Vale drifted in darkness once more. It was not sleep, but something heavier, deeper, an absence that pressed down on him even as awareness slowly crept back in. He was unconscious, yet sensation returned in fragments: the weight of his body held upright, supported as though he were seated against something solid. Cold stone pressed firmly against his back. His arms hung slack at his sides, and beneath him he felt the flat, unwavering certainty of a table or slab, smooth and unmoving.
He tried to open his eyes.
Nothing happened.
Then, without warning, the darkness broke.
A memory surged up from the depths of his mind, sudden and overwhelming, swallowing him whole before he could resist. Vale found himself sitting on a carpet, and that was the first thing he noticed. It was thick and warm beneath his legs, woven with patterns he didn't recognize. His body felt smaller, lighter, and when he looked down at his hands, he froze. They were not the hands he knew, but smaller, younger, and unscarred.
Confusion rippled through him.
'Where am I?'
Before the thought could settle, a sound echoed through the space: the slow creak of a door opening. Vale looked up sharply. A massive wooden door stood before him, its surface worn smooth by age, and as it swung open, blinding sunlight poured into the room. Brilliant gold spilled across the carpet, forcing Vale to narrow his eyes and raise an arm to shield his face as the light burned against his vision.
Then he saw him.
A man stood framed in the doorway, his features obscured by the glare behind him. He was tall, easily over two meters, his silhouette broad and imposing. Long, wild hair cascaded around his shoulders like a lion's mane, untamed and fierce, and his frame was wrapped in heavy, battle-worn black armor. From collar to greaves, it was engraved with the image of a roaring lion.
The man stood still, studying Vale.
Even through the overwhelming light, Vale could see his eyes.
Crimson.
A chill ran through him.
As the man shifted, Vale caught sight of the weapon on his back, a massive greatsword whose size alone made his breath catch. Recognition struck him with sudden force. This presence, this crushing weight, was no coincidence. This was not an imitation, not merely a trial.
This was the origin.
'The shade.'
The man took a single step forward, the light still refusing to release its hold on his face, and when he spoke, his voice rang out deep and warm, unmistakably alive.
"Heh. Kid," the man said, amusement lacing every word. "How've ya been, little devil?"
Vale's eyes widened.
He surged forward with his heart pounding, reaching out on instinct, his mouth opening in a desperate attempt to speak, to ask, to call out, to understand,
And the vision shattered.
Vale gasped as his eyes snapped open. He jolted upright, breath ragged and uneven, his chest heaving as though he had just broken the surface after being dragged beneath deep water. His vision swam as he took in his surroundings, blinking rapidly to steady himself.
Stone walls.
Torchlight.
Warm, still air.
He looked down at himself in disbelief.
He was whole.
His skull was intact. His body unbroken. There was no pain, no lingering echo of catastrophic damage. His blade rested at his waist exactly where it always did, and his spear lay before him atop a stone table, untouched and pristine.
Perfect.
Slowly, Vale raised a trembling hand to his face, pressing his palm over one eye. His expression tightened into something tangled and uncertain, caught between unease, confusion, and disbelief.
"What… happened?" he muttered.
Fragments of the battle surfaced in his mind: the charge, the miscalculation, the fist driving forward.
The impact.
Death.
And then his thoughts returned to the memory.
The man standing in the doorway.
The crimson eyes.
The strange familiarity in his voice.
'Who was he?'
His father?
A friend of his father's?
An uncle?
Or someone else entirely, someone he had known once and somehow forgotten?
Vale exhaled slowly, unable to grasp any clear answer.
His hands came to rest on the surface of the table beneath him. It was carved into a perfect circle, smooth and cold, its craftsmanship ancient and exacting, as though shaped with deliberate reverence.
Then a voice spoke from across the table.
"I assume you failed your trial?"
Vale looked up sharply.
Drago sat opposite him, arms crossed, posture as relaxed as ever. Beside him sat Eskar, but the boy looked wrong. His gaze was fixed on his lap, his expression tight and conflicted, as though he were wrestling with thoughts he didn't yet know how to name.
Vale studied them both for a moment before speaking.
"Where are we?"
Drago scoffed lightly, casting him a sideways glance.
"The sanctuary of the temple," he replied flatly. "Our destination."
Vale's eyes drifted back to the table between them.
