The hush that defined Veluria's streets had turned into a grating presence on Xion Trinity Pendragon's nerves. Though only a short time had passed since he and Lillian Weiss left the hidden chamber of the library, it felt like centuries. He kept glancing at the cramped notebook in his hand, verifying the newly recorded clue:
> Seek the Third Reflection in the Hall of Glass. Break the hour that binds your soul. Only then may you face the devourer of histories, and carve anew. <
The words swirled in his mind. He had traded a childhood memory—the last vestige of warmth from a life he could barely recall—to glean this knowledge from the Catalog of Omissions. A fair exchange? Possibly. Yet every time he tried to conjure that memory of an aunt-figure and a small hamlet, he felt a hollow space in his chest. An intangible ache. Even so, he forced himself to stay focused on the present. He refused to let the city pry anything else from him.
Lillian walked at his side, staff tapping softly on the cobblestone. Her expression remained conflicted—sympathetic, but also distant, as if wrestling with secrets she would not or could not share. The day in Veluria had advanced into an uneasy afternoon, sunlight filtering through a haze of gray clouds that never seemed to burn away.
Xion's thoughts surged with questions. Not just about the cryptic clue or the nightmares that suggested multiple versions of himself, but about something else that had haunted his footsteps. He had heard the word in passing—a rumor, a hush, references to Epitaphs. He had glimpsed it on the edges of fraying tomes while rummaging for knowledge on anomalies. What were Epitaphs? Why did so many fear them?
He slowed his pace, turning to Lillian. "What is an Epitaph?" he asked, letting the question tumble out with a mixture of curiosity and frustration. "I keep seeing that word in half-burned books or scrawled notes. Even the rumor that some of the... anomalies... carried Epitaphs. I need to know."
She looked up, momentarily taken aback by his directness. Then she offered him a guarded nod. "It's not an easy topic to explain," she began, voice low. "But if you're unraveling the nature of anomalies—and your own existence—you won't avoid it for long."
They passed a deserted shop with a broken sign that read: HERBAL TONICS FOR LOST MINDS. Xion reflexively glanced inside, half-expecting illusions or watchers, but found only dust and shadows. He turned his attention back to Lillian, determined to push for the truth.
She sighed, shifting the staff to her other hand. "Let's find somewhere less exposed first. I doubt the city cares for secrets being spoken aloud."
They wound through crooked alleys until they found a small courtyard, half overgrown with pale vines that crawled up a crumbling stone wall. A statue of a weeping figure stood at its center, water dripping from the corners of its hollow eyes. The hush felt less claustrophobic here, as though the city's oppressive aura was momentarily at bay. Lillian sat on a toppled column, motioning for Xion to join her.
"All right," she said, voice hushed but clear. "Epitaphs, in the simplest sense, are powers that defy the natural laws of this world. But calling them 'powers' isn't quite accurate. They're more like... living contradictions, splinters of higher truths, or cosmic rules that have broken free."
Xion frowned, trying to parse her words. "Living contradictions? So they're not magic? Not curses?"
"Magic, curses, blessings—these words are too small to encapsulate what an Epitaph truly is." She drew a shape in the dirt, a circle that wavered and re-formed into a complex design of lines. "In ancient times, some believed Epitaphs were fragments of the Forgotten Lords—rulers or gods who tried to shape reality according to their own designs. Others say they're shards of the Black Star's cosmic wound, each representing a paradox or a broken law that never healed."
The mention of the Black Star pricked Xion's ears. He remembered the Catalog's cryptic lines about a rewriting of existence. "So an Epitaph is... a piece of that cosmic wound?"
Lillian shrugged, a bitter twist to her smile. "Some. Others might be echoes of undone timelines. The truth is muddled by centuries of erasure. But what is known is that an Epitaph, when bound to a person, bestows them with abilities that violate normal reality—like pulling threads of existence where they don't belong, rewriting cause and effect, or even erasing the laws of nature around them."
Xion's thoughts drifted to the cloaked attacker he had fended off near the fountain—a swirl of dark mist that bent matter into impossible angles. Could that have been an Epitaph in action? Or was that something else entirely?
"Wait," he said, squinting. "If Epitaphs are so powerful, why doesn't everyone pursue them? Wouldn't entire armies want that kind of might?"
She pressed her lips into a thin line. "Some do. But Epitaphs aren't something you can just pick up like a sword. They either choose you, or infect you, or entwine with your soul in ways that inevitably alter who you are. There's always a cost, a piece of yourself that becomes... entangled in the contradiction the Epitaph represents."
"A cost," he echoed. "Like losing memories?"
"Sometimes." She nodded gravely. "Other times, losing your humanity, your sense of self, or your destiny. Epitaph bearers often go mad, or vanish, or ascend into states beyond mortal comprehension. Only a rare few manage to maintain a semblance of sanity and self-control."
He remembered the library's mention of anomalies. Could some anomalies be people tied to Epitaphs? The idea made a cold shiver run down his spine. "So Epitaphs might be behind some of the anomalies?"
Lillian met his gaze. "Yes. In fact, some anomalies are directly linked to Epitaphs that shouldn't exist in this world. They become paradoxical entities, living outside or between timelines."
A thought struck him like a thunderclap: Was he also bound to an Epitaph? Or was his power something else? He tried to recall any moment he manifested reality-warping abilities beyond the occasional glimpses of unusual strength or a heightened sense. So far, he had not done anything that truly bent the laws of existence—unless his survival was an Epitaph in itself.
He inhaled sharply. "Do I have one?" he asked, voice unsteady. "Am I... an Epitaph bearer?"
Lillian shook her head slowly. "I can't say for certain. You do not display the typical signs." She paused, eyes distant. "But your status as an anomaly, your recurring existence across timelines, suggests you may have been influenced by one—perhaps not as a bearer, but as a tether."
"A tether?" He frowned. "What does that mean?"
Before she could answer, a distant clang echoed through the alleyway, followed by the hum of voices. They exchanged wary glances. Lillian rose to her feet, gripping her staff. "We should keep moving," she murmured. "This courtyard is too exposed if tensions flare in the city again."
