The trees grew stranger the farther they walked. No birdsong. No wind. Only the crunch of frost beneath Arjuna's boots and the steady drip of melting icicles that hung from blackened boughs like dying stars.
Ahead, the mist thickened into a silver curtain, and behind it, faint lights flickered—lanterns swaying on crooked poles.
Tellen stopped, breath visible in the chill. "We've reached it. Yollowmere."
"A village?" Arjuna asked.
The historian nodded. "Built on bones and borrowed prayers."
As they stepped through the veil of fog, the world shifted. A path of glowing lanterns snaked between ruined cottages and hollow-eyed statues. Children ran barefoot, trailing laughter that didn't echo. At the village's center, a crooked tower bent toward the sky like a snapped finger.
"Stay close," Tellen warned. "Don't speak your full name. Not tonight."
Arjuna frowned. "Why?"
"Because the dead are listening."
They passed an old woman with blind eyes and ash-colored robes, stringing teeth into a garland. She turned to Arjuna and smiled a mouth of gaps. "You're late, knight. The Hollow Lights wait for no man."
He said nothing.
She cackled. "Don't forget your name, stranger. The dead know how to steal it."
Tellen pulled him away. "Every year, they hold a festival to honor the lost. But it's older than it should be. Before gods fell. Before memory cracked."
"Then why are we here?"
Tellen's eyes flickered with something between guilt and resolve. "Because something walks this land during the Hollow Lights. Something bound to the Vow."
A soft hum echoed through the fog.
A child sat by a lantern, singing. Her mask was carved from wood, painted like a weeping moon. The song was familiar—low, haunting, melodic.
Arjuna froze.
"I've heard that," he whispered.
Tellen's eyes widened. "From where?"
"I don't know."
The girl looked up. Her eyes glowed faintly behind the mask. "Will you light a lantern, sir? For the ones you've forgotten?"
"I don't remember the dead."
"But they remember you," she said, and handed him a candle that burned blue without heat.
He didn't take it.
As the night deepened, the village stirred. People emerged with masks of bone and paint, carrying paper lanterns down the winding path. Bells chimed softly with each step. Children danced. Old men wept.
"The Lantern Path," Tellen murmured. "Each soul follows it to be remembered. But not all who walk it are still alive."
"Meaning?"
"Some return only for tonight. Others… never left."
The sky was starless. The moon hung low and full, stained red.
As they followed the procession, Arjuna began to feel something… shifting. The mist grew thicker. Lanterns blinked like watching eyes. And ahead, at the edge of a frozen lake, a woman stood in black robes with her arms raised.
A choir began to hum. A low, droning sound that made Arjuna's teeth ache.
The woman turned—and though her face was veiled, her presence was unmistakable.
Nyssara?
No. Too tall. Too skeletal. Her eyes burned with hunger, not sorrow.
Tellen gripped Arjuna's arm. "That's not a priestess. That's a bone-witch."
The chanting swelled.
One by one, villagers stepped forward and whispered their names into the lanterns, then set them afloat across the ice. Each name faded from their lips like breath stolen by winter.
"Is this how they honor the dead?" Arjuna asked.
"No," Tellen said. "This is how they feed something."
The masked child stood beside them again. "You should light a lantern. Before you forget who you are."
Arjuna stared at the candle in her hand.
It flickered once. Then again. And with each flicker, he felt something tug at the edge of his thoughts—words, images, a voice in the rain.
"You once smiled," a memory whispered.
He stepped back.
The lantern dimmed.
And far away, beneath the mountain, something stirred—something that remembered his name better than he did.