Chapter 16:Dahlia’s Warning

The name still sat in her mouth.

It didn't taste like blood. Or truth. Or even memory.

It tasted like fire.

Kaelith didn't speak again after that. Not as she rose from the floor. Not as Saevus remained bowed before her, unmoving, the gesture devoid of pretense. He wasn't doing it for power. Not control. Not manipulation.

He was waiting.

For permission.

She didn't give it.

She turned instead, walked to the door, and keyed the release.

The metal disengaged with a reluctant sigh.

As she stepped into the corridor, something shifted behind her ribs. A heat that wasn't physical. A hum she couldn't name.

The relic pulsed against her chest.

Still in her coat pocket, still silent—but no longer dormant.

Saint Nerezza didn't feel like home anymore.

It felt like a cage trembling at the hinges.

She passed no one on her way to the surface. No nurses. No patients. No guards.

The asylum had gone quiet in a way she hadn't expected. As if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting to see what she would do now that she remembered her name.

Kaelith didn't return to her office.

She didn't change out of her coat.

She left.

Slipped out through the back stairwell, down the staff access, through a side exit where no one thought to look.

The air outside was sharp. Too sharp. The wind cut through her like needles through silk. But she didn't stop walking. Didn't slow.

She had one destination.

One name.

Dahlia.

The last message had come through an encrypted server Kaelith wasn't even supposed to have access to. It had appeared weeks ago—just a single phrase, coordinates, and a name scratched in code she hadn't understood at the time.

Now she did.

The Halo.

She followed the directions to an address in the east quarter. An old hospice center, long defunded, now privately owned. Not open to the public. Not open to anyone.

But Kaelith knew the right entry code.

She always did.

The door opened without resistance.

Inside: dust. Silence. The air smelled like dying paper and forgotten antiseptic. The wallpaper peeled. The lights buzzed. The nurse's station was empty.

But someone had left a light on at the end of the hall.

Room 317.

Kaelith walked.

Each step echoed.

The floorboards beneath the linoleum creaked in places where weight hadn't touched them in years. She reached the door and paused.

No name on the placard.

Just the number.

And a faint sigil scratched into the paint.

The slit sun.

She knocked once.

No answer.

She opened the door.

The room was small. Dim. A single window, covered in blackout cloth. A hospital bed. A chair. A woman sitting in it—small, thin, hair coiled messily atop her head. Wrapped in a shawl that looked like it hadn't been washed in months.

Dahlia.

She didn't turn when Kaelith entered.

Didn't speak.

Just stared ahead, hands folded in her lap, fingers twitching with invisible rhythms.

Kaelith stepped closer.

"Dahlia," she said softly.

The woman flinched—barely. A breath. A twitch of the eye.

"You came," she whispered, voice rasped from disuse.

Kaelith nodded, though the woman still hadn't looked at her.

"You called me."

"No," Dahlia murmured. "He did."

Kaelith tensed.

"Saevus?"

Dahlia shook her head.

"No. The one who waits in mirrors. The one who remembers your face even when you don't. He told me you'd come. Said the ash was waking."

Kaelith crossed the room. Stopped beside the chair.

Dahlia's hands were covered in ink.

Symbols. The same ones Kaelith had found on her own arms. Drawn in circles, layered over and over. Some fresh. Some faded.

"He said you wouldn't believe me," Dahlia said, finally turning her head.

Her eyes were pale. Clouded at the edges like she hadn't slept in years. But behind them burned a fever Kaelith recognized too well.

"But you're starting to remember," Dahlia continued. "Aren't you?"

Kaelith didn't answer.

"You saw the chamber," Dahlia whispered. "You saw the altar. The mural."

"Yes."

"You saw the first one. The boy. Adros."

"Yes."

Dahlia reached out suddenly, gripped Kaelith's wrist with bony fingers.

Her grip was stronger than it looked.

"They'll come for you," she hissed. "Not him. Not the cult. The others. The ones who don't want her to rise."

Kaelith's voice came cold. "Who are they?"

"The ones who buried you."

Dahlia's fingers tightened.

"They think they locked Ashema away forever. But they didn't know you were sacred. They didn't know memory is not a wall—it's a wound. And you've been bleeding this whole time."

Kaelith pulled back gently, but Dahlia's nails dug into her skin.

"You can't trust them. Not even the ones in white. Especially not them."

Kaelith's breath caught.

"The staff?"

"The ones who gave you the new name. Who sealed your records. They built the cage around your soul and told you it was healing."

Kaelith stepped back.

Dahlia released her, suddenly shaking.

She leaned forward, whispered: "They'll kill Saevus to stop you."

Kaelith froze.

"What?"

"They'll call it clinical necessity," Dahlia said, eyes wild. "They'll say he attacked someone. Or relapsed. Or tried to escape. But it'll be a lie. A mercy kill, to sever the last tether."

Kaelith felt something split inside her.

Cold.

Rage.

Fear.

Need.

"He's the only one who remembers the whole song," Dahlia said. "If they take him, you'll never finish singing it."

Kaelith turned.

Didn't ask another question.

She was already moving.

Already reaching for the phone tucked in her coat.

Already calling the asylum.

But no one answered.

Just silence.

And a tone.

And then—on the third attempt—a voice finally picked up.

Not a receptionist.

Not a nurse.

A voice she didn't recognize.

Male.

Smooth.

"Dr. Nyraen's office. I'm sorry. She's unavailable."

Kaelith's blood ran cold.

"This is Dr. Nyraen," she said.

A pause.

Then:

"No, Dr. Nyraen," the voice replied, "you're not."

And the line went dead.