The flower on the windowsill had not withered. Not truly.
Though its petals curled and darkened with age, a faint glow pulsed from its center—pale blue, soft as breath. Arjuna touched it. The warmth it gave off wasn't earthly. It reminded him of another time. A dream. A face.
A promise.
"I've seen this flower before," he said aloud.
Tellen looked up from the bed where he sat scribbling by lanternlight. "Hm? That's a memory-bloom. Rare. They only grow where vows were broken in death. If it called to you, it means something of you lingers here."
Arjuna frowned. "Something of me?"
"A shard. A trace. You may not remember it… but your soul might."
The flower trembled in his palm.
Suddenly, the lantern dimmed. Wind whispered through the floorboards. The night outside had changed.
The Hollow Lights had begun.
They left the inn before midnight. The entire village was cloaked in an eerie hush. White-robed villagers moved in silence, placing candles along the roads, at doorsteps, beneath trees. Each candle bore a name. Each name belonged to the dead.
"Tonight," Tellen whispered, "the veil opens. The souls that haven't passed on walk freely. Some come peacefully. Others—less so."
A slow procession passed them—villagers chanting low hymns in a language Arjuna didn't recognize. The children were gone. Even the wind had died.
At the heart of Hollowmere stood a bone-white shrine: a circle of statues, most broken or crumbled. In the center, a stone sword jutted from the ground—wreathed in candles.
Arjuna stopped cold.
The sword was identical to his.
"I've seen that blade," he said.
Tellen squinted. "It's a replica. A monument. The locals call it Godsworn Steel. Legend says the knight who bore it once sealed a rift in the veil right here, where we stand. Some think it was Arjuna the Betrayer."
He looked sideways at Arjuna, almost sheepish.
"I didn't want to say anything before, but… they might mean you."
The words clanged in Arjuna's skull.
He stepped closer. His fingers brushed the stone hilt of the replica—and the world split.
Light swallowed his vision. A searing flood of memory—not whole, but broken—crashed through him like a tide.
He saw:
A younger version of himself, armored in pale gold, kneeling before the sword as ash fell like snow.
A crowd behind him—soldiers? Survivors? He could not tell.
A woman standing across from him. Cloaked in black. Face hidden. Voice trembling.
"You swore to come back," she said. "Even in death."
"I will," the knight replied.
He stabbed the sword into the earth. Magic erupted from the blade like wildfire—white flame carving a circle in the air, sealing it shut. A veil. A promise.
Then darkness.
Arjuna fell back, gasping. Tellen caught him.
"You saw it?" the historian asked.
Arjuna nodded slowly. "I sealed something here. Long ago."
"Then it's starting," Tellen muttered. "The remembering."
He helped Arjuna to his feet. Around them, the Hollow Lights flickered. Shadows moved differently now. Less like people, more like watchers.
And then the scream tore through the air.
A woman's voice. Distant. Hollow. Agonized.
It came from the forest edge.
Arjuna didn't hesitate. He ran.
They found her at the boundary—an old woman crouched over a grave, clawing at the earth. The candles nearby had all gone out.
"My son," she sobbed. "He came back. But his face was wrong."
Tellen paled. "Veilbroken shade. It used her memory to get in."
Arjuna stepped forward, sword in hand.
The forest beyond had changed. Dozens of faint lights now moved among the trees, each with a humanoid form—but twisted. Gliding unnaturally. Some had no faces. Others had far too many.
"They're drawn to him," Tellen whispered. "They sense the vow on your blade."
One of the figures peeled away from the rest. It approached. Its form flickered between identities—a child, a lover, a soldier, a shadow.
When it spoke, a dozen voices came out at once.
"You left us behind. You let her burn. You let me die."
Arjuna raised his blade.
"I don't remember. But I will."
The shade lunged.
Their blades met in silence. No warcry. No scream. Just the tearing of fog and the pulse of ancient power.
Arjuna's blade burned with white heat. Godsworn steel.
The shade shrieked. Its form cracked like glass—revealing a hollow inside.
He drove the sword through it, into the earth. Light erupted once more.
The veil sealed again.
Silence.
The villagers found him there, surrounded by candles and broken shadow. The shrine now glowed faintly. No more wraiths emerged.
The woman who had screamed lay sleeping beside the grave. Peaceful.
"You protected the veil," one elder whispered. "Just like before."
Arjuna didn't answer.
He only looked at the sword.
And whispered: "What did I promise her?"