The Ones Not Born Remembered

---

Northern Ellejort – Village Outskirts

The snow parted beneath heavy boots and dragging limbs.

Cornicius Corell trudged forward, blood trailing in crimson flecks behind him. Over his shoulder, Basen Artem hung like a broken banner—barely conscious, breath shallow, body battered by cold and beast alike.

Their escape had cost them.

The village appeared through the veil of falling snow—a scattering of slate rooftops pressed against the base of a frozen ridge. Lanterns flickered dimly in the storm, like fireflies caught behind frosted glass. This was no city. Just a trade outpost wrapped in silence and survival.

But it had people.

And people meant risk.

Cornicius gritted his teeth. Vision blurred. His body screamed for rest, but he kept moving. The ANSEP bracelet on his wrist blinked red—low battery, low camouflage integrity, low hope.

Then came the voices.

"That's... that's blood—"

"Are they soldiers?"

"Someone call the medics!"

Footsteps rushed toward him. A hand reached out.

He didn't resist.

Didn't answer.

Only when the world tilted and the ground surged up to meet him did his final thought surface like a whisper:

Just don't find me out.

---

Ellejort Civil Med Center – Hours Later

The warmth was artificial.

The kind that belonged to hospital walls and fluorescent lights, not to life. Machines beeped steadily. The sheets were too white, too clean.

Cornicius opened his eyes to a ceiling he didn't recognize.

Bandages tightened around his shoulder and ribs. A transparent IV bag dripped quietly beside his bed.

He shifted slightly. Winced.

Beyond the door, the hallway murmured—doctors moving, machines humming, distant echoes of gurney wheels and clipped boots.

Basen was somewhere nearby, in another room. Still breathing. Barely.

Cornicius exhaled.

Getting here had been the right call.

> But getting out... that will be another kind of war.

---

Zellerick's Place – Chamber of Alignment

Zelaine Yaisha sat unmoving, surrounded by a network of glyphs that pulsed in slow, steady rhythm. Pale amber threads of Yai flowed from her skin—wrists, spine, ankles—tethering her to the stone-carved floor like vines drawn in light.

Her sigil, Thornvine, no longer cracked, now flickered with intent. Its pulse had grown stronger—more refined.

The air shimmered faintly, humming with old flame and something even older: will.

From the archway, Atiya watched her.

He leaned against the stone column, one foot pressed lazily to the wall, sipping something that had long gone cold. He came like this often—unannounced, unbothered.

At first, she hated it.

"You walk in like a damn floor manager," she had snapped once. "At least pretend to train."

He only smirked and walked away.

But he kept coming. Never interrupting. Always watching.

Today, though, he spoke.

"You're getting better."

Zelaine didn't open her eyes. "I know."

"The room hums when you breathe."

"Don't flatter me. I'm trying not to break the floor again."

A faint smile touched his lips.

And then another voice echoed from the corridor.

---

Elsewhere in the Mansion – Zellerick's Study

The runes scrolled slowly across the walls—ancient sigil theorems etched in light. Zellerick stood with hands behind his back, gaze half-lost in their shifting glow.

But his attention wasn't on the runes.

It was on the two strangers who now occupied his life like lost stars trying to orbit a forgotten sun.

Atiya entered the room, quiet but direct.

"You've seen her progress?"

Zellerick nodded. "She's closer to stabilization than ever. I wouldn't have believed it a week ago."

Atiya crossed his arms, but his voice softened.

"Why does she have a sigil, and I don't?"

Zellerick tilted his head, unreadable. "Many don't."

"Not like me."

A pause. Then, softly:

---

Lore Fragment – What Is a Sigil?

A sigil is not power—it is memory.

A contract carved into the body, a resonance between one's inner flame and the world's.

It is how Yai remembers a person.

Most are born with one. Some carve theirs in blood.

But without it, the body forgets how to rise.

Without it, the flame cannot answer.

---

Zellerick's brow furrowed. "No," he admitted. "Not like you."

Atiya's voice lowered, almost to a whisper. "Even Yaishna tried. Dozens of times. But nothing ever fit. I was empty. Always empty."

