The fire burned low, casting long shadows on the cellar walls. Outside, the storm had begun to ease, but the air still trembled with a kind of pressure Kael couldn't name. Something old was stirring—something that had waited a long time to wake.
Kael sat with the map spread out before him, his fingers tracing the lines as if trying to etch them into his new body. Every river bend, every craggy ridge, every forgotten ruin—it was all real. Not just memories. Not just fragments of a past life. Proof.
Lysandra returned from the far end of the room, carrying two chipped mugs filled with steaming liquid.
"It's not royal wine," she said, handing him one. "But it won't kill you."
Kael took a sip and nearly coughed. "What is this? Burned roots and regret?"
"Close," she said, smirking. "Herbal broth. It keeps the cold away."
He managed another sip. Barely.
They sat in silence for a while, the weight of unspoken thoughts thick between them.
Then Kael asked, "What's the price of a name in this city?"
Lysandra didn't answer immediately.
"In Ironhold?" she said finally. "Depends on whose name you're asking for. Some'll cost you silver. Others—blood."
Kael looked up. "And what about your name?"
She stared at him.
"I already told you," she said. "Lysandra."
"No. I mean your real name."
Her lips parted, but she said nothing.
He waited.
Then she exhaled through her nose and set her mug down. "You think because you're... whatever you are, you can just read people like books?"
"No," Kael said quietly. "I think because I've lived long enough—twice now—I know when someone's hiding behind a mask."
She turned away, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "Names have power, Kael. The real ones even more so. In this city, giving your name to the wrong person is like giving them a knife and turning your back."
"I understand."
She looked at him then. Really looked at him. "Do you?"
He didn't flinch.
"I was a king," he said. "Every name I ever trusted became the blade that killed me."
Lysandra's face softened just a little.
Another beat of silence passed.
"I was born Alinya." Her voice was almost a whisper. "Daughter of Mirien, once scholar to the royal court of Seradelle. My family was executed for treason when I was eight."
Kael blinked. "Seradelle? That kingdom fell nearly two hundred years ago."
"Exactly." Her eyes were unreadable. "So now, I'm Lysandra. And the past stays buried."
Kael nodded, his chest heavy with understanding.
They weren't so different after all—both survivors of lost kingdoms, buried under lies and time.
Then she stood. "Get some sleep, Kael. You'll need it. Tomorrow, I'm taking you somewhere."
"Where?"
"To someone who collects dead things," she said over her shoulder, grabbing her cloak. "Old names. Forgotten magic. And people like you."
Kael stared after her, his thoughts racing.
Tomorrow, it would begin—the journey into the deeper parts of the world, where history slept beneath bones and blood.
And maybe, just maybe, a piece of himself waited to be found.