He left before dawn.

  Not out of anger. Not even grief.

  But because he knew what came next.

  After Dagon’s fall, the hunters had changed.

  Their voices grew quieter.

  Their glances, sharper.

  Laughter turned hollow.

  Orders came late.

  Eyes stopped meeting his.

  He had seen this before.

  Back in another place. Before the last betrayal.

  They would wait until his back was turned.

  And then they’d finish what the shadows had started.

  So he packed what little he had,

  slipped past the sleeping embers of the campfire,

  and stepped into the cold morning mist.

  No goodbyes. No explanations.

  Just silence.

  The only truth he could still trust.

  Because blind trust gets you killed.

  The road to the next town was short.

  A day. Maybe two. He didn’t count.

  He stayed off the main trail, slipping between trees and mist-thick hills.

  Not from beasts.

  From people.

  He passed a sign with no name.

  Cracked wood. Faded paint.

  He followed it anyway.

  It led him to a town curled against a grey ridge,

  smoke lifting from stone chimneys,

  water pooling between uneven cobbles.

  No guards stopped him.

  No one looked twice.

  He liked that.

  People moved with the rhythm of quiet survival.

  Market stalls leaned like old men straining to hear secrets.

  Dogs barked, but not at him.

  When his feet stopped, he stood before a crooked wooden sign:

  The Golden Lantern.

  Its painted flame half-peeled,

  but warm light spilled from its windows like a whisper that said, “Maybe.”

  Inside, the smell of roasted meat hit him like memory.

  But that was all it was — memory.

  The pendant no longer hummed.

  His dreams — when he managed to sleep — were hollow, dry, and quiet.

  No voices. No visions. No pull.

  Just darkness… and the echo of what he used to be.

  The anchor was missing.

  And he didn’t know if that meant he was free — or adrift.

  He stood at the threshold for a while.

  Then stepped inside.

  No one turned to stare.

  Just spoons. Laughter. Warmth.

  | “You lost, son?” a man asked from behind the bar — round-bellied, wide-grinned.

  | “Hungry. And willing to work.”

  | “Start with the mop. Storeroom’s yours tonight.”

  It was enough.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  More than enough.

  The storeroom wasn’t empty.

  A second cot stood near the wall, beside crates and jars.

  “You’ll be sharing,” Holt had said earlier.

  “New guy came in a few days back. Doesn’t talk much. Works the stables.”

  Ryan didn’t ask questions.

  When he entered, the man was already lying down, boots on.

  | “You the new one?”

  | “Yeah.”

  | “Corin.”

  | “Ryan.”

  | “You running from something?”

  Pause.

  | “Not running. Just... done being followed.”

  Corin chuckled.

  | “Fair.”

  That was it.

  No more words. No handshake.

  Just two strangers breathing in the same quiet, lantern-lit space.

  Two ghosts pretending to sleep.

  Still no dreams.

  The hunters didn’t thank him.

  But they celebrated.

  Ryan had brought down the largest boar they’d seen in months.

  Clean shot. Quick kill.

  Half the town fed off it.

  That evening, Corin tossed him a clean shirt.

  | “They're lighting the green. You earned this, even if you don’t want it.”

  Ryan followed.

  They walked through lantern-hung alleys,

  past dancing kids, drums, and drifting spice-smoke.

  Ryan stayed to the edge of the fire circle.

  Cup in hand. Half-in, half-out.

  Toasts were made.

  Voices called him “quiet but deadly.”

  He nodded. Didn’t linger.

  He didn’t believe in the celebration. Not yet. Not again.

  And then — he saw her.

  Not fate. Not prophecy.

  Just a girl stepping through firelight with a basket in her arms,

  hair loose, eyes lit with laughter from something he couldn’t hear.

  She didn’t look for him.

  But he couldn’t look away.

  The fire danced like it knew them.

  Lia reached for his hand.

  | “Come.”

  He didn’t say no.

  She pulled him into the circle, into the drums and laughter and light.

  He was dancing.

  Not well. But that didn’t matter.

  Because she was laughing.

  And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes…

  He was living.

  They slipped away before the fire died.

  The lake opened up like a secret.

  Still. Silver. Waiting.

  Lia set her basket down, turned to him with a look that asked nothing but readiness.

  From the basket, she pulled a silk wrap. Unfolded it.

  A single pale leaf.

  She didn’t hand it to him.

  She placed it between her lips. Stepped closer. And kissed him.

  The leaf moved between them — breath to breath, tongue to tongue.

  Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. Maybe more.

  And then… they swallowed.

  The shift was instant.

  Cold.

  Inside, not out.

  His body tensed. His senses sharpened.

  His mind stretched into places it had no words for.

  Her hands found his again. And her eyes — they weren’t the same.

  Clothes slipped away. Not out of lust. Out of recognition.

  They entered the water — together.

  And they connected.

  Lips. Bodies. Minds. Memories.

  They didn’t make love.

  They remembered it.

  And far inside the unseen,

  Minore stirred for the first time

  with the color of something close to love.

  Far beyond the lake… Arthalaine stirred.

  Its black mirror rippled in silence.

  Not from wind. Not from storm.

  But from connection.

  The Watchers leaned closer.

  No words. Just presence.

  In the pool’s surface — a boy and a girl. Chests pressed. Souls bared.

  Surrounded by a cloud of energy neither of them could see.

  Minore.

  Faint. Unformed. But awakening.

  The healer was touching it.

  Not because he sought it — but because something in him already knew how.

  A ripple broke the vision.

  | “He doesn’t know what he’s touching.”

  | “But it knows him.”

  And deep beneath the waters,

  something ancient opened its eye.

  End of Chapter 5.