Zellerick didn't answer right away.

Then finally:

"Sigils aren't earned through power. They're permissions. You're asking the Yai to remember you. And some people aren't born remembered. Some have to make the world see them."

Atiya turned toward the rune-scarred wall.

"Ivansia came to Zelaine. In a dream. She spoke of a sigil."

Zellerick froze.

"She did," he admitted quietly.

"Will it work for me?"

Zellerick walked toward a faded inscription near the base of the wall. He touched it lightly, fingers tracing the lines.

"Ivansia doubted many things. Even herself. But when she spoke of that sigil... it was the only time she didn't."

Atiya hesitated. "Why did you take us in?"

Zellerick kept facing the glyph.

"Because I believe in people. Not bloodlines. Not badges. Not birth. Just people. The cold in Ellejort turns good men cruel. I'd rather be wrong than lose what makes me human."

Atiya looked down. "You risked everything. For strangers."

Zellerick turned at last, eyes steady.

"So did Ivansia. I still do."

---

Evening – Chamber of Alignment

The runes around Zelaine glowed softer now, their pace steady.

She opened one eye to find Atiya poking her cheek.

"What."

"Just making sure you weren't dead."

She smacked his hand away.

He chuckled, then went quiet.

"Zelaine… the sigil Ivansia mentioned. She said it's somewhere deep in the mansion, right?"

She nodded. "Past the sealed hallway. The place where the walls shift when you don't look."

"Could it be mine?"

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "But she said it was waiting. For someone specific."

"And you think that's me?"

"You're top desperate for flames not the sigil." Zelaine knew him too well

Atiya didn't reply immediately.

But something inside him stirred—not power, not ambition.

Hope.

"When your sigil is stable," he said, "we go together."

Zelaine nodded, threads of Yai coiling around her once more.

> "Almost there."

---

Ellejort Civil Med Center – Late Night

Basen Artem lay beneath synthetic sheets, eyes shut, breath slow.

To the untrained eye, he was asleep.

But every nerve in his body was awake. Alert.

The stillness of the hospital pressed against his skin like ice—not the natural cold of Ellejort's snows, but the sterile kind, humming with too much order. Every beep of the machines. Every footstep down the hall. Every flickering light.

He hated it.

The Eye of Presence—that horrible gaze—still lingered in his bones. He could feel it even now, watching from nowhere. He swallowed hard. His mouth was dry.

> I have to leave. Now.

He waited until the hall lights dimmed, until the final nurse's rounds faded into silence.

Then he moved.

He sat up in bed, wincing. Sweat beaded across his brow. His legs ached, but they obeyed.

He reached for the plastic bottle on the nightstand and gulped down water like a man just spat out by the sea. The tightness in his chest eased slightly.

> Where are the others?

Were there any survivors from the ship? From that freaking eye?

Am I the only one left?

He crept to the edge of the bed.

But before he could stand—

The door clicked open.

He froze.

A nurse stepped in—clipboard in hand, face shadowed by the dim light. She moved with quiet efficiency, checking monitors, scribbling notes.

Basen slipped back under the sheets like a corpse returning to its grave, shutting his eyes quickly.

Damn it. Go away. Go away.

The nurse lingered.

One breath. Two.

Then finally, she turned and left.

The door clicked shut.

Basen sat up again, slower this time. Every movement a gamble.

He limped to the window and unlatched it carefully. Cold air bit at his face. He looked down. Three stories. A sloped roof below.

>I can make that.

He braced himself.

But just as he began to climb over the ledge—

A hand gripped the frame from the outside.

A figure hoisted itself up—

Cornicius Corell.

Basen nearly screamed.

"By the—!"

Cornicius slapped a hand over his mouth and hissed:

"Shhh! Do you want us both caught?"

Basen blinked, stunned.

Cornicius climbed in fully and shut the window behind him, glancing around the room like a hunted man.

Basen backed up, eyes still wide. "What—How—You— who--what are you doing here?"

Cornicius didn't smile. His voice was cold, tired.

"Making sure you don't die doing something stupid."