Xion reluctantly nodded, though frustration built in him—he needed to know more. But he followed Lillian as she navigated a twisting path out of the courtyard and back onto a side street that opened to a murky canal, water stagnant and tinted with green algae. Here, the hush deepened again, broken only by their footsteps and the faint drip of condensation from stone eaves overhead.
They approached a rickety footbridge that spanned the canal, half-collapsed at its center. Lillian tested the planks with her staff, and they creaked ominously. Beyond the bridge lay a cluster of taller buildings, some with decorative spires that had toppled, embedding themselves in the ground at crooked angles.
As they ventured onto the bridge, Xion pressed for more details. "You said Epitaphs always exact a price. How does the world—Veluria, or anywhere else—view those who bear Epitaphs?"
Lillian's expression darkened. "Most fear them, or worship them, or hunt them. The Divine Concord, for instance, deems many Epitaphs heretical, claiming they distort the natural order set by the so-called rightful gods. Entire wars have been fought over a single rumored Epitaph. Some bearers become revered saints, others are executed as abominations."
Her words sparked an old memory in Xion—the reason he had been on the run from the Divine Concord. He recalled their inquisitors hurling accusations about "bloodline heresy" and "defying the Celestial Law." While he had never heard the term Epitaph from them, the concept of "defying the natural order" had been central to their condemnation. Perhaps it was all tied together: his Trinity heritage, the power to reappear across timelines, and the forces that shaped the rewriting of existence.
They reached the center of the bridge. With a final warning groan, the planks swayed beneath their weight. A chunk of wood splintered, but they managed to cross, stepping onto a narrow walkway on the other side. Buildings loomed overhead, forming a claustrophobic corridor of gloom.
"Any idea how we figure out if I have an Epitaph or not?" Xion asked, breath unsteady from the precarious crossing.
Lillian nodded, though hesitantly. "There are ways—rituals, instruments designed to detect paradoxical energies, certain grimoires that list known Epitaphs and their bearers. But such knowledge is heavily guarded. Many owners of Epitaph-detecting tools have been killed by the very people who want to remain hidden."
She paused, glancing around warily. "We might find leads in the Sealed Academies, or the altars used by the Silent Choir. But I doubt we'll get close to them without a fight."
"Fight or not, I need to know," Xion said firmly. "I can't keep stumbling in the dark. If I do have an Epitaph, it could be the key to unraveling the chain of illusions tying me to these undone timelines."
Lillian's reluctance was plain in the tension of her posture. Yet she didn't argue. She offered a faint nod. "Perhaps once we leave Veluria, we can search for such leads. But first..." Her voice trailed off, and she pointed her staff down the alley.
A faint glimmer in the distance caught Xion's eye—something reflecting pale sunlight from behind a half-collapsed gate. He and Lillian exchanged a look.
"That might be the remains of a shrine," she whispered. "Or a trick of the city."
"We won't know unless we check," Xion replied, forging ahead.
---
They found the gate unlocked—two rusted panels of wrought iron, twisted and bent. Beyond it lay a courtyard ringed by stone columns. The floor was smooth obsidian, marred by cracks from which faint wisps of fog seeped. At the center stood a monolithic statue, so tall it nearly grazed what remained of a domed ceiling. The statue depicted a hooded figure holding a massive tome in one hand and a shattered sword in the other.
Xion sensed a heavy pressure in the air, like an inaudible hum. This place felt older than Veluria's other ruins. Closer to an ancient wound than a mere architectural relic.
"What is this place?" he murmured.
Lillian's gaze swept the columns, the glyphs etched into their surfaces. "I think... it's a Silent Choir shrine, or part of it. They worship the lost ones, the erased histories, and vow to keep them that way. The presence of a giant tome usually signifies their vow of silence—like a refusal to speak certain truths out loud."
"Then we're in potential danger?"
She grimaced. "Yes. The Silent Choir does not appreciate intruders, especially not in their holy sites."
Yet the shrine appeared empty. They ventured further, the obsidian floor reflecting their silhouettes. The statue's hooded face was chipped, revealing only a hollow emptiness. Xion noticed a string of runic letters scrawled around the base:
> SEEK NOT THE NAMES THAT WERE ERASED, FOR THEY SHALL DEVOUR THE LIVING. <
He read it aloud softly, an unease rippling through him. Lillian approached the statue's foot, where a smaller altar stood: a slab of black stone with a single indentation shaped like a handprint. On the slab's surface lay a tarnished key, covered in inscriptions.
"This might be one of those rumored altars," Lillian said. "The Silent Choir uses them to make offerings. Or to test intruders."
Xion's eyes fell on the key. It called to him, or so it seemed. The inscriptions seemed to shimmer in the gloom, reminiscent of the swirling script in the Catalog of Omissions. He reached out—
Lillian's staff whacked his forearm, stopping him short. She shook her head. "This is a bad idea. We don't know what that key opens, or what it demands in return."
He inhaled deeply, recalling the times the city had robbed him of memories. "I can't leave it. Look at the markings—it might be a clue about the Hall of Glass. Or about Epitaphs." He paused. "One risk after another, right?"
She exhaled, stepping back. "Don't blame me if this goes awry."
With heart pounding, Xion set the lantern on the altar, holding his breath as he hovered his hand over the tarnished key. He sensed a faint vibration under his palm, as if the object was alive or resonating with the shrine's energy. With a final grimace, he grasped it, bracing for a shock of pain or a surge of illusions.
Nothing happened. At first.
Then a whisper slithered through the shrine, indistinct yet echoing off the obsidian floor:
"Name... your sorrow..."
Xion's grip tightened on the key, a chill spidering up his spine. The statue's hollow hood seemed to glare at him, though that was impossible. The runes around the pedestal flickered faintly.
"Name your sorrow," the whisper repeated, more insistent.
He swallowed, confusion blossoming. Lillian advanced, staff raised in a protective stance. She surveyed the statue warily, lines of tension etching her features.
"Some shrines demand an offering of grief," she murmured. "The Silent Choir believes in burying sorrow so deep that it no longer can be spoken."
"If we refuse?" Xion asked, voice shaky.
"It might claim it anyway," Lillian replied grimly.
A third time, the whisper: "Name... your sorrow."
Dread pooled in Xion's stomach. Did the shrine want a confession? A memory? He had already lost a cherished recollection in the library. What more could he give?
