The cold deepened as the villagers pressed toward the frozen lake. Lanterns floated across the black ice like drifting souls, their faint blue glow mirrored in the darkness below.
Arjuna watched in silence. Each time someone whispered a name into the candle and placed it on the ice, he felt a weight shift in the air—like something was listening, something ancient and impossibly patient.
He turned to Tellen. "What happens if someone says the wrong name?"
The historian's expression was grim. "Then the dead speak back."
A bell tolled once, low and hollow. From the edge of the crowd, the masked child returned. She no longer held the candle. Her hands were empty, save for a bone flute slung at her side.
"They're coming now," she said. "Can you hear the song?"
Arjuna did. Faint at first—just a ripple through the wind. Then it rose, like a voice scraping the edge of memory.
It was a woman singing.
But the song had no words.
Only grief.
Across the lake, a figure stepped out from the fog. Draped in black feathers and stitched cloth, they moved with a dancer's grace—each step light but heavy with ritual. Their mask was carved from ivory, etched with runes that seemed to shimmer with frost.
Tellen's breath caught. "The Bone Singer."
"What is that?"
"A soul shepherd. Half-mortal, half-wraith. She calls the forgotten to dance. And if you hear your own name in her song…"
Arjuna stared.
"What happens?"
"You forget yourself."
The Bone Singer raised her arms.
The wind ceased.
And the song began.
It wasn't music. It was memory—twisting, writhing, echoing across the lake in a thousand broken voices. Laughter. Sobbing. The gasp of a sword being driven into flesh. A name screamed in the dark.
"Arjuna…"
He flinched. The sound pierced his skull.
He gritted his teeth. "That's not my name."
But it was. And the lake knew it.
The lanterns shivered. Some winked out.
One by one, villagers began to fall into a trance, stepping toward the ice.
Tellen grabbed Arjuna's arm. "Don't listen! Cover your ears!"
But it was too late.
He saw her again—Nyssara, standing beneath a black sun, her lips moving, though no sound came.
A battlefield. Fire. Wings torn from a dying god. The last vow.
And her voice, clear and soft: "Don't forget me, even if the world burns."
The song reached its peak.
Lanterns exploded into pale flame.
And something rose from beneath the ice.
A figure, pale as snow, dripping water that steamed against the ground. His face was familiar.
Arjuna staggered back.
It was himself.
Or rather, a version of himself—clad in obsidian armor, eyes hollow, mouth locked in a silent scream.
Tellen cursed. "It's a memory-ghost. Your shadow."
"What do I do?"
"You kill it," the historian said, drawing a small silver dagger, "before it replaces you."
The shadow-Arjuna raised a spectral blade—identical to his.
Their swords met with a clash that sent sparks across the frost.
The villagers screamed. Some fled. Others simply stood, lanterns still in hand, unmoving.
The Bone Singer's voice shattered glass.
Arjuna fought in silence. Each strike against his shadow felt like a blow against himself—familiar stances, familiar footwork. But the reflection didn't tire.
Didn't feel.
Didn't bleed.
He staggered. The shadow closed in, sword raised.
Then the girl in the weeping mask stood between them.
She held the bone flute to her lips—and played a single, high note.
The shadow froze.
Arjuna didn't hesitate. He drove his blade through its chest.
The shadow shattered into light.
The song stopped.
The Bone Singer bowed once, then faded into the mist.
The girl lowered the flute.
"You have to remember what's yours," she said.
Arjuna fell to one knee, panting. "Who… are you?"
But the girl only smiled.
Then vanished.
Tellen knelt beside him. "It's not over. She'll return. The Bone Singer doesn't call just once."
Arjuna looked to the lake, where the broken lanterns drifted like stars.
One still burned, alone.
It bore no name.
He rose.
And in the darkness, something deeper stirred.