greens—but warm.

  After a time, Elsha asked, “Have you been sleeping?”

  Ysar shook his head. “Doesn’t come easy.”

  She nodded, as if that confirmed something she already knew.

  A pause.

  “Do you want to ask?” she said again.

  Ysar hesitated. “About what?”

  “About death. Or whatever came after.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Grimoire, quiet until now, spoke. “What did come after?”

  Elsha glanced at her. “Nothing. No shape. No pull. Just absence. Like being paused. A silence deep enough to forget yourself.”

  Grimoire stared for a moment longer, then looked away. “That matches nothing I’ve read.”

  “Nor I,” Elsha said, softer now. “But it felt… accurate.”

  Silence passed between them again. A quiet minute. A sip of tea.

  Then Grimoire asked: “And you, Any signs yet?” She turns to Ysar.

  He frowned. “I’m alright.”

  “Elsha’s body used you as anchor,” she continued. “To recall the soul. That type of necromancy leaves echoes. Has it?”

  Ysar paused, then exhaled. “Tingling in the ribs. Light pulses sometimes. But it fades.”

  Grimoire folded her arms. “Corruption at that depth doesn’t ‘fade.’ It sleeps. Then it spreads.”

  Ysar gave a small shrug. “If it helped bring her back—”

  “Even so,” Elsha interrupted. Her voice was calm, but firmer now. “You’re not dismissing this.”

  He looked at her.

  “I’m serious. I don’t want you dropping dead two days from now. Let her monitor it.”

  “I’d rather leave as soon as you’re well enough,” he replied.

  Elsha smiled slightly. “Then let’s make sure we both leave in one piece.”

  Grimoire said nothing, but didn’t disagree.

  Elsha leaned back in her chair, lifting her cup again. “Besides, it’s not like I’m rushing anywhere. I could use the rest.”

  She glanced at Grimoire.

  “And watching over each other a little longer… wouldn’t be a waste, would it?”

  Grimoire blinked. Once. Then gave a small nod.

  “I’ll prepare something to test your planar balance,” she said to Ysar, rising with the bowls. “Before nightfall.”

  Ysar sighed quietly.

  Elsha just smiled again—a tired, practiced smile.

  “Good,” she said. “Let’s not waste a miracle.”

  The mist clung low to the ground, curling around roots and fallen branches. Morning light filtered through the forest canopy in pale streaks, soft and cold.

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  Ysar walked just a step ahead of her, but not leading. The path wasn’t difficult—more a winding trail of flattened moss and worn stones. Elsha moved slowly, wrapped in a thick shawl, her stride cautious but steady.

  “I didn’t expect to be cold,” she said.

  Ysar glanced back. “Still hurts?”

  “No. Just… a strange feeling. Like my body isn’t mine yet.”

  They walked in silence for a stretch.

  Birds called in the distance, the only voices.

  Then, quietly, she asked:

  “What happened… after I was stabbed?”

  Ysar’s breath caught. His eyes didn’t lift from the path. “The battlefield… changed.”

  Elsha looked at him. Waiting.

  He finally added, “Karin. She—she unleashed something. I’ve never seen anything like it. Anything in its path just… vanished.”

  Elsha stopped walking. “Vanished? Not just… burnt?”

  Ysar nodded. “Yeah. Nothing left.”

  “And Kivas?”

  Ysar stopped, too.

  “I saw him fall,” Elsha said softly. “He went first. I remember… screaming. And after that, I just wanted to burn the world.”

  Ysar’s jaw tightened.

  A quiet beat.

  “And what about… Zafran?” she asked.

  Ysar’s eyes wandered—anywhere but toward her.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s at Ocean Tide. Maybe helping the Azure Wind remnants. Or still chasing after that woman.”

  “You’re angry with him?”

  Another long pause before Ysar exhaled.

  “I guess… how childish of me. I just… I didn’t know what to do with the grief.”

  Elsha didn’t speak for a while. Then, with a tired breath:

  “You should’ve stayed with him. Helped them resettle.”

  “And who would’ve helped you?”

  Elsha chuckled.

  “At least it turns out you’re capable of miracles.”

  “Oh sure. That’s who I am now,” Ysar said, managing a crooked smile.

  Elsha laughed again—quieter this time.

  “I’ll return,” he said, more to himself than her. “After this. I’ll go back and find him. Apologize.”

  Elsha’s voice was calm, but firm. “He’ll understand.”

  They stood in the quiet a moment longer.

  Then she took a slow step forward. “Let’s walk a little more. The sun’s warm today.”

  Ysar followed without a word.

  And the forest held its silence.

  The kettle had boiled twice.

  Grimoire sat curled near the hearth, knees tucked to her chest, gaze unfocused. Outside, the forest murmured in its slow rhythm—leaves twitching in the breeze, branches creaking like old joints.

  She didn’t write. Didn’t read. A journal lay in her lap, closed and untouched, as if she’d placed it there with no intention of opening it.