But maybe he could outmaneuver it. He closed his eyes, summoning a memory that still stung yet felt... safe to relinquish. He thought back to an encounter with a traveling companion who died while helping him fend off a monstrous beast in a forest. He barely remembered the companion's name—it pained him that he had lost so many details to time or rewriting. Perhaps this was a sorrow he could name, offering it to the shrine while holding onto his more pivotal regrets.
He spoke softly: "I lost a friend once... someone who believed in me, though I can't even recall his face. That is my sorrow: that I cannot remember him properly."
Silence thickened. Then the shadows beneath the statue writhed, forming a vague silhouette of two figures locked in battle. A monstrous shape loomed behind them, a flash of steel, a scream. The silhouette dissolved into flickering light, and Xion felt a heavy sensation lift from his mind, replaced by a dull ache in his chest.
"Is that enough?" he whispered.
The key in his hand grew warm, then stabilized. The runes on its surface glowed a fleeting silver, and the shrine's eerie hush ebbed, as if satisfied. A low groan echoed from the walls. The indentation on the altar vanished, smoothing over as though it had never existed. The statue's eyes flared once with faint brilliance before returning to darkness.
He exhaled. The weight in his hand assured him that the key was now his. Lillian stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You gave it your sorrow," she murmured. "Does it still hurt?"
He nodded, throat tight. Even naming that half-forgotten friend's death cut deeper than he had expected. He wasn't sure if the shrine had devoured more of his memory or simply forced him to vocalize pain he'd locked away. Either way, he felt... changed.
"At least it seems we can leave now," Lillian said, glancing warily at the statue.
They backed away, giving the silent effigy a wide berth. No further illusions or demands materialized. The hush of the courtyard remained, but the oppressiveness had lessened.
---
No sooner had they exited the shrine's gate than the silence of Veluria was shattered by a piercing scream from somewhere nearby. Instincts flaring, Xion and Lillian broke into a run, weaving through the winding alley until they emerged onto a broader street. There, they found chaos:
A huddle of travelers, cornered by an abomination—an amalgam of black mist and half-formed limbs, thrashing about with uncanny speed. Its shape resembled the same force Xion had encountered near the fountain, but bigger now, more frenzied. Wails of terror rose from the group as it advanced, distorting the cobblestones beneath it.
"Memory leech," Lillian hissed, confirming Xion's suspicion. He recalled the words from the red-haired traveler who had nearly lost his arm to something similar.
A young woman attempted to sprint away, but the swirling darkness snapped outward, hooking onto her shoulder in a roiling tendril. She screamed, eyes rolling back as though she fought an invisible force prying open her mind. In seconds, her expression went blank, and she collapsed to the ground.
"Stop that thing!" Xion growled, hand darting to his sword.
Before he could charge, a second figure arrived from the opposite direction—a tall, broad-shouldered man brandishing a staff that crackled with azure arcs of energy. He bellowed a challenge, hurling a bolt of lightning toward the abomination. The arc struck it, causing the swirling mass to ripple and recoil. The creature hissed—a sound that resonated as static in Xion's skull—then it whirled on the newcomer.
"I'll handle it," the staff-wielder shouted at Xion. "You get the survivors clear!"
Lillian needed no prompting. She rushed to the fallen woman, staff of her own swirling with a faint glow. Xion joined her, adrenaline pumping. The abomination shrieked in protest, flailing lumps of darkness. The staff-wielder, presumably a mage of sorts, poured more lightning into the creature, stalling its approach.
"Grab her legs," Lillian commanded Xion, kneeling to cradle the woman's head gently. He complied, and they carried her out of harm's way. Other huddled travelers retreated, fear etched on every face.
Once the woman was safe behind a half-standing wall, Lillian hovered her glowing staff over her chest, chanting under her breath. Xion saw a faint aura pulling from the woman's slack features—as if fragments of memory were returning—but the woman did not stir. Her breathing was stable, though vacant, like a marionette without strings.
A crash from the street drew Xion's attention. The abomination had lashed out, smacking the lightning-wielding mage into a crumbling storefront. The man coughed, staggering to his feet, staff flickering precariously.
Heart hammering, Xion sprang into action. He dashed forward, blade in hand, though he was uncertain if normal steel could harm a living patch of nightmare. But he had to try. The abomination sensed him, twisting its amorphous mass around. Tendrils lashed out, each crackling with a faint violet glow—like negative lightning. He ducked under one and sidestepped another, closing the distance. With a shout, he brought his sword down in a clean slash.
It met resistance, as if slicing through half-frozen tar. He grimaced, pushing with all his strength. The black mass hissed, trying to envelop the blade, but a swirl of sparks erupted—his sword glimmered faintly with an odd luminescence. The abomination shrank back, screeching in an inhuman voice.
"Look at that!" the staff-wielder called from behind. "Your weapon—whatever it is—it's affecting the leech."
Xion didn't have time to process the strangeness. He slashed again, driving the creature toward the open street. Bits of swirling darkness flew in ephemeral chunks before dissolving. The abomination roared—a guttural sound that made Xion's vision swim. He pushed through it, determined not to succumb to illusions or memory draining.
The staff-wielder seized the opening, raising his weapon overhead. A pillar of azure lightning crashed down from the sky, striking the abomination with punishing force. The black mass quivered violently, screeches drowning out all other sounds. It writhed, then collapsed into a pool of inert darkness that seeped into the cracks in the cobblestones.
All at once, the world hushed again, as if the city exhaled in disappointment.
Xion stumbled backward, breath ragged. He looked at his sword—the plain steel was now faintly warm to the touch, the luminescence gone. Had it been his imagination? Or did he truly witness some kind of power stirring within the blade?
The staff-wielder approached, battered but upright. He was older than Xion expected, with streaks of gray in his beard and scars etched across his forearms. He gave Xion a curt nod. "Good blade work, stranger. I don't know what you carry, but it's no ordinary steel if it can cut through that."
Xion shook his head, still reeling. "I... it shouldn't be anything special."
The man snorted. "Then maybe the city's illusions are blessing you, or you're tapping into something unspoken." He extended a hand. "Name's Balthas, a freelance mage who got trapped here. You?"
