They camped beneath the hollow roots of an ancient tree, its trunk thick enough to shelter three people easily. The light from Kian's spear cast soft shadows across the mossy floor while Arlen rested beside the small fire, breathing slower now.
She was stable.
But her expression held something beyond pain. It was the look of someone who had seen too much in too little time.
Kian sat across from her, sharpening the edge of the Echoblade on a scrap of beast-bone. The sound was soft, rhythmic. It helped him think.
"You said you were part of the Verdant Order," he said quietly. "They don't usually send apprentices into places like this."
Arlen nodded slowly. "They didn't. I volunteered."
He raised an eyebrow.
She glanced away, then pulled a pendant from under her tunic—a simple ring of silvered ivy, etched with glowing lines. It pulsed faintly as she spoke.
"This is a focus. It connects me to living threads—roots, breath, blood. It's how we heal. Not by fixing the body, but by reminding it what wholeness feels like."
"You use memory to mend flesh," Kian murmured.
She nodded again. "But this place… it twists memories. Some wounds down here don't want to be healed."
He knew exactly what she meant.
Kian looked down at his wrist—the Soulbound mark still glowing faintly in the firelight.
"I've seen the dungeon's memories too," he said. "And the people who came before us."
His voice trailed off.
Arlen didn't press him.
But his thoughts drifted—back to a memory that surfaced more often these days. A winter raid. Years ago. Before everything fell apart.
The Northern Wastes
Seven years earlier
Snow fell in thick sheets, blanketing the ruined outpost where Kian and Dain crouched behind a crumbling wall, breaths fogging in the freezing air. Screams echoed in the distance—beasts tearing through the outer defenses.
"We're cut off," Dain said, gripping his standard-issue spear. "If we stay, we die."
Kian wiped blood from his brow, staring at the growing shadows in the treeline. "We hold long enough for the medics to get out. We don't move until the last cart clears."
Dain scowled. "Always the hero. Even when it's hopeless."
"They'll remember who stayed."
"No one remembers the dead, Kian," he snapped. "Only the victors."
But Kian didn't move. He crouched there, waited, watched. Until the last wagon rolled past the ridge and the signal flare lit the sky red.
Then he turned to Dain. "Now we go."
They ran side by side through the snow and blood.
But that night changed everything. Dain never forgave the cost. He wanted strength so that he'd never be powerless again. Kian just wanted to stop bleeding.
They took different roads after that.
And now, years later, those roads had led them to opposite sides of a forgotten war beneath the earth.
A crackle from the fire brought him back.
Arlen was watching him, eyes curious but kind. She spoke softly. "You knew someone who changed."
He nodded. "Dain. We fought together. Survived together. But somewhere along the way, he started seeing people as weights. Things that slow you down."
"Maybe he thinks pain makes you strong."
Kian met her gaze. "He's not wrong. But it can also hollow you out."
She leaned forward, opening her palm. A soft green light shimmered above her skin—small vines growing and twisting into a symbol. It wasn't a spell, exactly. More like… communion.
"I can see echoes in people," she said. "Not thoughts. Just... damage. Old wounds. You carry a lot of them."
"Don't we all?" he replied.
"Some bury them. Others let them grow roots."
Kian smiled faintly. "And what about you?"
Arlen looked away. "I lost someone. My brother. He was a scout. Vanished on his second dive into the dungeon. They said he triggered a soullock—some kind of trap that seizes your essence. I thought maybe if I came down here, I'd… feel him again."
Kian's chest tightened. "That's not foolish."
"It feels like it."
"No," he said firmly. "That's what keeps you human."
They sat in silence a while longer.
Then the dungeon shifted again.
A low hum rolled through the ground beneath them. Vines twitched. The tree above creaked unnaturally.
Kian stood, hand on his spear.
Arlen rose behind him, drawing a knife made of bone and bark. She touched her pendant. The healing aura around her flared slightly—no longer defensive, but ready to act.
"It's moving again," she whispered. "Something's coming."
From the far side of the glade, a dark shape emerged—four-legged, sleek, with bone plates over its face and glowing red eyes. A hunter-beast. Silent and fast.
Then another.
Then three more.
Kian dropped into a stance. "We hold the line. Like we did in the Wastes."
Arlen smiled faintly. "Then don't die on me, soldier."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The beasts charged.
The spear lit blue.
The healer sang.
And the past met the present in fire and blood.
End of Chapter 6