A Drawing of Me and You

'Damn. Why the hell didn't you summon your Relic?'

That was his first thought when he heard the crunch of snow behind him—heavy, deliberate, and wrong.

He turned around instantly.

There wasn't time to assess the distance or confirm what it was. It had already been nighttime when he arrived at the town, and he hadn't realized that until now.

Daytime in the Outlands and the Federation were considered a luxury. Eternal winter, unceasing snow, and shortened daytime were common traits of the North. More irritatingly, the snowstorm had reduced his field of vision.

This came down to a lapse of judgement. All he could manage was to heighten up his senses.

He heard snow scattered as something lunged from the thicket of the half-burned, snow-covered pine trees. Its faint shadow had misshapen limbs and Hollow mist trailing like decay given form.

It missed his throat by a breath, but his body had already moved, instinct overriding thought.

This was no Husk or a scavenger of the Outlands.

A real Hollow Creature. The first he'd ever faced, yet all his mind repeated was one word.

'Stupid.'

He was still cursing himself for not summoning the Relic. That damn Relic could've masked his presence and bought him time, but he was too caught in memories and didn't even think of the dangers here. Emotions truly dulled logic.

The creature skidded through the snow, circling around him like a predator. Luciel couldn't see anything, so he had to rely on scent and sound. Luckily, this bastard carried the disgusting scent of Hollow Energy.

The Hollow lunged again.

Luciel moved quickly.

His foot slipped slightly in the snow, but he pivoted low, letting the creature pass over his head. Its claw had almost decapitated him for the second time.

The frost bit into his fingers and ear as he rolled sideways, caught himself, and rose in one motion.

It turned around immediately as it landed.

Luciel could see the abomination clearer now that he could feel its breath. Four limbs—no, six, stretched out far too long and bending at wrong angles. One of the pairs dragged behind like brittle roots, twitching erratically.

Its body was pale and sinewed. Its skin incomplete and in patches over disjointed bones. Hollow mist poured from a split jaw; its eyes nothing more than gaping cavities interweaving with flickers of blood red.

It wasn't large at all, no taller than the child. But it looked wrong. Like a soul that had been twisted and chewed along with its body.

Luciel didn't flinch. He'd seen more grotesque abominations wandering in the Outlands from afar. His mind had already moved past fear.

He pressed a hand to his belt and called out the Relic in his mind. There was no incantation or gesture. Just intent.

And the Relic answered.

A brittle vertebra appeared in his grasp, bound in dried sinew and laced with faint Hollow mist.

He didn't understand how it formed, but he knew it came from within, summoned through the soul's tether and Echo Essence.

The vertebra pulsed once, and with it came the whispers of the forgotten—gibberish, wordless, and eerie.

Ahead, the creature immediately slowed. It jerked its head to the side, confused. It was as if the entity had changed its form completely and became one of them.

Luciel didn't waste any time and kicked snow into its gaping eyes. He didn't know how long the Hex would hold, and he wasn't planning on finding out.

The creature staggered slightly and tried to shake off the snow, but Luciel had already brought out the flame. This time, the flame listened and let him free rein.

A faint ember sparked along his fingertips, trailing upward like a breath drawn directly from his soul.

Then he struck as hard as he could. His palm slammed into the Hollow's chest, heat blooming through slimy sinew and exploded its bones.

The creature shrieked and reeled back, Hollow mist writhing wildly. Its inhuman scream scratched at Luciel's soul, goosebumps popping up on his skin, but he shook it off.

Luciel didn't repeat his earlier mistake in the cave. He instantly moved in and finished it with another burst of scarlet flame.

The creature writhed once before succumbing to the flame. Luciel had successfully hunted a Stratum One Hollow. Following the achievement, the Voice echoed in his ears as if to congratulate him.

[You have severed a vessel of the Realm.]

Then the flame spoke to him.

[Your flame acknowledges the death.]

[A Smoldering Cinder settles in your soul.]

Another small weight sank into his soul. He didn't bother trying to guess what the flame valued anymore. It was a useless endeavor and only served to frustrate him.

He just understood that killing for the sake of it wouldn't give him anything.

'Better not to care about the numbers at all,' he thought. 'Just have to keep moving.'

Still, he'd have to look at it from time to time to see his progress. He summoned the runes and checked it out.

[Soul Cinders: 27.3/500].

'Not bad,' he thought, dismissing the runes.

Luciel put the Hollow Spine in the puffer jacket's pocket and stepped into what remained of Mira's porch.

The half-wrecked house stood still, its bones sagging under rot and silence. Mold grabbed onto the peeled walls and broken furniture like regret, and the air reeked faintly of damp wood.

It hadn't been touched in years, and the people in it were gone, but somehow he still felt the presence of their souls. The weight of a death of someone he used to be fond of... he had buried that feeling.

Still, he didn't linger. He hadn't forgotten the main objective.

Luciel stepped inside, eyes quickly scanning for any sign of the tether. Nothing yet. Just a ruined chair, a rusted kettle, and half of a broken picture frame lying face-down.

He didn't pick it up. He'd already mourned here once and etched their echoes into his memory. That was enough.

Luciel walked deeper into the house and sensed something off—not the disgusting dissonance of the Distortion but something more human. 

Somewhere near the hearth, he could sense an echo of something familiar. His gaze swept the hearth, trying to find anything that stood out. Then he saw a small patch of scorched, uneven wood. Soon as he set his gaze upon it, the flame stirred in quiet unrest.

He crouched down and ran his hand over it, brushing aside a layer of soot.

Slowly, a faded drawing revealed itself. Charcoal lines, clumsy and smudged. Like a child's drawing.

The drawing portrayed a family: two tall figures, two small. One of the small figures was holding a toy sword. The lines were cracked, but he recognized the shape immediately. He knew it all too well.

It was his own.

Mira must've drawn this.

The flame responded with stillness again, as if holding its breath.

Luciel didn't speak. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory settle. He had cherished her company more than he admitted, and deep down, he believed Mira had felt the same. 

The past didn't cry out here. It simply remained still in this case of memory, echoing its grief. Stubbornly clinging to a life long gone, it had anchored itself here instead of moving on.

He picked up the patch of wood and folded it gently. Then placed it on the hearth where the flame of life used to be.

'Rest in peace, Mira.'

The flame in his chest shifted slightly. Still but warm. A breath exhaled.

[A memory echo has been quieted.]

The Voice suddenly rang in his ears. He didn't react. Just casually listening to it.

[The tether of the Realm weakens.]

Then the flame followed along.

[Your flame remembers what you will not speak.]

[A Flickering Cinder settles in your soul.]