"Xion," he replied quietly. "I'm... just looking for answers."
Balthas's gaze flicked to Lillian, who was tending to the injured woman. Others in the small crowd warily moved forward, checking on their own wounded or dazed companions. Some had staved off the creature, but a few were disoriented, eyes unfocused. The memory leech had clearly feasted on them, though not entirely.
"We owe you," Balthas said. "I'd have been swarmed if you hadn't intervened." He sighed, glancing at the remains of the black goo seeping away. "These attacks are getting more frequent. It's like the city is... spawning them, or they're drawn to fear and confusion. Something's changing in Veluria."
Xion's mind jumped to the Catalog's warning that the city grew more unstable the deeper secrets one discovered. Could it be his fault that the abominations were intensifying? Or was it simply the city's natural decay?
He peered at Balthas. "We need to leave Veluria soon. Do you know a safe route out?"
"Safe route?" The mage barked a laugh. "You're optimistic, lad. This city rearranges itself. People vanish if they wander the wrong street. But I've heard a rumor that the southwestern district might lead to an older gate that still opens onto real roads—when the city feels merciful."
A twinge of exasperation tightened Xion's jaw. "We'll take any chance we can get."
Balthas's tired eyes flicked to the woman Lillian was aiding. "I'll help you get out. Let me see if I can stablize any wounded. Not sure how many can travel."
Xion nodded, half-grateful for the alliance. Lillian beckoned them, explaining that the injured woman was breathing, but her memories were scrambled—like half her mind had been forcibly rearranged. Balthas knelt, staff glowing gently, channeling a mild healing aura. The rest of the small group gathered around, battered and frightened, but resolute.
Despite the city's vile illusions, a spark of camaraderie flickered—the beginnings of a ragtag band, perhaps. Each might have their own reason for being in Veluria: to escape, to seek knowledge, or to hide from the Divine Concord. In Xion's case, he clung to his new clues about the Hall of Glass and the riddle of Epitaphs.
He glanced again at his sword, recalling the moment it glowed. Could it be connected to an Epitaph? The notion seemed far-fetched. Or perhaps something in him had awakened. Another piece to unravel.
---
Balthas led them through winding lanes to a deserted courtyard. The travelers formed a loose group: three men, two women—one of them still dazed—plus Xion and Lillian. Fear etched their faces, but desperation drove them onward.
The southwestern district loomed ahead, marked by towering spires that had collapsed at their midsection. The architecture looked older than the rest of the city, each building carved with intricate designs reminiscent of sunbursts and winged motifs. The roads were uneven, broken by cracks and jagged steps, as though an earthquake had struck centuries ago.
"It's said this part of Veluria was once sacred ground," Balthas muttered. "Before the city fell to whatever curse devours memories."
They paused at an intersection where four roads converged around a vast fountain. The water that trickled from the statue's base was tinged with a dull purple hue, shimmering ominously. Xion's stomach knotted, suspecting illusions or toxins.
Lillian pointed. "Look—someone's by the fountain."
A lone figure stood there, garbed in worn, russet-colored robes. His posture was stiff, face hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. The group approached warily, hands close to weapons or spells. As they neared, the robed man lifted his head, revealing sunken cheeks and eyes that glowed a faint gold.
"Turn back," he rasped, voice raw as if from disuse. "This district is closed. The city will not let you pass."
Balthas frowned. "Closed? We have no time for your cryptic warnings, old man. We must leave."
"You cannot leave," the robed figure insisted. "Not by this path. The Gate of Yvain is sealed, and the watchers will see to it that none cross. Go back to your hiding places. Pray the devourers find you uninteresting."
A ripple of anger coursed through Xion. "We've had enough of curses and illusions. Step aside."
The robed man's gaze flashed with pity. "Fools. This city thrives on defiance. The more you resist, the stronger it devours you. I speak for the watchers. You cannot pass."
Something about his tone bristled with a strange authority, though his clothes hinted at no official rank. The travelers exchanged glances, uncertain whether to force the issue or retreat. Xion's mind reeled with conflicting impulses: he needed to leave, but attacking a seemingly harmless old man felt wrong. Yet the city was pushing them around like pieces on a board, orchestrating illusions and obstacles.
"If it's sealed," Lillian asked calmly, stepping forward, "is there another route?"
The robed figure snorted. "If you must go, seek the sunken cathedrals in the eastern quarter. The old subterranean roads might open. Or you can bargain with the watchers themselves."
"Who are these watchers?" Xion demanded.
No reply came; the man simply lowered his head, as though weary of the conversation. The group murmured uneasily.
"I say we try to push through anyway," Balthas growled, staff crackling. "I've had enough of this city's guardians. He raised the staff in a threatening posture.
"Don't," Lillian urged, eyes darting between Balthas and the robed man. "We don't know what kind of force he represents."
A standstill ensued. The robed figure offered a final, hollow look. "Stay or go, it matters not. You'll forget this conversation soon enough." Then he turned, walking away from the fountain at a slow, deliberate pace, vanishing into the gloom.
A hush weighed on the courtyard. Balthas exhaled in frustration, the travelers glancing among themselves. The stench of hopelessness thickened. Another path closed, more illusions, more mysteries. What if the southwestern gate truly was impassable?
"I say we test it," Xion spoke up, squaring his shoulders. "At least see if the gate is physically there."
Some travelers nodded in reluctant agreement. "Better to confirm," one said, "than rely on rumors."
They pressed on, ignoring the watery reflection of their silhouettes in the purple-tinged fountain. The southwestern road narrowed, buildings looming overhead like silent sentinels. The hush was almost stifling, as if the city watched with bated breath.
After several winding blocks, they emerged onto a broad avenue that should have led to the city walls. Instead, they found a massive archway bricked over with thick masonry. The old gate that presumably once opened beyond Veluria was indeed sealed. Loose rubble littered the ground, and an eerie symbol glowed faintly on the bricks: a circle with three intersecting lines.
"Some magical barrier," Balthas muttered, pressing a palm to it. He winced, withdrawing his hand. "There's energy behind this wall. Maybe the watchers' doing."
A wave of despair rolled through the travelers. One cursed under his breath; another simply sagged against the wall, shaking her head.
