Chapter 2 Part 5
The Pact Rewritten
The girl's words echoed long after she skipped away down the mud path.
"I think you're not dead."
Velrona watched her disappear into the mist, a speck of color in the grey fields. The world felt thinner in that moment—like she stood not in it, but slightly above it, watching it tilt sideways.
She waited for Erlin to speak. He didn't. Not right away.
You've scared children, he muttered eventually.
She wasn't scared, Velrona replied. She saw something. I don't know what yet.
Still unsettling.
She turned her body slowly, hands folding behind her back as if they belonged to someone she respected. Erlin was quiet, listening. That alone was new.
Back at the shrine, Father Lirn was gone—disappeared like fog, leaving no trace. She preferred it that way. He'd already given her more than she asked for.
She walked along the stone-cut ridge, back toward the half-rotted tavern where Erlin used to drink away his fate. As she neared the door, she slowed.
We need to talk, she said.
You mean now? I was kind of enjoying the silence.
Now.
She ducked into the side alley, where the tavern's shadow draped the ground like an oil stain. A broken barrel. A windowless wall. Privacy.
Then she let him rise.
The change was smoother now—his spirit swelling into the space behind his eyes, pushing her gently aside but not displacing her. They were no longer fighting for control. They shared the wheel.
Erlin staggered slightly.
"Still weird," he muttered, rolling his shoulder. "Still feel like I've had one drink too many. But less… you know. Haunted."
"Good," she said aloud, voice filtered through his mouth.
He glanced at the shadows. "Alright. So. Pact."
He crossed his arms.
"I want it written."
"You can't write."
"I want it spoken, then," he said. "Like a binding. No more shifts without warning. No waking up mid‑punch. No using my body to—whatever that ritual was last night with the copper bones."
Velrona didn't smile, but something like amusement passed between them.
"You'll retain your mind," she said. "And one hour per day of unchallenged autonomy."
Erlin nodded. "You'll use the body for your goals—cult stuff, spirit stuff—but if you endanger it permanently, I get veto."
"Veto?"
"If you try to throw me off a cliff again, I bite my tongue. Die. Take you with me."
She considered.
"Accepted."
"And no lies," Erlin added. "If you remember something important—like that you maybe ordered your own death—I want to know."
She didn't flinch. "You already do."
He swallowed.
"And one more thing," he said, lowering his voice. "If I help you take back whatever it is you're reclaiming… I want a life after."
"I'm not a god."
"You're close."
Velrona turned her gaze inward. "Fine. If I live, and you live, I'll give you a name and a trade."
"Not a favor?"
"A foundation."
Erlin extended his hand.
She took it.
It was the first moment of shared will, not enforced obedience.
They left the outpost at dusk.
The last sunrays cut low across the hills, catching on brittle grass and the iron fenceposts that marked the edge of the known world. No one stopped them. No one even looked.
But they watched—from windows, from shadows. They could feel it.
Something old had stirred.
Velrona paused at the final marker stone. Her borrowed body cast a long, sharp shadow across the cracked road.
She didn't look back.
She whispered to the ground.
"Let the stories rot. I'll write new ones."