Appearing like a ghost in his room, Narvel immediately noticed that the space was thick with dust—a layer of neglect that blanketed every surface—but none of it truly concerned him at that moment.
All he cared about was whether Joseline was alright. With a surge of urgency, he rushed out the door and, as he made his way down the corridor, he began to hear voices coming from below.
His heart pounded faster with every step as he raced toward the stairs, each footfall echoing his growing anxiety.
'For two whole months, I've been gone—how in the world is that possible?' He thought, his mind reeling with questions about the passage of time.
Upon reaching the ground floor, Narvel paused at the sight that greeted him: a room filled with a throng of people whose numbers and collective aura overwhelmed the space. Almost all of the individuals were unfamiliar faces, and from the powerful energy radiating from them, he could tell they were Novas—strong ones, no less.
Before Narvel could even gather himself, he felt a firm grip on what remained of his faded grey janitor's jumpsuit. A rough hand yanked him aggressively, and in one swift, jarring motion, it flipped his body into the air. As if that wasn't enough, the hand then pressed onto his chest as though it wanted to smash him into the ground.
In that heart-stopping moment, Narvel's mind went into overdrive.
The sudden assault brought with it a grim realization: the Rusty Anchor he had called home for a long time now might now be compromised by outsiders.
Without hesitation, he instinctively activated his [Mind's Eye] attribute. The world around him slowed to a crawl as space itself seemed to bend; though his body remained momentarily paralyzed, his mind had the clarity to assess the situation and conceive a counterattack.
In rapid succession, he also activated [True Double], channeling all his focus into enhancing his dexterity. This surge of points into his dexterity granted him the swiftness he needed to break free from the grip and mount a precise counterattack.
With a powerful punch to the side of the elbow of the person clutching his shirt and an adept twist of his waist that allowed his lower body to rotate in perfect synchronization, Narvel swiftly countered his assailant and regained his footing.
The grip on his jumpsuit released immediately as a sharp pain lashed through the assailant's senses, nearly forcing his elbow to give out under the force of his blow. In that split second, the attacker realized that the person he had struck was no ordinary human—Narvel was a Nova.
Just as he braced himself to employ an ability on Narvel, a piercing feminine voice cut through the thick tension and halted him in his tracks.
"Stop!"
Narvel, having just landed and was about to bring forth Ebonveil, paused as recognition flashed across his eyes.
It was Madam Greaves.
Turning around to see if it was indeed who he thought it was, Narvel was greeted by a familiar face—a visage that wore both surprise and concern in equal measure. "Greaves?" he asked, noticing that her hair now sported more grey strands than before.
"Narvel… where in the hell have you been?" Greaves replied, her tone laced with disbelief as she struggled to reconcile the figure before her with the person she once knew. Yet, when she took in the ragged, torn, and bloodied state of his jumpsuit—identical to the one she last saw him in—she realized that this was truly Narvel.
Sensing the tumult of emotions radiating from Greaves, Narvel understood that his prolonged absence had deeply worried her, perhaps even more than he had anticipated. "I… went looking for," he paused, his voice faltering slightly. "Where's Joseline?"
Before Greaves could press further with her questions, a soft voice interjected, "Narvel… I'm here."
The familiar tone made his heart skip a beat and flooded him with a rush of relief. He shifted his gaze, and the look in his eyes softened—only to transform into shock.
There, standing just behind Greaves, was Joseline.
She looked as though she had grown since the last time he saw her a few days ago—at least, that was his impression until the stark reality struck him: he had been in the Crucible for over two months.
Joseline stood six feet tall, her willowy frame cutting a striking silhouette against any backdrop. Her jet-black hair cascaded like ink-spilled silk over alabaster skin, while her deep, glacial blue eyes glinted like shards of Arctic ice, sharp enough to freeze a stare midair.
A faint, and almost imperceptible frost clung to her lashes, and though her lips were pale, they held an unyielding curve. Her beauty was blade-like: mesmerizing yet chilling, each movement radiating a presence that compelled respect and kept others at a distance.
