The night wind brushes over the ruins of Ehwaz Hill, rustling the dry grass and crumbling stone. The world is still, save for the distant hum of crickets and the occasional creak of shifting wood from long-abandoned watchtowers.
But between us—between Elias, Edan, and me—there is no stillness.
Only the quiet tension of a conversation that could change everything.
Edan does not look away.
His stance is solid, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—sharp, piercing, searching—are demanding something.
"Who are you really?"
Elias leans back against a broken column, stretching his legs out like this is the most casual interrogation of his life.
But I see the way his fingers curl slightly, the way his breathing is measured.
He is thinking.
Calculating.
Deciding how much to say—and how much to keep buried.
I glance at him.
He meets my gaze.
And I understand—
He will speak first.
Because he is better at this than I am.
Because, despite everything, I am still new to this world.
And he is not.
——
Elias exhales slowly, then looks back at Edan.
"You ever consider that maybe you're asking the wrong question?"
Edan narrows his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Elias tilts his head, watching him carefully.
"Let's try a different angle," he says smoothly. "You're an archaeologist, right? Spent your whole life digging through ruins, trying to make sense of history. But tell me something—have you ever stopped to wonder if history itself is… wrong?"
Edan frowns. "History is written by those who survive. I don't take records at face value."
"Good," Elias murmurs. "Because neither do we."
A pause.
Edan crosses his arms. "You're dodging my question."
Elias smirks, but there is no humour in it.
"I'm answering it in a way you might actually understand."
——
I inhale slowly, choosing my words carefully.
"Edan," I say softly. "You trust your knowledge. Your logic. But… what if the logic you rely on doesn't apply anymore?"
His brows furrow, but I can see the flicker of hesitation in his expression.
Elias leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You're a smart guy," he continues, his voice lower now. "So let's put it this way. You've studied the Ancients. You've uncovered artifacts that shouldn't exist, inscriptions that make no sense. You've seen things in ruins that don't match the timeline of this world. You've felt it, haven't you?"
Edan's jaw tightens.
I watch his hands, the slight twitch of his fingers—
Recognition.
Elias presses forward.
"You were already questioning things before you met us," he says. "We just happened to be another piece of the puzzle you couldn't figure out."
Edan's breath is steady, but I see the way his mind is turning, the way he is piecing together his own theories.
Elias finally stops, tilting his head. "Tell me, scholar—if we weren't here, if we weren't standing in front of you right now, what conclusion would you have drawn from that ruin?"
Edan does not answer immediately.
Because he knows.
He knows that whatever he would have concluded—would have led him to the same unsettling truth.
That this world does not make sense.
And we are part of the reason why.
——
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of damp soil and old stone.
Edan finally speaks.
His voice is quieter now, the sharp edge of accusation fading—
Not because he trusts us completely.
But because he is starting to understand that this is bigger than just us.
"I've seen ruins that don't match any known civilization," he murmurs. "Artifacts that seem… out of place, like they shouldn't belong here. And then there's the Black Spirits—beings that have existed for centuries, but with no known origin. No true records, no explanations, only… theories."
He exhales, shaking his head.
"You're telling me you know why."
Elias shrugs. "Not exactly."
Edan narrows his eyes again. "But you know something."
Elias smiles faintly, but it does not reach his eyes.
"I know that whatever's happening in this world isn't natural. That maybe, just maybe, we weren't supposed to be here at all."
Edan stiffens.
His hands tighten into fists.
"Then why are you?"
Elias does not answer immediately.
Instead, he leans back against the stone, tilting his head toward the stars.
And then, softly—
"That's the part I haven't figured out yet."
——
Silence.
The kind of silence that is not empty, but heavy—thick with thoughts, with implications, with things left unsaid.
Edan does not speak.
I do not speak.
Elias remains still, his gaze lost in the vast expanse of the night sky.
And I wonder—
If we are opening a door that should have stayed closed.