The silence that followed Ilyan's confession lingered like the fading echoes of a distant storm. The weight of his own words pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting. But as the room grew still, the voice that had filled the space faded into the background, leaving a strange kind of peace that was almost suffocating.
Ilyan sat there for a long moment, staring at the book in front of him. The form he had carried, the relic, was now silent in his satchel, as if it, too, had acknowledged something he had not yet fully grasped.
"What now?" Ashwen's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and practical. She was still standing near the pedestal, eyes narrowed. Her hand was hovering near her blade, as though she didn't trust the room's newfound quiet.
Ilyan shook his head, his mind swirling. "I don't know. I think I… I think I've said what needed to be said. But the price…" He trailed off, not sure how to voice the emptiness he felt. It was as though a part of him had been torn away, but also something had been added—a truth so heavy, so raw, that he didn't know what to do with it.
Ashwen didn't push him further, but she stepped closer, her usual guard up, as if she could feel something shifting in the air. "So, what now?"
"Now," Ilyan said slowly, standing up, "we face whatever this… whatever this truth costs."
It was then that the coin—Groat—gave a loud, sharp squeal from Ilyan's satchel, startling him out of his thoughts. The small, gleaming coin had been quiet until now, but it suddenly hopped out of the bag and landed with a clink on the ground, its polished surface catching the dim light of the chamber.
"I do believe we are about to be in serious trouble, my friend!" Groat declared in a voice that was impossibly loud for such a small coin. "Did you really think that confessing your existential fear would not come at a cost?"
Ilyan winced. "Yeah, I kind of assumed the price was… well, something."
Groat gleamed, clearly enjoying the discomfort. "Oh, it is. And you, my dear Ilyan, will be the one paying for it. But not just you, no! Not just you."
Before Ilyan could ask what that meant, a sudden voice interrupted, as if from nowhere.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here? Someone confessing their deepest, darkest fears?"
Ilyan turned to see a figure lounging casually in the doorway, his silhouette impossibly tall and thin. Dressed in elaborate jester's attire—multicolored, patterned tights, a small bell on his cap, and a mischievous grin spreading from ear to ear—he entered the room with exaggerated swagger.
Loup.
Ilyan was momentarily taken aback. They had not heard him approach, and yet there he stood, as though he had been part of the scene all along. His movements were fluid, graceful, as though he had all the time in the world.
"What are you doing here?" Ashwen asked, her voice sharp as she instinctively reached for her weapon.
"Oh, me? What am I doing?" Loup's French accent was thick, playful, as though he found everything infinitely amusing. "I'm just here to observe, darling. And maybe participate, if the mood strikes." He bowed theatrically, then straightened up, eyes twinkling with some private joke. "I have a feeling things are about to get very interesting."
Groat—who had been silently bouncing up and down on the floor—suddenly snapped.
"And you, Monsieur Loup! You dare show up now, after all this time? You weren't invited!"
Loup's grin widened as he lazily flicked a hand. "Mon petit, you think I need an invitation to be where the fun is?"
Groat flared in indignation, "I do not partake in 'fun.' I deal in the serious matters of fate, truth, and consequences. You, on the other hand, are a distraction, a nuisance."
The jester chuckled, his voice rich with amusement. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my little metal friend. Fun—chaos—is where the truth hides, no?" His eyes glinted as he leaned toward the coin, as though he were savoring a secret. "And fun tends to reveal the truth, doesn't it?"
Groat bristled. "You think this is all some game?"
"I think everything is a game," Loup replied with a careless shrug, "and that includes you. You can't escape it, Groat. Weare all players in this strange dance, n'est-ce pas?"
Groat seemed to freeze in place, its metallic sheen dulling for just a moment. "You... are insufferable."
"Oh, I know, but you've been complaining so much, I thought I'd make things more entertaining for you."
Ilyan, still confused but slightly amused by the bickering between the two, cleared his throat. "So, what exactly is the price of this truth? What happens now?"
Groat, still glaring at Loup, shifted its tone to something more serious. "Well, it's not exactly a good price. But since you've acknowledged it—your fear—the cost will be one of awareness. You will no longer be able to ignore the things you once did. The truth of your choices will follow you, unrelenting, until the very end. You cannot pretend anymore, Ilyan of the Recently Dead."
Loup tilted his head and gave a slow, exaggerated clap. "Oh, that sounds delightful. How very convenient." He chuckled softly, then turned to Ilyan. "Well, mon ami, this is your adventure, isn't it? Enjoy the ride."
Ilyan swallowed hard, trying to process the weight of Groat's words. The truth had a cost, sure, but now it was beginning to feel less like a burden and more like a trap. Could he even handle it? Would this truth haunt him, follow him like a shadow?
Ashwen stepped forward, her voice low. "You sure you're okay with this, Ilyan? This is some heavy stuff."
Ilyan looked at her, his gaze steady. "I don't have a choice, do I?"
"No. But I'll be here," she said softly, "whether you like it or not."
And with that, they turned toward the exit, ready—or at least resigned—to face whatever came next.
But Loup's voice called out just before they stepped out of the door.
"Au revoir, mes amis! I'll be watching you, of course. It's my job, after all." He gave them a lazy salute before disappearing into the shadows.
As they left the chamber, one thing became certain: his journey was far from over.