Taking a step forward, Narvel began to close the gap between them, momentarily forgetting about the unfamiliar figures in the Rusty Anchor.
Though it was not uncommon to see strangers gathered in this building—especially on the ground floor—such a congregation during the day was rare.
Madam Greaves, who ran the establishment with an iron fist over her property, had taken him in after his parents went missing; it was not his place to judge her methods or the legality of her operations.
Just when Narvel was within an arm's reach of Joseline, a masculine hand suddenly appeared before him, stopping his advance. The sight of that hand stirred in him a fierce urge to slice it off, regardless of who might own it.
Looking to the side, he saw Ronan Blackwood—a tall, chiseled figure with piercing brown eyes—standing as an unspoken guardian.
Before Narvel could react further, Joseline swept the intrusive hand aside and stepped forward. With gentle urgency, she cupped Narvel's face as if to confirm his reality.
"Where have you been?" She asked softly.
"I went to look for you, in the Crucible," he replied.
Hearing his response, both Greaves and Joseline frowned.
"We had a feeling that you too had been infected and ventured into the Crucible that same night, but we assumed you were kidnapped by the Federation," Greaves said.
"Kidnapped?" Narvel frowned. Although the Federation had been patrolling the streets of Section 9 the night he departed for the Crucible, he doubted they would breach this place for several reasons. "What happened in the two months that I've been away?"
"Two months?" Greaves echoed in disbelief.
"You've been gone for two years, Narvel," Joseline finally uttered.
A heavy silence fell—a silence that barely captured the whirlwind of emotions surging within Narvel. He didn't have time to wonder if Joseline was joking; her tone was too earnest, and his sensitivity towards people's emotions confirmed that she was not lying.
'Was it when I stepped onto the tree's branch? Or when I entered that garden and crossed immense distances?'
His mind raced, struggling to comprehend how two years could pass without his knowledge when it had felt like only a few days.
He even considered whether it occurred when he was hurled from the tree's branch to the first elevated ground of the Hollow Forest—after all, from that lofty vantage he had seen the forest's vast expanse and knew that covering such distances in a short time was impossible. But he quickly dismissed that thought as he recalled the hunger that had assaulted him when he awoke with Ebonveil on him.
Almost certain that these two years had elapsed while he was in that garden, amidst the petals of wills, or perhaps after the explosion following the cryptic conversation with those anonymous figures in the dark space, Narvel was dismayed to learn of the time lost.
Two years, gone without his knowledge, gnawed at him.
Countless events might have transpired during his absence—Joseline, the very reason he had dared to enter this forsaken place, might even have perished two years ago, and he would never have known if not for the Novas at the forest's edge.
"How is that even possible?" Narvel muttered aloud, his voice barely cutting through the hushed, worn interior of the Rusty Anchor.
"Everyone, give us some privacy. Come back tomorrow," Joseline ordered with firm authority.
To Narvel's surprise, the assembled group—each face etched with confusion and weariness—began filing out of the building without protest, their steps echoed softly against the creaking wooden floors. Despite their puzzled expressions, they obeyed her command without hesitation.
Only Ronan lingered behind. "You too, boy. This is inner family talk; it doesn't concern you," Greaves snapped, her eyes narrowing with disapproval as she regarded the young man. Ronan exchanged a brief, meaningful glance with Joseline before turning his gaze toward Narvel.
With a curt nod, he bobbed his head and exited the Rusty Anchor, vanishing into the fading light outside.
After a few tense moments of silence, Narvel felt the gentle warmth of a soft hand embrace him. Overcome by emotion, Joseline stepped forward and wrapped him in a heartfelt hug. The comforting touch contrasted sharply with spiraling thoughts, momentarily easing the tumult of his emotions.
It took him several seconds to fully process the reunion; his mind was still reeling from everything that had happened.
Yet as he absorbed Joseline's embrace, he gradually understood her perspective—what had felt like only a few days to him had been an agonizing two years for her.