"What now?" A hollow-eyed woman asked, voice trembling. "We can't keep wandering until we starve or the memory leeches find us."
Xion clenched his jaw, recalling the robed figure's parting words about sunken cathedrals in the eastern quarter. Another quest, another risk. But as he looked at these lost souls—Balthas, Lillian, the newly-formed alliance—he realized their goals now aligned: to escape the labyrinth of illusions. Maybe along the way, he could glean more about Epitaphs, the Hall of Glass, and the path to rewriting fate.
He turned to Balthas and Lillian. "We try the eastern quarter. Or we see if the watchers can be reasoned with. If that fails, there might be other hidden gates."
"Reasoned with?" Balthas scoffed. "You saw that old man. These watchers are probably as twisted as the rest of this cursed city."
Lillian tapped her staff, thoughtful. "Still, watchers or not, we can't remain here. Let's regroup in a safer spot, then decide."
They backtracked to a courtyard flanked by half-intact buildings. One appeared to have been a tavern, its sign reading THE DANCING MOON, though the letters were chipped. The inside was dusty but spacious enough for the group to rest. They set up a meager camp, rummaging for anything edible—mostly stale provisions found behind a tattered bar. Xion's stomach churned at the unappetizing scraps but hunger overcame revulsion.
Night would fall soon, and everyone dreaded the illusions that might spawn. The memory leeches, the dream eaters, the watchers—Veluria's threats loomed large.
---
As the ragtag group settled, Xion took a moment to speak with Balthas privately. The mage's staff still crackled faintly with leftover energy, which he occasionally used to produce a small flame or spark to keep the shadows at bay.
"I need to ask you about something," Xion began, voice hushed. "Have you heard of Epitaphs? Specifically, do you know if one could be hidden in a person without their knowledge?"
Balthas arched a brow, surprised. "Epitaphs... now that's not a topic I hear from novices. Then again, you're no ordinary wanderer." He studied Xion's face. "Where did you learn of Epitaphs?"
Xion hesitated. The memory of Lillian's explanation flickered. "Rumors, mostly. Bits of knowledge in half-burned scrolls. Enough to know they're powerful—and dangerous."
Balthas let out a slow exhale, as though recalling a grim memory. "Dangerous, yes. Some call them cosmic scars, others say they're the legacy of gods who tried to unmake reality. I've met one Epitaph bearer in my life. A woman in the Clockwork Order—he paused, wincing. "She had the ability to freeze an entire battlefield in a stasis bubble. The moment we realized what she was, it was already too late. She... did things no mortal mage could replicate. He ran a hand through his hair, gaze distant. "But Epitaph bearers typically show signs. A warp in how they speak or see the world. An aura that unsettles reality."
"But if someone was an Epitaph bearer unknowingly?" Xion pressed, mind racing.
Balthas shook his head. "I suppose it's possible if the Epitaph is dormant. Or if the person is an anomaly. But eventually, the contradiction emerges. The world reacts to Epitaphs, warping events around the bearer. If you had one, I suspect you'd have caused more havoc by now."
Xion frowned. Though this city is in havoc. Did I cause it, or is it just Veluria's nature? He swallowed, glancing at his sword. Balthas noticed.
"Your sword," the mage said. "Earlier, it glowed. Some hidden enchantment, perhaps. Or an Epitaph's influence, though I've never heard of one residing in a weapon."
The notion sank in. Xion recalled how the steel cut through the memory leech's roiling form. Could his sword be an Epitaph vessel? Or was it responding to his latent power? More questions, fewer answers.
"I wish we had a scrying lens," Balthas muttered. "They're rare, but they can detect the presence of an Epitaph. Of course, you'd need someone skilled enough to interpret the reading."
"Maybe we'll find something like that outside this city," Xion said, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes. "Or in the hidden corners of Veluria itself."
Balthas nodded. "For now, rest. We'll need our strength if we're to attempt the eastern quarter."
Xion thanked him, a swirl of confusion and frustration tangling in his mind. He retreated to a corner of the tavern's main hall where Lillian and a few travelers had built a small fire. They shared meager rations and spoke in hushed tones about possible routes.
As the flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, Xion tried to memorize every detail. He knew the city hungrily devoured recollections if one let their guard down. He scribbled a few notes in the battered notebook:
> - Gate sealed in southwestern quarter.
> - Watchers block the path.
> - Eastern cathedrals rumored to lead out.
> - Epitaph question remains unresolved.
He paused, pen trembling. Then he wrote one more line:
> - I must find the Hall of Glass. Don't forget.
A subtle warmth of reassurance filled him, as though physically engraving words gave him a shield against the city's illusions. Lillian caught his eye from across the fire, nodding once in silent support.
---
Night descended on Veluria like a slow-rot blanket. The travelers slept in shifts, fear of memory leeches or watchers keeping them on edge. Xion volunteered for a middle shift, content to let others rest first. He perched near the door, sword across his lap, lantern flickering at his side.
The city's hush bore down on him, oppressive. Every so often, he thought he heard footsteps in the alley, or the faint murmur of voices that never drew closer. A stray catlike creature with too many eyes peeked into the tavern once, only to vanish before he could blink. He fought off a wave of drowsiness, determined not to yield to illusions.
Partway through the night, a quiet presence approached—Lillian. She settled beside him, staff leaning against the wall.
"I can't sleep," she admitted softly, eyes reflecting the lantern's glow. "The city's pulses are stronger at night. I sense... so many lost memories swirling."
Xion offered a faint smile. "At least we aren't alone." He paused, voice dropping to a whisper. "You told me about Epitaphs earlier. If they're cosmic scars or paradoxes, could an Epitaph be my path to rewriting fate? Like the Catalog hinted, you know—the final rewriting."
Lillian studied him, expression veiled. "Possibly. But it could also be your doom. Epitaphs are not kind teachers, Xion. They're living contradictions that warp the bearer. You might end up fueling the cycle, rather than breaking it."
He sighed, a tremor in his shoulders. "I can't keep ignoring that possibility either. Maybe the reason I keep reappearing across timelines is... I'm searching for an Epitaph that resonates with me. Or one that I already hold but can't awaken."
"One step at a time," she murmured, voice laced with compassion. "Focus on leaving Veluria. Surviving the watchers. Then we can worry about Epitaphs and whether you're meant to wield one."
