Read this. Remember it. Then step forward.
The wind on the ridge carried ashes and silence.
Below, the world lay broken—like so many truths we try to hide.
Your breath drags itself into the night as though searching for answers.
But answers are luxury.
You're on the edge of something if you fall back—you may never rise again.
He stands there: broken doesn't begin to cover it.
Blood glistens, shimmering on his skin for a moment before it seeps into the stone.
In his hand, the once-bright blade is streaked crimson.
This was supposed to be the end. A swift finish.
Instead, you're staring at resurrection.
"Did you think it over?" he says, voice low and raw.
He doesn't wait for an answer. He's seen what flickered in your Nahirlolg earlier—the hunger and regret tangled together.
In this silence, you realize you can't run and you can't hide.
You grip your blade tighter.
You steel yourself.
Your world has narrowed to this—
"If I let this blade fall…"
It will end him. It will end him, the one who stole your trust.
You still taste the betrayal—poisoned gifts, hidden smiles, the sick arrogance in his words.
But steel yourself: that was yesterday's war. Tonight, you face him.
Or do you?
He chuckles—too quiet, too familiar.
"That's your question, isn't it?"
Your grip tightens.
"Is it worth it?" you ask instead.
He lifts a hand, Nahirlolgs glinting with moonlight.
"The choice isn't mine."
He pauses.
"It's yours."
A crack in his armor, a sigh in your chest—this moment stretches, taut, full of black stars and broken promises.
And then:
He smiles.
"A life worth remembering…" he whispers.
But his smile quakes.
"...or a deed you will never forget?"
The ridge echoes with your heartbeat.
A gust.
A breath you don't take.
Then you move.
A clash of metal.
Your blade meets his chest—sparks, heat, life and death in one gunflash.
For a heartbeat, he staggers.
Then he shoves you back. You stumble, arms flying.
Your blade lodges in the earth beside you.
You cough—breathe in cold dust, iron, regret.
He still stands.
He wipes his chest.
Blood rolls down in thin rivulets.
"Not…" he breathes.
"You weren't supposed to…"
He stops. Looks at you, confused.
At the blade that didn't kill you.
You look down at your hands, trembling.
"This isn't over," you say.
You point to his chest.
"You lived. So do I."
He squints.
"You… you—"
You stare.
"Why didn't you die?"
He turns his head.
Something flashes in the night air—unshed tears, stale words.
"A promise."
His voice. Bare. Raw.
"My life isn't mine."
He kneels, lifts your fallen blade with a steady hand.
"And you… yours never will be."
Your chest catches.
His words cut deeper than any blade.
For a moment, you see him—not the traitor, not the poisoner—but a soul fractured by choices.
A burden heavied by his own blades.
A man terrified to live and terrified to die.
You whisper:
"Then pick it up."
He meets your gaze.
That same quiver shakes his spine.
A half-smile tugs at his lips.
He stands. Slowly.
He lifts your blade.
"Together?" you ask.
He nods sharply.
"Yes."
You both stand there—side by side, wounded, alone against the night
There's no bandage for this wound.
No ritual to cleanse betrayal.
Only the carrying forward.
He speaks quietly, every word weighed:
"I wanted to let you die, so I wouldn't have to be remembered."
Short silence.
"Now? …I want you to survive."
You inhale. Moonlight coats your skin.
Ash falls.
The world outside continues to crumble.
But this ridge—this stained stone—you've claimed it.
"Then survive," you say.
He nods again.
A faint glow catches your Nahirlolg.
A silver bell—dangling from his belt.
Question in your chest.
He looks at it—then tosses it up.
Let it jingle and ring against the night sky.
It pulses once.
Then fades.
He clamps his hand on it.
"It marks the beginning."
"In that case," you say, voice low,
"We start now."
Your blades raise on either side.
Shoulders back. Wounds open.
The night closes in.
And yet—you feel… light.
Foe or friend, traitor or savior—you don't know. You may never know.
But at this moment—it is you, and he, and two blades in the dark.
And survival.
Not triumph.
Not forgiveness.
Not even understanding.
Just the next step.
And survival.
He didn't look at you again.
Not directly.
But his posture said enough.
No tension in the shoulders.
No threat in the stance.
Just a readiness.
Like two fractured lances leaning against each other.
You reached down.
Lifted your Galieya.
Its spiral veins pulsed dim.
Not proud.
Not angry.
Just present.
It was heavy in a new way.
The kind of weight that came with choosing not to strike.
The silence pressed between you.
But it wasn't hostile now.
It was expectation.
The trench was watching.
Waiting to see what you'd do next.
"I thought you wanted me gone," you muttered.
He didn't answer at first.