Food covered its surface in overwhelming abundance: roasted meats, vegetables, fruits, and fresh breads. Chicken and beef lay beside spices he didn't recognize, their scents rich and deliberate. It was a feast laid out with care, not haste.
The sight only deepened his confusion.
Vale turned back to Eskar who still hadn't moved.
"What happened to him?" Vale asked, his voice lower now.
Drago answered without hesitation.
"He cleared his trial."
Vale's eyes widened.
He snapped his gaze back to Eskar, half rising from his seat. "Then why does he look like that?"
Before Drago could respond, Eskar spoke.
"I got my answer," he said quietly.
Vale froze.
Eskar lifted his head and met Vale's gaze. His eyes were cold, not hostile, but unmistakably different from before.
"Now I need to figure out how to use it."
Silence settled over the table, heavy and unyielding, as though the temple itself were listening.
Vale stared at him for a long moment before slowly exhaling. He sat back down, forcing his shoulders to relax as he reined in his thoughts and brought his breathing under control.
Drago broke the quiet, his tone carrying mild boredom.
"How did you lose?"
Vale looked up, conflicted, then let out a resigned sigh.
"I got punched into the ground," he said bluntly. "He shattered my skull with a single attack."
Drago was silent for a moment.
"I see," he said at last. "Then don't be ashamed. If that's true, you likely faced one of the strongest shades this place has to offer."
Despite himself, a low chuckle slipped out of Vale.
"And how do you know that?"
Drago's eyes shifted to him, cold and unwavering.
"Because I cleared my own trial many years ago."
The hall seemed to still around them.
Towering stone pillars rose high overhead, their surfaces worn smooth by time and etched with symbols dulled by age. The warmth of the chamber clashed with its austere, ancient presence, and torchlight flickered softly along the walls, casting long shadows that refused to fully settle.
Then a fourth presence made itself known.
"I apologize for my late arrival."
Vale snapped his head to the side.
The high priestess now sat beside him, completing the circle. She had not been there a moment before. Her expression was gentle, her smile serene, as though she had always belonged at the table and had merely chosen to reveal herself now.
She folded her hands calmly and spoke again.
"Shall we eat?"
Vale stared at the blindfolded woman for a long moment before finally speaking. When he did, his voice was calm, too calm, stripped of emotion and honed by careful calculation.
"Do you know what I just dreamed about?"
The priestess tilted her head slightly toward him, as though weighing the question. After a brief pause, she shook her head.
"I do not," she replied simply.
Vale's brow lifted a fraction.
The answer unsettled him. She had claimed to know everything, every truth that had ever existed and every truth yet to be born, and yet she now admitted ignorance without hesitation. Vale studied her face, searching for deception, but found only serene certainty. The silence that followed stretched between them, heavy and deliberate.
He spoke again.
"Who was that man?" His gaze hardened. "That shade."
The priestess's lips curved into a broad smile, one too warm for the chill that crept into her words.
"That," she said lightly, "is for you to discover."
Her hand rose in a graceful gesture toward the spread of food laid out before them. "For now," she continued, her voice smoothing over the tension, "we shall eat."
Vale's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as his teeth ground softly together.
He wasn't satisfied, far from it, but he recognized a closed door when he saw one. Pressing further would gain him nothing. Still, something important had been confirmed: his memories were not lost forever. Whatever had surfaced during the trial proved that much.
That knowledge alone kept him from exploding.
He exhaled slowly and lowered his gaze to the porcelain plate set before him. It was pristine and untouched, its surface reflecting the warm torchlight like polished bone. The irony was not lost on him.
He hadn't eaten properly in nearly two days.
And yet he felt no hunger.
Instead, a deep nausea churned in his stomach, a hollow, sick revulsion that made the thought of food unbearable. His body still remembered death: the crushing blow, the shattering force, the certainty that everything had ended.
Appearances, however, still mattered.
Reluctantly, Vale reached forward and placed portions of chicken and beef onto his plate. He stared at the food for a long moment, his expression distant and conflicted, before finally lifting his fork. A piece of beef hovered briefly in front of his mouth before he forced himself to take a bite.
The taste was exquisite, perfectly seasoned, tender, rich.
He felt none of it.
All he tasted was bitterness.
The bitterness of nearly dying.
The bitterness of unanswered questions.
The bitterness of a past that lingered just out of reach, taunting him with fragments and shadows.
Vale swallowed slowly, his grip tightening around the fork as his eyes grew dark and unfocused, and the meal continued in silence.