He nodded, eyes drifting to the doorway. The flicker of the lantern illuminated the swirling dust. For a heartbeat, he imagined other Xions from undone timelines, each bearing a different Epitaph, each failing in some cosmic trial. The thought sent chills through his spine.
"Thanks," he murmured, uncertain if he was thanking her for her caution, her presence, or just the fact she hadn't abandoned him. She said nothing, but her faint smile conveyed mutual solace.
---
Dawn came with a gray half-light filtering through the tavern's grime-coated windows. The travelers stirred, groaning and stretching, each quietly relieved to have survived another night. The woman who had been half-drained by the memory leech was awake now, though her eyes were hollow, and she spoke in monosyllables. Lillian and Balthas did what they could, but the city's mental toll wasn't easily cured.
They decided to attempt the eastern route soon. Balthas pointed at a faded map pinned to the tavern's back wall, which depicted Veluria in a labyrinthine sprawl. While large chunks of the map were scratched out or missing, they could discern a note about Sunken Cathedrals in the eastern quadrant.
"That's our best lead," Balthas declared, tapping the location. "Unless we want to reason with the watchers directly."
"Reason?" one traveler scoffed. "That old man by the fountain had no interest in compromise."
"Maybe he wasn't one of the watchers, just a pawn," Lillian mused. "It's possible the watchers themselves can be bargained with. Or they might demand a price we can't pay. Hard to say."
A heated debate ensued. Some travelers insisted the watchers were mythical guardians who never showed mercy. Others believed the watchers might be illusions themselves. Eventually, the group split into two: half resolved to attempt forging a path to the watchers, hoping for a direct solution to exit Veluria; the other half, including Xion, Lillian, and Balthas, aimed for the eastern cathedrals.
Reluctant goodbyes were exchanged. The parted group left first, heading back toward the southwestern arch. Xion wondered if they would even remember this choice by day's end. He offered them a quiet wish of luck. Then he, Lillian, and Balthas turned eastward, joined by two other travelers: an older woman named Seren and a silent youth known only as Finn.
---
They navigated a winding route, relying on Balthas's partial memory of the city's changing layout. Each street held fresh horrors or illusions: twisted signposts, windows that reflected alternate versions of the passersby, doors that opened onto empty voids. Yet the group managed to press on, guided by a collective will to escape.
At midday, they reached a broad avenue where the ground sloped downward, steps leading into a region half-flooded by murky water. Once, a cathedral spire rose proudly here—now it jutted at a sharp angle, partially submerged. Broken statues of winged figures dotted the shallows. The air smelled of mildew and rotting stone.
"The sunken cathedrals," Balthas murmured. "If the rumor's true, an underground passage might lead beyond the walls."
Xion nodded, scanning the area for any sign of watchers or memory leeches. Tension coiled in his gut. Lillian placed a hand on his arm, offering a reassuring nod. "Stay close," she said. "These cathedrals might be older than the rest of Veluria. The illusions here could be stronger."
They descended the steps, water sloshing around their ankles. The submerged courtyard felt eerily still, broken only by the swirl of murky eddies. Gargoyles perched on broken pillars, their stone eyes seeming to follow each movement. The group approached a massive doorway, half-blocked by debris, which presumably led into the main cathedral hall.
"We'll try this entrance," Balthas said, flexing his hands to conjure a faint glow that might push aside illusions or dangers. "Watch for traps."
Xion and the others helped clear rubble, hauling away broken beams and jagged masonry. The wet stones made for unsteady footing, but after a few minutes, they opened a gap wide enough for one person to squeeze through.
"I'll go first," Xion volunteered, adrenaline spiking. "If anything attacks, you'll know."
Lillian shot him a worried glance but didn't protest. He ducked through the gap, sword in hand, lantern clipped to his belt. Darkness greeted him, though the faint watery light from behind gave just enough illumination to see he stood on a cracked marble floor. The cathedral's interior soared overhead, arches supporting a half-collapsed roof. Rows of shattered pews slanted in the water, and a dais at the far end glimmered with pale reflections.
He inched forward, scanning for illusions. The hush felt heavier here, as though reality weighed more than in the rest of Veluria. Then a flicker of movement drew his eye—a shape near the dais. He froze, heart pounding.
A tall figure with silver-white hair stood at the dais, back turned. She wore a deep burgundy coat, mechanical gears embedded along its shoulders—a strange clockwork design. For a moment, Xion thought it might be Lady Noctis, but the figure's build and attire were distinctly different. A sense of danger prickled along his spine.
She raised her hand, and a slender chain dangled from her fingers, ticking like a clock pendulum. "I was wondering when you'd find this place," she said, voice echoing softly against the ruined walls.
Xion lifted his sword. "Who are you?"
She turned halfway, revealing a face partially obscured by a golden monocle shaped like a gear. Her visible eye was brilliant amber, sharp with intellect. "Call me Chrona," she murmured. "Though names matter little here, in a city where memories slip through cracks."
His knuckles whitened on the hilt. "What do you want?"
"Me?" She let the chain's pendulum swing, each movement clicking faintly. "I am an observer... and perhaps an enforcer of certain laws. You might say I track anomalies and disruptions across reality's tapestry." She turned to face him fully, a slight smirk curving her lips. "You are quite the disruption, Xion Trinity Pendragon."
Shock flooded him. She knew his full name. "How—"
"Your existence ripples across timelines," Chrona said, stepping down from the dais. "I've followed echoes of you for a while. And now, we meet in Veluria's sunken heart. Fitting, isn't it?"
The hush in the cathedral thickened. Behind Xion, the gap in the rubble rustled as Lillian and Balthas squeezed through, followed by Seren and Finn. They spotted Chrona, alarm flashing in their eyes.
"Who is she?" Balthas demanded, staff sparking.
Chrona offered a polite nod to the newcomers. "Just a traveler, like you, though my travels reach beyond this single city." Her gaze flicked to Lillian. "Ah, Lillian Weiss. Always meddling, always burdened by knowledge. We meet again."
"Again?" Lillian echoed, confusion etching her features. "I've... never seen you."
