PactBound

"Finally." The word sat heavy on Klein's chest, its weight amplified by the flat, emotionless tone in which it was delivered. Something about how she said it made his skin crawl, as if the word itself carried a hidden meaning he couldn't yet grasp. He looked around the familiar room, his eyes scanning the details. Everything seemed to be as it was—except for the shattered dining table, now reduced to an empty space where it once stood.

Just like the bedroom, this room was a near-perfect replica of his memories. But also like the bedroom, there was something off, something his eyes couldn't quite pinpoint. The air felt too still, the light too sharp, as if the world itself were holding its breath. The faint scent of dust and decay lingered, though the room appeared untouched by time.

As his thoughts churned, his feet moved almost of their own accord, carrying him to the left. There, another door stood slightly ajar, identical to the one he had just stepped through. With a soft creak, the door pushed open, revealing a sight that made his chest tighten.

The girls' room.

Two small beds sat on opposite sides of the room, each side a mirror image of the other. The arrangement had been a gentle compromise after Anna's teary insistence that it wasn't fair for Emily to have a new dresser. Klein could still picture her—tiny fists clenched, cheeks puffed out in defiance, her bottom lip quivering as she sat in the corner. It had taken a soft promise to make things "fair" to coax her out. The warmth of the memory spread through him, but it was fleeting, chased away by the cold emptiness of the room.

His eyes fell on a small wooden figure lying on the floor beside Anna's bed. It was crude, its proportions exaggerated, clearly the work of unskilled hands. But Anna had been so happy, her face lighting up as she told him about it. He crouched down, his fingers brushing against the rough surface of the wooden horse. For a moment, he could almost hear her laughter echoing in the room.

"They aren't here," the girl's voice cut through the silence, sharp and matter-of-fact.

"I know," Klein replied, his voice low. He straightened, his hand lingering on the wooden figure for a moment longer before letting it fall to his side. The house might look the same, but it felt hollow, as if all the love and life that once filled it had been siphoned away, leaving behind only echoes and shadows. The walls seemed to breathe with a cold, artificial stillness, like a corpse posed to mimic life.

As he turned, the girl rose from where she had been sitting, her movements precise and deliberate. She was wearing an outfit similar to his, though tailored to fit her slender frame. She picked up a cloak from the table and, with a practiced motion, threw it over her shoulders. The fabric settled around her with a soft rustle, the clasp clicking into place at her neck. The cloak fell just below her knees, its dark fabric seeming to absorb the light.

"Ready to go?" she asked, her tone as neutral as ever.

"No, I'm not," Klein said, his voice firm. "You need to answer a few questions first."

She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "Very well. Ask away."

"Who are you?" Klein demanded, his eyes narrowing.

"Lina," she replied without hesitation. "Lina Hleverh."

The name was unfamiliar to him. He had met people from every corner of the continent during his years in Falkridge, but this name didn't fit any region or culture he knew.

"What did you do to me?" Klein asked, his voice rising.

Lina blinked, her expression shifting slightly—the first hint of emotion he'd seen from her. "I forged you a new body," she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"I get that," Klein snapped. "I want details."

"I forged your body from Nyxium, mainly," she began, her tone clinical. "With parts of Gravesilver where it was needed. And an Aetheral Heart as your core."

Klein's breath caught in his throat. Gravesilver was common enough, used in everything from military weapons to household tools. But Nyxium? That was something else entirely. It was one of the rarest metals in existence, so rare that some doubted it even came from this world. Legends spoke of it falling from the sky in a shower of light, a gift—or a curse—from the heavens.

The thought of forging an entire body from it sent a chill down his spine. Even a single shard of Nyxium was priceless—enough to buy a small estate or commission a masterwork weapon. Wars had been fought over lesser treasures. To gather enough Nyxium to craft a fully functioning artificial body, with the level of intricacy he saw in his own skin and the runes beneath it… It bordered on the impossible. No, it was impossible. Nations would have to be plundered, ancient ruins stripped bare, and celestial phenomena harnessed—just to acquire the raw material.

And an Aetheral Heart? His mind snagged on the name, dredging up an old memory. Elizabeth had spoken of them before, her voice a soft murmur against the glow of the hearth as she spun tales of the Age of Epoch for their daughters. Back then, the stories had seemed like nothing more than fairy tales—a mother's way of bringing wonder to bedtime.

The Aetheral Hearts were said to be seven unique artifacts, relics from a time when reality itself was more malleable. Unlike Essence, which thrummed with life and energy, Aether was its dark mirror—the embodiment of negative energy, the void of space, and absolute nothingness. An Aetheral Heart wasn't just a crystal or a gem; it was a physical manifestation of that void, a shard of the cosmos' cold indifference.

But those were just stories. Even Elizabeth, with all her knowledge and curiosity, had spoken of them as myths—relics of a bygone age, lost to time and legend. Yet here he stood, with an Aetheral Heart at his core, and the line between myth and reality blurred beyond recognition.

