The village proper was tucked behind a low stone wall, the gate little more than a wooden arch etched with shallow grooves. He paused beneath it, fingers brushing one of the carvings. It stung faintly when he touched it, like the ache of a dream slipping away.
"Don't touch the glyphs," the girl warned. "Some of them still bite."
He pulled his hand back.
Inside, the village was quiet in the way old places are, as if even the wind had learned not to speak too loudly. Buildings huddled together like secrets, their thatched roofs patched with woven reeds and the bones of some thin, antlered creature. Strange brass lanterns hung from corners, each burning with a cold blue flame.
People watched him from behind shutters or through half-opened doors. No one waved. No one smiled.
"They're cautious," the girl said, leading him toward a squat building near the edge of the square. "Every year, more and more of you show up from the fog. Blank-eyed. Silent. Some don't even last the night."
He glanced at her. "What happens to them?"
She didn't answer.
The building she brought him to had a low ceiling and a sign painted in cracked black ink. It wasn't written in any language he knew, but the moment he looked at it, he understood.
The House of Recording.
Inside, the air was dry and smelled faintly of paper and old wax. Shelves lined the walls, each filled with narrow ledgers and small, glassy tokens suspended in rows like bottled tears. An old man sat behind a desk, bent over a quill. His hair was gone in a perfect ring around the scalp, and his robes were dust-colored.
"Another?" the man asked, not looking up.
The girl nodded. "Found him by the orchard. No memory, no name. Responsive."
"Responsive is better than usual."
The man set down his quill, opened a drawer, and pulled out a black stone tablet. He handed it to the girl, who passed it to Kael.
"Place your palm here," she said.
He obeyed. The stone flickered beneath his hand, then went dull.
"Empty," the man said, not surprised. "Another void."
He turned to the girl. "What would you call him?"
She looked at Kael for a long moment, then spoke softly.
"Doesn't matter yet. He stays in the outer house until the Council convenes."
"The rules still apply," the man said. "If he dreams wrong, we burn the name and the body both."
Kael's throat tightened. "What does that mean?"
The man stood, suddenly less frail than he appeared. "It means we don't let the dangerous ones stay long. The Oblivion sends back more than just the broken."
The girl stepped between them. "I'll take him. For now."
The man studied her. "Your name won't shield him if he flares."
"It's not my name that will," she said.
She led Kael out of the Record Hall and toward a low structure built into the slope behind the square. A guesthouse, but barely. It looked abandoned. A single window. A crooked door.
She opened it, gestured him inside.
He paused at the threshold. "You didn't give me your name."
She tilted her head. "We don't give first names here. Names are dangerous when they're loose."
"Then what should I call you?"
She hesitated, just a breath.
"Lira."
He blinked.
"That's a first name."
"Yes," she said. "But only you can use it."
Then she shut the door behind him.