Chrona's smirk widened. "Haven't you? No matter. Our memories are tenuous in places like this." She swung the chain once more, the ticking growing louder. "You're here seeking a passage out of Veluria. Possibly searching for something more. I might offer assistance... for a price."
A cold knot formed in Xion's gut. He recalled the shrine's demanded sorrow, the Catalog's demand for memory. Now another potential deal?
"What price?" Lillian asked warily.
Chrona's chain gleamed under the watery light. "Information. I want to see how far Xion's defiance of fate can go. If you wish an exit, I can reveal the path beneath these cathedrals—she gestured at the dais, "but I require a demonstration of what we might call your 'contradiction." She stared intently at Xion.
"Contradiction?" he repeated, brow creasing.
"Yes. The spark of paradox inside you. Show me you can harness it—bend the threads of reality, if only a little. Then I will unseal the door that leads beyond Veluria's walls."
Xion's mind reeled. He had no idea how to intentionally bend reality. He wasn't even sure if he truly possessed an Epitaph or any paradoxical power. The memory of his sword glowing while fighting the abomination flickered in his mind. Could that be repeated?
"And if I can't?" he asked, voice tense.
Chrona shrugged, the chain's ticking slowing. "Then the watchers will close in, and you'll remain trapped until the city devours what's left of you. Fate is never kind to those who linger in impossibilities."
Balthas scowled. "Your arrogance is astounding. Who are you to demand such things?"
Chrona's amber eye narrowed. "One who stands above mortal illusions. I track the anomalies. I enforce certain cosmic checks. And I enjoy watching bold attempts to defy the tapestry." She tapped her monocle. "I could break you all here, but I find Xion's journey... interesting. So I give you a chance."
Xion bristled. Could she be linked to the watchers, or the Divine Concord, or something else entirely? He had no illusions that a direct fight with her would end well. Even from across the dais, her aura exuded a chilling confidence reminiscent of the unstoppable inquisitors he once fled.
"We can't let her toy with us," Lillian whispered, inching close to Xion. "But we also can't lose this chance. The watchers could appear any moment."
He nodded, swallowing hard. If he truly carried a hidden spark of paradox, now was the time to attempt it. But how? Summoning it on command felt impossible. He recalled the fleeting surge during the abomination fight—fear and desperation fueling him.
Chrona raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
Xion sucked in a breath. He glanced at his sword, then closed his eyes, focusing on the chaotic swirl in his mind. If I truly defy reality, maybe I can glean that defiance from the well of undone timelines inside me. He pictured the corridor of reflections from his dream, each Xion choosing a different path.
The hush of the cathedral pressed in, a thousand silent watchers. He felt the dryness in his throat, the pounding of his heart, the swirl of half-lost memories.
Focus. He imagined the moment he cut through the memory leech, the moment the blade shone with an unnatural luminescence. He tried to conjure that same feeling—a fierce refusal to yield. Something rumbled in his chest, intangible yet forceful, like a swirling vortex of possibility.
He opened his eyes, swinging his sword in a slow arc. At first, nothing happened—just the watery reflection of steel. Then, in a flash, sparks danced along the blade's edge. A faint luminescent aura flickered, illuminating the dais in pale silver. The air around him crackled with tension. Lillian gasped. Balthas's eyes widened. Chrona's lips curled in an approving grin.
A wave of intangible force rippled outward from Xion's sword, distorting the water-laden floor in a small radius. The swirling reflection of the dais shimmered, as though the world was a painting and someone had brushed a wet rag across it. For a heartbeat, Xion felt a surge of triumph—he was doing it—then the energy sputtered. The luminescence around the blade vanished.
He dropped to one knee, breathing hard. The act felt like running a marathon in a single moment. Lillian knelt beside him, worry in her eyes. The sword's steel returned to its ordinary, unassuming appearance. But the memory of that ephemeral glow remained undeniable.
Chrona's applause broke the hush, a slow clap echoing among the collapsed arches. "Impressive. Raw, unrefined, but definitely a spark of contradiction. So you do have some link to an Epitaph or a paradoxical power."
"You got... what you wanted," Xion panted. "Now keep your end of the bargain."
Chrona's smirk softened. "Very well. Consider the door unsealed." She turned, gesturing to a side corridor that Xion had barely noticed. "Follow that hall. Descend the spiral staircase, and you'll find the exit. It's a labyrinth, but the watchers won't block that route if you move quickly."
"Why help us?" Balthas demanded, suspicion blazing in his eyes.
Chrona shrugged. "Because an unbroken anomaly is more entertaining. And perhaps I want to see if Xion can accomplish what a thousand others failed to do." She swung her chain one last time, the ticking resonating in the cathedral. "If fate is truly undone, we shall meet again."
With that, she blurred—literally flickering out of sight, leaving only the faint echo of ticking gears. The dais stood empty, silent except for dripping water.
"Is it a trap?" Lillian murmured. "Or does she genuinely want us to escape?"
Xion's thoughts churned with exhaustion. The fleeting release of that paradoxical surge left him drained, yet a spark of hope lingered. He forced himself to stand. "We don't have a choice. If she unsealed something, we should use it before the city changes again."
Balthas and the others agreed. They carefully approached the corridor Chrona indicated. A rusted gate blocked the way, but sure enough, it swung open without resistance. They advanced down a sloping passage, the stale air thick with the smell of damp stone. Torch brackets along the walls were empty, but the travelers used their own lanterns and Balthas's magic to light the path.
At the end of a winding hall, a spiral staircase descended into the darkness below. The faint hum of some unseen force drifted upward, reminiscent of a distant machine's whirring or a heartbeat in the stone. With solemn resolve, the group began their descent, step by careful step.
---
The staircase felt interminable, each revolution carrying them deeper into unknown caverns. Water dripped from the ceiling, creating a steady rhythm that contrasted with the pounding of Xion's heart. The walls narrowed, forcing them to move single-file. Lillian and Balthas led, illuminating the path, while Seren and Finn followed behind. Xion brought up the rear, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no horrors crept after them.
The hush of the city above seemed distant. In its place, a new tension coiled—the sense that they were venturing outside Veluria's illusions or perhaps deeper into a domain more ancient than the city itself. Xion silently prayed Chrona had not deceived them into some deadly trap.
