They shouldn't have gone back.
But they did.
Not far. Not fully. Just enough to pass through the edge of what remained—the broken stone, the collapsed ridges, the bodies left where they fell.
The canyon hadn't changed.
But something about it felt… wrong.
Arden slowed.
Her steps grew quieter without her meaning them to. Careful. Measured. Like she was walking through something fragile.
Or something that might remember her.
The bodies were still there.
Some twisted. Some broken. Some barely recognizable beneath ash and blood.
Too many.
She didn't count them.
Didn't need to.
Her chest tightened anyway.
Not from guilt.
From something colder.
Something that whispered—you did this.
Arden's gaze moved slowly across the ground, tracing the aftermath like her mind was trying to piece something together.
A pattern.
A sequence.
A memory.
Her steps stopped.
There.
Half-buried beneath a slab of cracked stone, one body lay at an angle that didn't match the others. One arm stretched outward, fingers curled. The torso twisted sharply, ribs caved in, chest punctured clean through.
Arden frowned.
She stepped closer.
The wounds were precise.
Deliberate.
Familiar.
Her breath slowed.
"I didn't kill this one."
Riven didn't answer immediately.
He stood a few paces behind her, watching. Not relaxed. Not tense. Just… attentive.
"You're sure?"
Arden nodded.
"I would remember."
The words felt right.
Until they didn't.
Her gaze lingered on the body.
Something pulled at her mind.
A flicker.
A moment that should have been there—
Wasn't.
Arden blinked.
Her thoughts stuttered.
"I…"
Nothing came.
No image. No movement. No memory of how that blade had pierced that chest.
Just absence.
Cold.
Empty.
Her stomach tightened.
Riven stepped closer this time. Not too close. Just enough.
"You hesitated?" he asked.
"No."
Too fast.
Too certain.
Arden straightened. "It wasn't me."
Riven's eyes didn't change.
Didn't soften.
Didn't harden.
They just… watched.
That was worse.
Arden turned away first.
"Doesn't matter," she muttered.
They moved again.
But something had shifted.
Not outside.
Inside.
Her hand moved to her blade. Slowly, she drew it halfway free.
Blood coated the edge.
Dark. Thick. Dried into the steel.
Her pulse stumbled.
She stared at it.
She didn't remember that strike.
Didn't remember that kill.
Her grip tightened.
A small gap.
Just one.
But it was enough.
Inside her mind—
"You lack discipline."
Vaelor's voice cut through cleanly. Controlled. Sharp.
Before she could respond—
"You lack hunger."
Draven.
Lower.
Amused.
Mocking.
Arden's jaw clenched.
"I didn't forget," she muttered under her breath.
"You lost control," Vaelor said.
"You hesitated," Draven countered. "So I didn't."
"That wasn't your choice."
"It was necessary."
"It was mine."
"It was weakness."
The words overlapped. Pressed. Pulled.
Arden's head throbbed.
"Stop," she whispered.
They didn't.
"You lack discipline."
"You lack hunger."
"I said—"
Her voice broke through louder this time.
"Shut up!"
The canyon caught the word and threw it back at her.
Riven stopped.
Turned.
His gaze locked onto hers instantly.
Sharp.
Focused.
Not surprised.
He had been waiting for this.
"For something to slip.
"For something to show.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked.
The question landed like a blade sliding between ribs.
Arden froze.
For a moment—just a moment—she almost told him.
Two voices.
Two presences.
Two parts of something she couldn't control anymore.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because saying it out loud would make it real.
And if it was real—
Then what did that make her?
"No one," she said.
Riven held her gaze.
Too long.
Too quiet.
Then he turned away.
"Stay focused."
Not reassurance.
Not trust.
A warning.
They walked.
The distance between them stretched again. Not physical. Something else.
He didn't correct her steps.
Didn't guide her breathing.
Didn't teach.
He was testing now.
Watching what she would do.
What she would become.
A sound broke through the silence.
Close.
Too close.
Riven reacted instantly—blade drawn, stance shifting.
Arden moved too.
Faster.
Before the figure even fully emerged from the shadows—a lone survivor, injured, staggering—she was already there.
No pause.
No thought.
No hesitation.
Her blade drove forward.
Clean.
Precise.
Final.
It pierced straight through the man's chest.
His eyes widened.
Not in anger.
Not in defiance.
In confusion.
Then he collapsed.
Just like that.
Arden stood over him, her blade still buried deep.
Her breathing didn't change.
Her pulse didn't spike.
Nothing.
No hesitation.
No emotion.
Just… stillness.
Riven didn't move.
Didn't step in.
Didn't speak.
He just watched.
That silence pressed harder than anything he could have said.
Arden pulled the blade free.
The body hit the ground with a dull, empty sound.
"I reacted," she said.
It sounded hollow.
Riven's gaze didn't soften.
"I saw."
Nothing else.
No approval.
No correction.
Just distance.
They moved again.
The rest of the day passed like that.
Quiet.
Heavy.
Each step weighed down by things neither of them said.
By the time night came, they found a narrow break in the canyon walls. Not safe. Not comfortable. Just… enough.
They settled without speaking.
Arden sat with her back against cold stone, Lunaris resting beside her.
It pulsed faintly.
Not steady.
Not calm.
Watching.
Waiting.
She didn't touch it.
Didn't trust herself to.
Instead, she closed her eyes.
Tried to breathe.
Tried to hold onto something real.
Something hers.
Her brother.
The thought came suddenly.
Sharp.
Important.
Anchoring.
She reached for it.
Tried to picture his face.
His eyes.
The way he smiled.
The way he—
Her breath caught.
Something slipped.
Not gone.
But wrong.
Blurred.
Incomplete.
Arden's eyes snapped open.
Her pulse spiked.
"No…"
She tried again.
Forced it.
Pulled at the memory like it might tear free if she held on hard enough.
A shape.
A shadow.
A voice she couldn't quite hear.
For a second—
Just one—
She couldn't see him at all.
The panic hit instantly.
Sharp.
Cold.
Real.
Her fingers curled into her palms.
Inside her mind—
Silence.
Then—
A quiet, low amusement.
Draven.
And beneath it—
Still. Watching.
Vaelor.
Arden's breath shook.
"I won't forget," she whispered.
But the words felt thin.
Fragile.
Like something already breaking.