They crossed the ridge by morning.
The marked tree behind them faded into shadow, the red thread Lumen had tied around its branch fluttering once in the breeze—then still.
The path ahead curved through brittle woods and frost-thinned streams, where stones looked like the bones of old rivers. Birds returned to the sky, and the world—for a while—felt almost normal.
Lumen walked ahead, wearing the scarecrow mask again. Rin walked beside him, arms tucked under her cloak, eyes sharp and watchful.
"You sure about the mask again?" she asked eventually.
"It helps," he said.
"Helps with what? Looking suspicious?"
He gave a dry shrug. "Helps me think. Like... it keeps the world out a little."
Rin was quiet for a few paces, then smirked. "Alright, Scarecrow. Just don't forget there's a face under there."
He didn't reply. But her words stayed with him longer than she probably realized.
After a quiet pause, Lumen asked, "So... how long have you had your sigil?"
Rin's eyes stayed forward. "Since I was eight. They sent a royal tester to our town. Carried one of those floating Spheres—the ones the Seers use."
"A Sphere?"
She nodded. "Yeah. My brother and I were both called. I got an Uncommon mark." She hesitated. "He got Rare."
"What happened to him?"
"They took him. Said he'd serve the kingdom. Said he'd be trained among the elite. That was the last day I saw him." Her voice dropped, barely above the frost-bitten wind. "He didn't even get to say goodbye."
Lumen lowered his head slightly. "I'm sorry."
Rin exhaled through her nose. "Don't be. Just means I'm never trusting another Seer again."
They walked in silence for a while, snow crunching beneath their boots.
Lumen's thoughts turned inward. He had no memory of any Sphere. No test. No Seer. And yet the sigil was there—Threadbinder. Marked like it had always belonged to him.
He didn't tell her. Not yet.
Instead, he just said, "I don't think you need to prove anything. Not to them."
Rin glanced at him. "I know. But I still want to."
They shared a faint smile. It passed quickly, but it stayed in the air like warmth in cold fingers.
They didn't push forward immediately. By the time the forest thinned and the trail sloped downward, night had settled again. They stopped beneath a twisted birch tree, its pale limbs like crooked fingers against the stars. Lumen unrolled their cloth and lit a tiny flame with flint and thread. No campfire — just enough warmth to keep the cold off their bones.
Rin lay on her back, hands folded behind her head, staring up at the gaps in the canopy.
"You ever think we're not supposed to be doing this?" she asked softly.
Lumen didn't answer right away. He sat with knees drawn up, mask resting beside him for once, face half-lit by the ember's glow.
"Sometimes," he said. "But if we don't… someone else might."
She rolled onto her side to look at him. "You always talk like you're choosing to be here. But you didn't ask for that sigil. Or the Hollow."
He shrugged. "I didn't ask to live in a village full of cowards either."
Rin whistled low. "Okay, harsh. But fair."
They both fell quiet for a while.
Eventually, Rin mumbled, "You really believe there's something good waiting for you there?"
"I think… there's something true," he said. "Even if it's not good."
She nodded slowly. "Well. I'm not leaving until I find out too. Even if it kills us."
He turned to her. "Let's hope it doesn't."
She grinned, closed her eyes, and turned her back to the dying light.
They slept side by side under the cracked limbs of the birch, the chill creeping in even through dreams.
They woke late.
By the time the sun had fully crested the hills, they were walking again — miles passing beneath their feet in quiet rhythm. The trees grew thinner. A valley opened ahead.
Hours passed.
A crooked wooden gate stood open, leaning like a tired drunk. Faded paint read: Redroot Crossing. Beyond it, the village slouched under frost and silence—a few lanterns flickering, a bell tower leaning like it had forgotten how to pray.
An older woman in a patchwork shawl greeted them at the edge of the path. Her face was deeply lined, but her smile was steady.
"Well now. Rare to see wanderers this time of year."
Rin nodded politely. "We'll only stay the night. If there's space."
"There's always space," the woman said, eyes flicking to Lumen's mask but saying nothing of it. "We've a room set up. Warm hearth. No trouble."
Lumen felt a small pulse in his chest—not fear, but something close. The villagers who passed them offered nods, but no smiles. Eyes lingered too long. A child peeked from behind a doorframe and vanished just as quickly.
The woman led them to a small cottage at the edge of the square. One room. A tidy fire. Blankets folded neatly.
"You'll sleep well," the woman said softly. "Travelers always do."
Later, when the fire had dimmed and silence filled the room, Lumen sat cross-legged while Rin lay curled on the floor mat, already drifting off.
Something… was off.
The air smelled faintly sweet. Dusty. Familiar.
He narrowed his eyes.
Sleeproot powder.
He recognized it from days ago—the same mix the old woman used in minor sigil rituals. A gentle sedative meant to pull people into harmless dreams.
He leaned forward, touched Rin's shoulder.
"Rin. Hey—wake up."
She mumbled. Didn't stir.
His sigil pulsed softly in his palm, as if nudging him.
"Come on." He shook her more firmly. "Rin, this isn't sleep. This is a trick."
Finally, her eyes cracked open. Dazed. Then sharper.
"What...?"
"We were dosed," he said. "Light trace in the fire smoke. Probably the blankets too."
Rin sat up slowly, rubbing her temple. "Why didn't it work on you?"
"I've smelled this before. Knew how to hold my breath."
She stood, blinking the last of the haze away. "Great. So, ambush?"
"Not yet."
Then they heard it.
A child's scream.
Shrill. Muffled. From outside.
Lumen was on his feet in seconds. Rin didn't hesitate either.
They slipped through the door and into the freezing night. Snowflakes had begun to fall—light, soft, like ash.
Another cry—closer to the church.
They ran.
The chapel stood crooked on its foundation, half-swallowed by vines. Its wooden doors hung open, groaning in the wind.
Inside: candlelight. Faint. Flickering.
And figures—children—laid out across the pews, limbs slack, breaths slow and even.
At the altar stood a woman.
The same one who had greeted them in the village square.
She wasn't smiling now.
She wasn't moving.
Her arms hung at her sides, and her head twitched slightly, like a puppet with tangled strings.
Lumen stepped forward carefully, Rin just behind.
The woman's eyes opened.
Wide. Too wide.
"They always sleep," she whispered. "Easier that way. No screams when it's quiet."
Rin's hand dropped to her blade.
"What did you do to them?"
The woman blinked. Her lips twitched, as if struggling to smile—but couldn't quite remember how.
"They're dreaming now. No fear in dreams. Only stillness. He promised me stillness."
Lumen felt his sigil shiver.
She wasn't alone in there.
He stepped closer, gaze flicking to the dozens of sleeping children. Their faces were calm. Peaceful. Wrong.
Then the woman turned fully.
And something inside her turned too.
Her spine bent unnaturally. Her mouth widened, far beyond what it should..