The campfire flickers low, its embers glowing like dying stars.
The others have dispersed—Edan has retreated to his notes, Lafi is still muttering to himself about explosive compounds, and Orwen has left, likely to report back to whoever she answers to.
The night is quiet, save for the distant rustling of the wind through the trees.
It is the perfect time for a conversation that should not be heard.
——
Elias and I sit on the edge of the camp, where the flickering torchlight barely reaches.
For a while, neither of us speak.
Then—
Elias lets out a slow breath, stretching out his legs. "Alright," he mutters, voice low, "let's be real here."
I glance at him.
He doesn't look at me—his gaze is on the dark sky, the faint glimmer of stars that look too distant tonight.
But his tone tells me everything.
He is done pretending.
"That entire conversation," he continues, "was nonsense."
I nod, exhaling. "It was."
Elias snorts, rubbing his temple. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I like Edan. He's smart, he's got theories, and he knows how to sell them. But…"
He finally tilts his head toward me, his usual grin nowhere to be seen.
"We both know he's wrong."
——
The words settle between us, heavy, unspoken truths finally dragged into the open.
I shift slightly, feeling the weight of it in my chest.
"He's convinced the Black Spirits are the key to all of this," I murmur.
Elias laughs softly, but there's no humour in it. "Yeah. Because it's the easiest answer."
The problem is…
It's not the right answer.
——
What We Know (And What We Don't)
I take a slow breath, organizing my thoughts.
"The inscriptions," I start, voice quiet, "weren't about the Black Spirits."
Elias nods, as if he had already come to the same conclusion.
"Not even close," he agrees. "I don't think they were even written by someone from this world."
I pause.
A chill settles under my skin.
"You think it was…" I trail off, unsure how to phrase it.
Elias leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "You heard the way Edan described it. The words were too modern. Too fragmented. It wasn't an Ancient language—it was something else, something half-understood."
I bite my lip. "And the way it talked about the world being… mirrored. Broken."
Elias exhales sharply, rubbing his fingers together.
"That part hit too close to home," he mutters.
I don't respond immediately.
Because I know what he means.
The phrasing, the metaphors, the descriptions of things that should not exist here—
It was too familiar.
It was like reading the thoughts of someone who knew the truth but couldn't explain it properly.
Someone who knew that this world was not just a world.
That something was wrong with it.
And that scares me.
——
I inhale slowly. "Edan thinks the Black Spirits were created by the Ancients."
Elias scoffs. "That's cute. But if that were true, why does no one actually know where they come from?"
I hesitate. "Because they weren't created here."
Elias snaps his fingers, pointing at me. "Exactly."
He leans back, staring at the sky again. "Look, I get it. Edan's looking for answers, and he's trying to make sense of what he found. But he's trying to fit it into his understanding of the world. He wants the Black Spirits to be the cause because that's what makes sense to him."
"But he's wrong," I murmur.
Elias sighs. "Yeah. And honestly? It's better if we let him believe that for now."
I glance at him, startled. "What?"
Elias meets my gaze, his expression calm, but firm.
"We don't correct him," he says. "Not yet."
I stare at him. "Why not?"
Elias exhales, voice dropping lower. "Because the real answer is worse."
——
I swallow.
He's right.
Because if we correct Edan—if we tell him that the inscriptions were written by something outside of this world, that they were warnings about something deeper, more fundamental—
Then we open a door that we might not be able to close.
And I don't think we're ready for that yet.
So I nod, reluctantly. "Alright. We let him believe what he wants."
Elias smiles, but it's not his usual grin. It's… tired.
"Good girl," he murmurs, ruffling my hair.
I swat his hand away, but the tension lingers.
The stars above us seem farther away than ever.
And in the quiet between us, I wonder—
If we don't stop this soon, will the world unravel before we understand how to fix it?