Then, with a voice thinner than wire:
"I still do."
A pause.
"But I want you to get there first."
You blinked.
The Galieya in your hands buzzed with heat.
It remembered that answer.
Burden adjusted.
Below the ridge, fog swirled across the trench floor like static memory.
Shapes passed through it.
Not fast.
Not near.
But there.
Echoes.
Remnants.
Possible futures.
"We descend again tomorrow," you said.
He nodded.
"Together this time."
You frowned.
"Until the weight breaks us?"
His voice didn't falter.
"Until it doesn't."
You didn't agree.
But you didn't object.
The night pressed colder.
Filaments in the trench walls flickered—reminding you that time was still moving, even if neither of you were.
He sat down first.
No ceremony.
No guard.
Just a slow, mechanical fold of limbs until he rested against a broken pylon near the ledge.
You joined him, some distance apart.
Silence again.
But this time, not sharp.
Just... hollowed.
You thought of saying something.
A comment.
A theory.
Even a memory.
But everything tasted false.
So you sat.
Breathing in rhythms that didn't need to match.
You, alone.
Him, alone.
Together.
Your Galieyas lay across your knees.
They didn't vibrate anymore.
No heat.
No memory pulses.
They had been fed.
They had witnessed.
Now they rested.
"Do you think," you began slowly, "we were ever meant to return?"
He didn't look up.
Just replied, flatly:
"No."
A second later:
"But that doesn't mean we won't."
You nodded.
For the first time, not as Core.
Not as carrier.
But as something underneath that neither of you had words for.
The trench breathed again.
A distant tone echoed upward.
A deep, ambient pulse.
It came from below.
Not an alarm.
Not a warning.
Just a reminder.
The next layer was waking.
You stood.
He did too.
And without another word...
You descended again.
⎯⎯
Not for revenge.
Not for hope.
Not even for meaning.
Just because you had to.
And because no one else would.
Survival wasn't the goal anymore.
It was the burden.
And it was yours to carry.
Let the trench remember that.
Because no one else would.
No one above would know how deep you went.
How far you fell.
What you left behind just to keep your steps steady.
The trench didn't offer praise.
It didn't record victories.
It only remembered decisions.
You took the slope in silence.
Side by side.
One step at a time.
The walls around you had changed.
Narrower.
Not in size.
In intention.
Each line of stone was pressed tighter.
Not cracked.
Not loose.
Pressed.
Like something beneath it had breathed in and never let go.
You adjusted your grip on the Galieya.
The veins pulsed once.
Slow.
As if warning.
A sharp turn came too fast.
He moved without speaking—shoulder tucking in, foot dragging lightly to slow the descent.
You mirrored him.
Not because you trusted.
But because you didn't want to fall first.
A new scent filled the air.
Burnt circuitry.
Metal fatigue.
And something else.
Not blood.
Not oil.
Memory.
The raw kind.
Unprocessed.
Poured out too fast to be stored.
The trench was leaking someone else's burden.
He spoke before you did.
"This layer doesn't hold echoes."
You glanced over.
"Then what does it hold?"
He paused.
"Echoes that haven't formed yet."
That hit heavier than it should.
You scanned ahead.
The path turned again, but this one was sharp—like a wound in the trench itself.
The walls were etched with markings.
Not data.
Not signals.
Scratches.
Tallies.
Three. Four. Twelve.
One carved deeper than the rest.
Vertical.
Final.
You slowed.
Placed your hand on the wall.
The trench vibrated.
Low. Subtle.
It wasn't pushing you back.
It was warning you.
Too late.
The moment you stepped forward, the floor dropped.
Not physically.
Internally.
Your burden log spiked.
Veins along the Galieya flared.
Sensors flooded.
Everything heavy.
Too much.
You staggered.
He caught your shoulder.
You swatted him away.
"I've got it."
You didn't.
The world twisted sideways.
A corridor turned into a room, but you hadn't moved.
Your past spilled forward.
Images.
Flashes.
The first time you ever touched the Galieya.
The second time you watched someone else fall.
The first thing you forgot on purpose just to stay standing.
All of it.
Rushing back.
Too fast.
Too real.
You screamed.
But no sound left your mouth.
He stood there.
Watching.
Not cold.
Not cruel.
Just waiting.
As if this part had to happen.
And then the floor returned.
The walls returned.
The present returned.
You stood there.
Heavier.
Breathing shallow.
He nodded once.
"That was the gate."
You looked at him.
Confused.
"To what?"
He didn't smile.
"To you."
You hated how much sense that made.
You walked forward again.
Didn't thank him.
Didn't curse him.
You just walked.
Let the trench remember that too.