A cold bead of sweat trickled down his back, his body betraying the fear he barely understood. If Lina was telling the truth, then whoever—whatever—she was, her power was staggering. It made no sense. She looked no older than sixteen, yet she spoke with the calm certainty of someone who had seen centuries pass. His instincts screamed at him to back away, to put distance between himself and this girl.

Klein's fingers twitched, his body torn between the urge to run and the paralyzing weight of not knowing where he could run to. But before he could process the information, Lina spoke again. "Any more questions?"

The sound of her voice, so calm and detached, sent a ripple of unease through him. His mouth was dry, his voice tight as he forced the next question out. "That thing," Klein said, each word measured, as if afraid speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile reality he had left. "What was it?"

Lina's brow furrowed slightly, her posture stiffening almost imperceptibly. "What thing?"

"Whatever it was that I formed a pact with," Klein clarified. "You're here too, so I'm guessing you've made a pact with it as well."

"Yes," Lina said simply. "But I am unsure of its true nature."

Klein stared at her, his confusion mounting. "Wait, you have no idea what it is either?"

"All I know," Lina replied, her voice steady, though her fingers tightened briefly around the edge of her cloak, "is that whatever it is, it is far beyond our ability to comprehend."

Klein's mind raced. Whoever—or whatever—Lina was, she was clearly far more powerful than him. She had forged a new body for him, something that should have been impossible. And she had somehow transferred his soul into it, a feat that required knowledge of high-level magic. Yet here she was, admitting she didn't even understand the entity they had both bound themselves to.

"Do you have any more questions?" Lina asked, her tone cutting through his thoughts.

"Where are my daughters?" Klein demanded, his voice low and urgent. "Are they okay?"

Lina hesitated, her expression flickering for the briefest moment. Her breath hitched, a faint, almost imperceptible break in her usual composure. "I have already told you," she said, her voice smooth and steady. Her eyes remained unblinking, and for a moment, something ancient and patient seemed to peer through her. "But I suppose you won't accept that answer."

Irritation simmered beneath Klein's skin, a prickling heat that pushed back against the numbness he had been drowning in. "Stop dancing around the question," he snapped. "Just tell me where they are. Now."

Lina's lips pressed into a thin line, a shadow of something—annoyance?—flitting across her otherwise impassive face. She exhaled slowly, as if steadying herself. "Follow me," she said, turning on her heel. "I have something to show you."

"No." Klein's voice was hard, unyielding. "I'm not going anywhere until you answer my question."

Lina paused, glancing back over her shoulder. Her shoulders tensed slightly, a subtle shift that betrayed a flicker of impatience. "If you follow me," she said, her tone calm but insistent, "then all your questions will be answered."

Klein let out a heavy sigh, his frustration mounting. But he knew he had no choice. With a final glance at the girls' room, he followed Lina, his steps heavy with reluctance.

The door swung open, and the blinding light of day hit Klein like a physical force. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, the light so intense it felt as though he had spent years in darkness. As his vision cleared, the world sharpened—and his heart stopped.

The remains of Falkridge lay before him, a graveyard of stone and earth, where life had crumbled into dust.

The houses that once hummed with life, the streets where laughter had echoed—all of it was gone. Only the stone foundations remained, reclaimed by nature. The stone foundations lay half-buried, vines coiling through the cracked stone like veins through a corpse. Trees had grown over roads, their roots breaking through cobblestones, as if nature itself had swallowed his past whole. The roads he had traveled were now little more than overgrown animal trails. The town he had called home was nothing but a memory, swallowed by time.

Klein took a few steps forward, his boots crunching against the brittle, dry earth. The air was cool, carrying the faint tang of moss and decay, and the ground beneath his feet felt uneven, as though the earth itself had shifted over centuries. His chest tightened, and he struggled to find the words. Finally, he turned to Lina, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Tell me," Klein whispered, his voice thin and brittle. "How long… How long has it been? Since I died?"

His hands clenched into fists, the new, perfect skin pulling taut over unfamiliar knuckles. The skin felt too smooth, too alien. His chest constricted, a band of iron tightening around his lungs. The dirt beneath his feet seemed to shift, unsteady, a stark reminder of a world that felt both familiar and wrong. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind grasping for any answer that made sense— months? Years? A decade perhaps? But deep down, the truth coiled, cold and unyielding.

As he looked at Lina—at the blank slate of her expression and the shadows that seemed to pool in her unblinking eyes—a knot of dread twisted in his gut. His knuckles whitened, his nails biting into his palms, but he forced himself to remain standing, his body taut as a bowstring.

Lina stepped forward. When she spoke, her voice was softer than before, but still devoid of emotion. The silence between them stretched, heavy and suffocating, before she finally answered.

"Nearly three hundred years."