The stone beneath him was not the fading memory of damp forest loam, but something far more brutal in its certainty—cold, coarse, and unrelenting. It pressed into his spine, grounding him in a world that felt too solid, too sharp after the formless terrors of the Dark Forest. His scream still echoed, a ragged, animal sound that clawed its way out of his throat moments before waking. Now, it lingered, reverberating in his skull like a curse.
He lay sprawled across the chamber floor, gasping, the torchlight stuttering along the walls like a failing heartbeat. His eyes flicked open, wide and haunted, seeing nothing of the present. Only her. Granny Maldri's face—flickering, dissolving, her breath labored, mouth shaping words he could no longer hear. Lyra, pale and trembling, clutching his sleeve, eyes wide with a terror too old for her years. These weren't dream fragments. They were real. Unearthed truths. Unearthed pain.
"Granny! Lyra!" he croaked, the names torn from his chest like shrapnel. He scrambled to his knees, limbs stiff with old bruises, the sting of yesterday's alley fight nothing compared to this resurgence of grief. The memory broke over him in a tide, unbidden and merciless. Not a dream. A buried shard of his soul rising to the surface.
His hands fumbled for the passage's edge. He had to go. Back to the Sinks. Back to their hearth. Back to the Dark Forest, where reality and memory bled together.
"Easy, boy." The voice struck like a steady drumbeat in the chaos, low and resonant, a sound that pulled him back from the brink. A hand, calloused but deliberate, pressed down on his shoulder. Kander.
He blinked, and the chamber's stone walls returned. Torchlight. Dust motes drifting like dead stars. Kander—his frame broad, the lines of his face carved deep in shadow.
"Let me go! I have to go back! They're—they're still there, they need me!" Hatim's voice cracked with desperation.
Kander didn't yield. His hand remained, grounding. "That was a memory, Hatim. A powerful one. But time has passed. Much more than you remember."
"No," Hatim hissed, shaking his head violently. "It just happened. I saw it. Felt it. She's still breathing. Lyra—I held her hand. I felt it."
Kander's silence was a wall. Then: "Four years. At least. That memory is a wound reopened, not a present danger."
The words struck like iron. Four years. Hatim reeled, breath stolen. He stared, uncomprehending. How could four years vanish like vapor? How could he forget them?
Kander's voice softened, yet remained iron beneath. "You'll remember more. The Akar within you is no longer dormant. It is mending what was fractured. The pieces will come."
Hatim wrenched free, not in defiance, but desperation. His feet found the corridor, and then he was running. The Middens' stale air burned his lungs. Sunlight hadn't kissed these stones in decades, but Hatim didn't care. He needed to see. To know.
The Sinks welcomed him with rot and rust, the old scars of the city etched into its brickwork. Laborers with soot-rubbed faces turned to stare as he tore past. His limbs throbbed. Blood sang in his ears. Ash and oil lingered on the air, and through it all, some deeper note hummed in his bones.
He rounded a corner and caught his reflection in a brackish puddle. He froze.
Glyphs.
Golden, swirling, luminous patterns curled beneath the surface of his skin—not painted, not inked, but grown, birthed by light and memory. They pulsed gently, as if alive, as if speaking.
He stumbled back, breath hitching. The Akar. It moved within him, no longer dormant, no longer quiet.
"Wielder..."
The voice came from behind. An old woman, hunched and weathered, stared at his arm. Her eyes—pale as river glass—widened. "A warrior...."
Whispers began to spread. Laborers froze. A child clutched his mother, pointing at the glyphs. Hatim saw it in their eyes: awe, fear, superstition. They pressed to the walls, letting him pass like he bore plague or prophecy.
He ran harder.
He reached the place. The arch of Bone-Reed and Wyrmgrass, where the scent of clove-smoke once marked Granny Maldri's door.
Gone.
The woven arch was dust. The wall behind it broken, devoured by time and moss the color of old ash. Gloom-Rats skittered among the rubble. The hearth was cold. The herbs, the laughter, the warmth—vanished.
Hatim collapsed to his knees, hands digging into broken stone. This place was not dormant. It was dead.
A shadow fell across him.
"You can't go back. Not yet."
Kander.
Hatim rose, eyes wild. "The Forest—I have to get to the Forest! They might still be—"
"You cannot," Kander said, voice firm. "The Forest is closed. Bound. Its truths are not ready to be unearthed."
"Why?!" Hatim's voice cracked. "What happened to them?"
Kander's silence stretched. Then, carefully: "That answer belongs to your memory. Not my tongue. But know this, Hatim: you buried it. You hid the past from yourself."
Hatim staggered. "Why would I do that?"
"To survive. Or to shield them. Or because the pain was too great. Only you can know. When the time is right."
Kander gestured to the glyphs.
"Your cultivation has begun. The glyphs you see—they are your Akar. Unique. Golden. Shaped by memory and will. Most cannot see them. Fewer still awaken to their true meaning. But you are on the threshold."
Hatim looked again. The glyphs shimmered, and behind them, in the walls, the stones, the air itself—currents of light, threads of resonance. The city hummed with unseen music.
"You are Unmarked. Soon, you will be Touched. And that path begins with resonance. With knowing what you are. And what you fight for."
A memory rose, unbidden—Granny Maldri's voice, old and warm: "Feel it, child. Don't just see. The Akar is seen by those who listen."
Hatim closed his eyes. He could feel the Sunstone Moss. He could hear the dissonance of Ghost-Glow. His breath slowed. The fear became focus.
Kander's hand rested lightly on his shoulder. "The Warrior Class. That is your path. The glyphs will sharpen with clarity . But first, you must ask: who are you fighting for? And what are you willing to remember?"
Hatim opened his eyes. The ruin lay before him. The Forest waited beyond veils and silence.
He would remember.
He had to.