  She was listening.

  Elsha moved about the room carefully. She poured tea. Folded a shawl. Stirred the broth over the stove.

  Grimoire’s eyes shifted—just slightly.

  The way Elsha stirred was fluid. Controlled. Not like someone unaccustomed to the task—even with the occasional stiffness, her movement was clearly practiced.

  Elsha set the ladle down and wandered toward the window. The shawl hung loose around her shoulders. Her fingers brushed the sill—lightly, as if reacquainting themselves with the world.

  “The trees here look like the ones in Sarren Valley,” she murmured.

  Grimoire blinked. “You’ve been to Sarren?”

  Elsha smiled faintly. “Your mother’s notes. She wrote about how the moss there clings higher on the trunks—almost three feet.”

  Grimoire didn’t move.

  “You read her notes?”

  “Yes,” Elsha said, nodding. “You mentioned them once. I was curious.”

  Silence folded in.

  Grimoire’s eyes didn’t blink for a while.

  Elsha turned from the window. “The broth’s nearly ready. Do you think Ysar’s hungry?”

  “He’s outside,” Grimoire replied. “Walking.”

  Another pause.

  Elsha moved to the cupboard and took down two bowls. Her grip was steady. Not even a tremble.

  “You’re recovering fast,” Grimoire said softly.

  Elsha glanced back. “I think the binding helped more than anyone expected.”

  Grimoire said nothing.

  She slowly lowered her gaze to the journal in her lap. Worn. Older than her.

  She brushed dust from the cover. Opened it.

  Inside, on the first page—a name.

  Meriles.

  Her eyes lifted again.

  Elsha stood at the table, setting the bowls with a quiet hum.

  Nothing wrong.

  And everything was.

  Grimoire closed the journal.

  Quietly.

  The hut was dim. Morning light filtered weakly through the shutters, casting a dull pattern across the wooden floor. A faint green ember pulsed at the edge of a chalk-drawn circle.

  Ysar sat cross-legged in the center, shirt off, arms resting on his knees. Grimoire crouched beside the circle, smudged with chalk and ash, focused and quiet.

  “You sure this is a good idea?” he asked.

  “Or would you rather just let it be?” she replied, not looking up.

  “I just didn’t think I’d be sitting half-naked inside a ritual circle.”

  She didn’t bother responding—just placed a sliver of quartz near his ankle and pressed her finger to the last glyph.

  The circle lit.

  From his chest, a faint thread of pale green light rose—like mist, but too steady for that. It pulsed once, then slowly curled in on itself.

  Ysar looked down. “What’s… that?”

  He glanced at Grimoire.

  She frowned, just slightly.

  “…Bad news?”

  She moved around him slowly, eyes locked on the light. “Your planar’s corrupted.”

  “What, you mean like… cursed?”

  “It’s being restructured.”

  “Okay… that sounds terrifying. What does it mean?”

  “Do you know anything about planar?”

  “Nope. Never really paid attention when they tried to teach me.”

  She stood. “Usually, a person’s planar conforms to six elemental strands—Order, Chaos, Fire, Earth, Wind, and Water.” Then she paused. “But yours isn’t showing any of them now.”

  Ysar blinked. “None of them? But it’s green… isn’t that wind?”

  She pointed to the thread. “No. That’s something else entirely. It’s called a Pale Thread. A phenomenon that happens when a planar is corrupted by something foreign.”

  He watched it drift. “Foreign like… what, a curse?”

  Grimoire’s voice was quiet. “By the time you see the Pale Thread, it’s already… different. We don’t really know what it is. It’s rare. And we don’t have a way to study it.”

  “And… this happened when I did the ritual?”

  She nodded. “Yes. You became the anchor to pull her planar back into her body. That opened a hole in your own—and something slipped in.”

  “Okay, but… is it dangerous?”

  “Hard to say. It hasn’t rooted deeply yet. The glow’s still soft. No spread. But…”

  “But?”

  She didn’t finish.

  Instead, she raised her hand. Faint green light shimmered there—stronger, deeper. The same color as Ysar’s, but more alive.

  He stared. “You have it too.”

  “Mine’s stable,” she said. “But my condition’s different.”

  “Is it livable?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Helpful answer,” he muttered.

  Grimoire crouched again, smudging one of the runes. “You won’t be able to use magic like before. Pale Thread doesn’t speak to elemental currents.”

  “I was never big on magic to begin with. But… what does it speak to?”

  She paused. “Things we don’t really study. Or name.”

  Ysar scratched his shoulder, uneasy. “Great.”

  He looked down again. The thread was fading, pulling back into his chest.

  “What now?”

  “We watch it. See if it grows. Or changes.”

  He stood, brushing off his knees. “Thanks. I think.”

  Grimoire was already cleaning the circle. “Don’t thank me yet.”

  Then, quieter—more to herself:

  “This shouldn’t be…”