At last, the staircase ended at a wrought-iron door, half-rusted, with a chain across it. Unlike the watchers' seal on the southwestern gate, this chain had no arcane glow. Balthas and Xion pried it off with minimal effort. Beyond the door lay a narrow tunnel, walls carved from natural stone. A cool breeze brushed against them, carrying the faint scent of pine or moss—the smell of the outside world.
Hope surged. They navigated the tunnel's winding length until it opened into a cavern. Tendrils of daylight—pale, but undeniably from the outside—trickled through a ragged opening high in the rock. The travelers hurried forward, hearts pounding.
They emerged onto a rocky slope overlooking a dense forest. The sunlight, though muted by an overcast sky, felt liberating after Veluria's stagnant gloom. Far below, trees stretched out, rustling in a gentle breeze that carried birdsong. The sight was breathtaking in its normalcy.
A collective sigh of relief passed among them. Balthas closed his eyes, inhaling fresh air as though it were the finest perfume. Seren wept softly, overwhelmed. Finn stared wide-eyed, a small smile tugging at his lips. Lillian murmured a grateful whisper to forces unknown.
Xion stepped onto the rocky ledge, scanning the horizon. Veluria lay somewhere behind them, hidden by the cavern's slope. Or had they truly escaped the city's illusions? The forest below seemed real enough, alive and untainted.
"We made it," Lillian said, voice filled with cautious awe. "Chrona actually let us out."
"Perhaps," Xion replied, still half-expecting illusions to crumble. But the wind felt too genuine, the forest's scent too vibrant to be a mere phantasm. He closed his eyes, relief washing over him. They had escaped Veluria—for now.
Balthas patted Xion's shoulder. "We owe you, and Lillian, for guiding us. Without your drive to keep pushing, we'd have stayed lost." He paused, eyeing Xion's sword. "But what now?"
Xion took a long moment before answering. He recalled the Catalog's cryptic lines about the Hall of Glass, the riddle from the shrine, the references to undone timelines, Epitaphs, and the final rewriting. Freed from Veluria, his mission had not ended—it had only begun. He turned to the others.
"I must continue searching," he said quietly. "There are... truths I have to uncover, a destiny I refuse to let be written for me. If that means finding an Epitaph or forging one, so be it."
Lillian nodded in understanding. Balthas offered a small bow. "Then we part ways here, or travel together a while longer. Our immediate goal was just to escape the city. We might find safety in the forest, but more memory leeches or illusions might lurk. We should remain cautious."
A swirl of conflicting emotions stirred in Xion's chest. Part of him wanted to keep them close—his first allies in a long while—but he also knew the path ahead might grow more treacherous as he delved into anomalies, watchers, or deeper cosmic secrets. He glanced at Lillian, who met his gaze with a resolute nod, as if to say where you go, I will follow.
He turned to Balthas. "If you intend to gather supplies, maybe head for a nearby settlement, do so carefully. The Divine Concord roams many roads. And if you come across any rumor about an Epitaph, or a place called the Hall of Glass, he paused, pulling a scrap of paper from his notebook, "send word to me, if you can." He scribbled a rough symbol that he recognized—a personal mark. "I'll keep an eye on inns or safe houses for any sign."
Balthas took the scrap with a solemn nod. "You have my thanks. Good luck, Xion. May we meet again under calmer skies."
They exchanged farewells with Seren and Finn, who looked eager to find normalcy again, or whatever passed for normal in a world of illusions and rewriting cycles. The group parted near the forest edge, each uncertain if they'd ever cross paths again.
Standing at the threshold, Xion and Lillian gazed into the forest's depths. Tall trees offered a gentle canopy, a stark contrast to Veluria's twisted stone and memory-devouring hush. This realm felt alive, though whether it was truly safer or not remained to be seen.
"We still have no firm lead on Epitaphs," Lillian reminded him, stepping carefully over a root. "Only bits of knowledge and the ephemeral demonstration you performed. But we do know one thing: Chrona was watching you, and she recognized your anomaly. We should expect others might as well."
He swallowed, recalling Chrona's calm authority and her chain's persistent ticking. A traveler who enforced cosmic checks, she had said. Did that mean the Divine Concord was not the only group policing reality? Another piece to unravel. Another threat.
"First," he said, "we find a place to gather resources, maybe a real inn that doesn't vanish at dawn. Then we follow any rumor about the Hall of Glass or scrying instruments that detect Epitaphs."
Lillian exhaled, relief and apprehension mingling. "Agreed. Let's keep an eye out for safe havens. Perhaps the nearest town—if it still exists—will have clues. She hesitated, then added, "I'm with you, Xion, for as long as you'll have me. I'm tired of half-measures and illusions."
His chest tightened with gratitude. "Then let's face the unknown together."
They ventured into the wood, under branches swaying with a gentle breeze. Far behind them, the entrance to the sunken cathedrals lingered in shadow, and beyond that, Veluria silently reconfigured its haunted architecture. The watchers, the memory leeches, the Silent Choir, and Chrona—each might reappear in Xion's path. He could almost feel the city's gaze lingering, as though it refused to let go so easily.
Yet for now, he was free. The sword at his side felt heavier with possibility, the notebook in his pack brimming with cryptic references, and the faint echo of paradox he had summoned still tingling in his muscles. He was one step closer to unveiling the secrets behind undone timelines, cosmic wounds, and Epitaphs—**the living contradictions that might empower him to challenge fate itself.
The forest trail greeted them like an uncertain promise—quiet, green, real. Whether they faced gods, watchers, or cosmic rewriters, Xion would not turn back. He had traded too many memories, endured too many illusions. He would carve a path forward, forging alliances and braving horrors, all to ensure that this time, his story did not end in erasure. This time, he would rewrite fate on his own terms.
The hush of Veluria was behind him, but the whispers of paradox only grew louder in his mind. If Epitaphs were cosmic scars, perhaps he was poised to become the scion of one, or the breaker of them all. The question remained: Would the final rewriting of existence accept his defiance, or cast him aside like so many Xions before?
As they vanished into the deepening forest, a gentle wind swept the branches. In the distance, crows cawed, a normal sound in a world that was anything but normal. And somewhere, in another realm or timeline, the Black Star pulsed, waiting. Watching.