The light arrived without asking.
Beneath me—the earth. Rough, sandy. Under my fingers, moss, reeking of rot.
It took me a while to realize nothing was holding me anymore. I felt as if I was still inside, not in the house, but in it. In… that thing. In its jaws. I lay on my back, face pressed into damp moss, and for a while I didn't breathe. Not because I couldn't—because I didn't want to. It felt like if I inhaled, it would hear me and reach out for me again.
Then came the sensations. Not pain—I'd been on familiar terms with pain for a long time. First, the stickiness on my palms. That was my blood. Then, the breathing, not obeying me—like in an old mine, everything caved in, but you keep trying to claw your way out. Then, the realization that I was alone. That Lidia wasn't here. That she hadn't made it out.
I crawled—not because I knew where. I just wanted to get away. Not to lie there where I'd been spat out, like an empty husk. Every meter under my stomach burned with pain. My knee creaked as if someone had wedged a stone beneath it. My back was on fire—the spot where her light had struck. The last of it.
Once, I fell face-first into the clay and didn't get up for ten minutes. I just lay there. Thinking: right now, like this. To just lie here and wait. So that it would… leave me too.
But something inside—weak, angry, stubborn—whispered: no, not yet, get up.
I didn't call out. Didn't scream. I just kept crawling, until I saw footprints. And then, shapes. Someone from the guild. Voices. I got scared it might be him. That he had come for me, wearing someone else's face. I shook when they lifted me, even after I recognized the sector crest. Someone was talking, someone asking something. I didn't remember.
— Over here!
— Alive!
— Hey!
Hands. At first cold. Then, too warm. Touches. Shoulder. Head. A blanket.
I flinched when fingers touched my neck. Moroi? No. Human. Probably.
— She's covered in blood.
— What about the rest?
I squeezed my eyes shut. Don't ask. Not now.
They carried me to the guild. Gave me a room. That was worse. I sat by the window, clutching the edge of my cloak, afraid to sleep. Afraid I'd wake up where it all started. Then they brought a tablet for the report. Official form: names, structure, anomaly summary, casualties, survivors, discovered artifacts.
I held the charcoal, my hand shaking.
At first I wrote:
"Five people. Spirit that feeds on fear. Moroi. Manifests through shadows, reality distortion, copying the appearance and behavior of the dead."
Erased it.
I couldn't write about it like it was just another job. It wasn't a mission. It was something that would stay inside me forever. Like a curse. Like a debt. Like guilt.
In the "Survivor's Comment" line I wrote:
I survived. She—remained. Lidia didn't die. She realized we wouldn't get out together, and made her choice. I didn't stop her in time. Maybe I wasn't supposed to. It wasn't a sacrifice. It was her decision. Not heroism. Just a choice—to be the last one left with those she loved. I don't know what happened to her. But I know she's not gone. Not disappeared.
I didn't write anything else. Just set the charcoal aside. Closed the tablet.
And left the room, because the walls were starting to feel familiar.
Same entrance. Same doors.
Ellie stood by them longer than she meant to. In her hand—a map to hand in. Formality. Stamp. Signature. Bureaucracy, just to breathe. But her legs wouldn't move. It felt like as soon as she walked in, someone inside would scream: "They're back!"—and then realize she was alone.
She squeezed her shoulder. Gripped. Entered.
The guild hall was as always. The smell of dust and stewed beans. The creak of floorboards. The registration desk. Quest boards. People. Voices. The clink of mugs. And as soon as she stepped inside—everything went quiet.
Someone looked up from their mug. Someone stopped talking. One of the officers by the board froze, pen in hand.
Ellie didn't look at anyone.
Walked straight to the counter. Handed the map to the woman behind it. She took it slowly, as if afraid to touch it. Looked at the stamp. Then at Ellie.
— …you're alive, — she whispered.
— Just me, — short.
The woman's eyes slid away. She didn't know what to say. No one did.
To the left, some adventurer stood up, as if wanting to ask something. Sat down again. Nearby, a young scout squeezed his cap in his hands. They stared. Not directly. Not with pity. With… caution.
Ellie nodded.
— I'm not in the mood. If you weren't waiting for a report—leave it.
On the stairs, the leading guild officer stepped aside, as if unsure what to do.
Ellie walked slowly. Back straight. Hands down. But shoulders—the shoulders of someone carrying too many dead.
She entered the archive. Opened the cabinet. Found the folder. Slipped the new report sheet inside.
