Chapter 8: Flickering Peace

The scent of rain-soaked earth was the first thing Aedric noticed. The second was the warmth—something unfamiliar after the cold, suffocating grip of the ruins beneath Ravengarde. He stirred, his body aching, his limbs heavy, as if he had been submerged in a deep, dreamless sleep for far too long.

When his eyes finally opened, they were met with the sight of a wooden ceiling, beams worn with age, the edges darkened by years of candle smoke. The light in the room was dim, golden, flickering from a single lantern set on a nearby table. Shadows stretched and swayed against the walls, giving the space a quiet, almost dreamlike quality.

He was in a bed—coarse sheets pulled over him, the faint scent of lavender and dried herbs lingering in the fabric. The air was thick with the aroma of damp firewood and something cooking over a slow flame, filling the small space with an unfamiliar sense of comfort.

For a moment, he let himself breathe. Let himself exist in this moment of stillness.

Then, his mind caught up to him.

The chamber. The murals. The figures reaching for him. Elias shouting his name. The collapse of the ruins as they barely escaped.

His body tensed instinctively, his fingers gripping at the sheets as his heartbeat quickened. Where was Elias?

He forced himself upright, gritting his teeth as pain flared through his ribs. His clothes had been changed—he wore a loose, linen tunic, the fabric rough against his skin. His wounds, though few, had been tended to, bandaged with surprising care.

Aedric swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet pressing against wooden floorboards. The room was small—humble, but lived-in. A table with a few scattered parchments. A chair pulled slightly away as if someone had been sitting there not long ago. A window, cracked open just enough to let the sound of distant rain filter through.

He inhaled deeply. The air was fresh. Clean. Safe.

And yet—

A presence lingered. Not unseen watchers. Not whispers curling from the walls. Something else.

Something familiar.

Aedric pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs. His movements were quiet, instinctual. He stepped toward the door, pressing his palm against the aged wood before easing it open.

The hallway beyond was dimly lit, the glow of another lantern casting faint light against the wooden walls. The space was narrow, leading toward what smelled like a kitchen. A faint murmur of voices drifted from beyond, though indistinct.

His muscles tensed as he stepped forward, moving slowly, his senses alert despite the deceptive warmth of the place. The air held something more than just firewood and rain. A tension beneath the surface, like the weight of a storm before it broke.

As he neared the source of the voices, he heard his name.

He stilled.

"—Aedric doesn't remember."

The voice was Elias's.

A moment of silence. Then another voice, lower, older. Unfamiliar.

"He will."

Aedric's breath caught in his throat.

The lanternlight flickered, casting long, shifting shadows against the walls. He stepped closer, pressing himself against the wooden frame of the doorway, listening. The warmth of the space had begun to cool, a distant chill creeping in at the edges.

He was not meant to hear this.

And yet, he listened.

"You don't have much time," the stranger's voice murmured. "The cycle is already breaking."

Aedric's fingers curled into fists at his sides. The cycle.

Elias sighed. "I know."

A chair scraped against the floor. Footsteps moved, slow and deliberate.

"We have to tell him everything," Elias said, quieter this time, his voice heavy with something Aedric could not name. "Before it starts again."

Another pause. Then, the stranger's voice—

"No. Not yet."

The room fell silent.

Aedric exhaled, stepping back from the doorway, his pulse quickening. The warmth of the wooden home, the flickering lanterns, the distant sound of rain—it had all felt so real. So safe.

But now, standing in the dim hallway, the weight of the conversation pressing against him, he realized the truth:

He had never left the cycle.

It was still happening.

And they were deciding whether or not to tell him why.