The morning came thick with a quiet that clung to the walls. The hearth had gone cold. Outside, the faint calls of vendors floated in from the streets, but inside the house that once belonged to Niva, time moved differently. Ravine sat at the table; her fingers curled around a warm cup of tea that had already gone lukewarm. The question from the night before lingered in the still air like a ghost: Who is Maelon Serre?
She hadn't said the name aloud since. But it pressed at her like a thorn beneath the skin.
Arana moved lightly through the kitchen, adjusting a crooked chair, pulling the curtains just enough to let in a spill of soft light. "You don't have to ask now," she said quietly. "You can take your time. I'll go out for a little while—see how things are."
Ravine nodded, though she wasn't sure she wanted to be left alone. She watched Arana gather her cloak, saw the concern in her eyes that went unsaid, and then the door clicked shut.
She was alone with the weight of a name.
The house creaked in the kind of way that felt personal—like it remembered her, or someone like her. Her gaze drifted across the painted walls, the faded murals of crescent moons and stilled waters, the bloom still pinned at her chest. Her thumb brushed over one of the petals. It had long since dried but hadn't withered.
What if I'm not meant to know? she thought. What if I already know, and I just don't want to admit it?
The town had embraced her. The warmth, the quiet reverence—it all should have been comforting. But comfort had turned to confusion. And then, confusion to a strange ache.
Could she live like this? Take the kindness, the smiles, the ghost of someone else's life and call it her own?
When Arana returned, there was no rush in her step, only a solemnity that met Ravine's uncertainty with calm.
"I asked no questions," Arana said, "but I watched. People remember. But they don't speak."
Ravine met her eyes. "And Maelon?"
Arana took a seat across from her. "This is your choice. If we search for his name, if we ask for truths, we may not like what we find. But we'll find it. And sometimes, the truth changes things in ways that cannot be undone."
Silence settled like dust between them.
Then Ravine gave a slow nod. "Let's ask."
They stepped out into the softened streets of Arilenth, moving past curved doorways and ivy-laced awnings. Ravine didn't wear the bloom today. She wasn't sure if it was out of shame or fear or something harder to name. As they walked, she could feel eyes on her. Warm. Watching. But now, she wondered what they saw.
At the weaver's stand, Ravine asked an elderly woman about Maelon Serre.
The woman blinked. Her fingers paused over her thread work. "Ah," she said, and that was all. Then she turned her attention elsewhere, speaking to no one.
A boy playing near the fountain looked up when she asked. "He was... someone, wasn't he?" he muttered, before being called inside by a sharp voice.
At the glassblower's corner, a young man shrugged. "Don't know much. Heard they were always together. Him and her. That one who wore the bloom."
Him and her.
But no one said more. Just fragments. Broken glass in a mosaic she couldn't piece together.
It wasn't until the sun began to lower that they wandered near a quiet café tucked between two crooked willow trees. Its doorway was marked by small bells and hanging shells, and an old man sat at a corner table inside, sipping tea.
Ravine approached, hesitant. "Sir, do you know the name Maelon Serre?"
The man looked at her for a long while. His face did not twist with surprise, or fear, or reverence. Just quiet recognition.
"I know it," he said. His voice was hoarse, like it hadn't been used for stories in years.
She waited.
But after a pause, he only added, "But I can't tell you what you want to know."
And then, nothing more.