Signed her name. And next to it, in the bottom corner, left a short, crooked line: Lidia was the last. Don't forget her name.
Then she went up to her room. Dropped her bag. Sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. And only then covered her face with her hand.
Quiet. No scream. No sound. Just so it wouldn't all spill out. So no one would see. Not even herself.
Morning was noisy, as always. Conversations. Assignments. Someone laughing, someone arguing. Ellie sat by the wall, on a bench. In her hands—a mug of water. Not drinking. Just holding it.
She hadn't slept all night. No one noticed her come in. She just showed up. Sat down. And stayed.
Her gaze unfocused. Shoulders straight. Not an angry face. Just… not here.
No one came over. Everyone understood. Or was afraid.
Except one.
Rein appeared, as always, quietly, calmly, not making any unnecessary movement. Without asking permission, he sat beside her. Not close. But close enough for her to feel it. A minute—silence. Two.
Then he said:
— I lost twenty-eight people in one day.— His voice was calm. Not a trace of drama. Ellie didn't move. Just ran a finger along the rim of her mug.— They told me: you survived, so you're stronger.— He shook his head.— That's a lie. The one who survived isn't stronger. They were just given a bit more time.
Another silence. He turned his head.
— If you want, I'll sit with you. Just that.
Ellie blinked. Slowly.
— No need to talk, — he added. — I get it.
She didn't answer. But didn't turn away. They sat. In the noise of the guild hall, among other people's voices, in daylight.
Two days later. Ellie's room was tiny.
Nothing special—a desk, a bed, a trunk, a single shelf. But everything lay where she wanted.
Maps on the wall. Some with faded lines, others with her own notes. An old crossed-out phrase in the corner: "Not there." Next to it, a straight arrow with a note: "Don't go there, idiot."
The desk was a mess. Dust, scraps of parchment, pliers, a pencil stub, a mug with dried tea. And a knife. Small, bone-handled, slightly bent. She pulled it from her backpack, wiped it with her sleeve. The blade was cracked.
— You made it this far, — she muttered. — Just like me.
On the bed lay her cloak. Full of holes. One pocket torn off.
She sat down, pulled out a needle, threaded it. Her fingers wouldn't obey. Skin on the pads rubbed raw, nails broken.
Every stitch was slow, but she kept going. Stared at the fabric, thinking not about the fabric. Then she moved to the buckle on her belt, loosened. Tightened it again. Took out the map, the one she'd found at the river before it all began. Unrolled it on the desk, traced the cracks with her finger. The ravine was marked. "The Throat." In the corner, a tiny red dot. The place she'd stood when it all started.
She looked at it for a long time. After that, she opened her food. Bread, hard as a boot sole. Cheese, crumbling in her fingers. She didn't heat it up, just ate. Slowly. No appetite, but not forcing herself. At some point she realized she was eating and couldn't taste anything. Just texture.
She set the piece aside, wiped her hands. Stuck them in her pockets.
Pulled out a tiny, nearly falling-apart scrap of paper. An old note. Scrawled on it: "If you get lost—yell. Someone will hear." She stared at it for a long time. Then shoved it back.
She thought: What if no one hears?
But didn't cross it out.
The door's creak was soft. But in a room where silence was everything, it sounded like a crack.
Ellie jerked, as if struck.
— Closed, — she snapped.
Rein didn't come in. Just opened it. Waited.
— Just checking.
— Why? Want to die too? Shouldn't have come, — she said.
He was silent.
— What, you going to say something like "it's not your fault"? — her voice turned angry, foreign. — Say "you survived—so you deserved it"? Or that I'm "not alone"? Please, just not that.
He took half a step. She jumped up.
— DON'T!
He stopped. She was shaking—not from fear. From fury.
— I didn't want a team! Got it?! I didn't ask for them! They DUMPED this mission on me, gave me people and said "it'll be fun, an easy cleanup." And I… I knew. I felt everything would go wrong.
She turned away, fists clenched.
— I thought: if they go with me, someone definitely won't come back. I knew! I'm not stupid! Just… just hoped if I kept to the shadows, if I didn't stand out, they'd make it. And then… as if on purpose. Everything went in circles. One after another. And I… I just watched.
Rein stood in the doorway. Didn't move.
— I… — her voice broke. — I didn't ask for them. I didn't want to lose anyone.
Pause.
— But they didn't ask for me, did they?— She sat on the edge of the bed. Breathed deep. Quietly.— They didn't get me dumped on them. I got them. Or maybe the other way around. I don't know anymore. I was just… a cartographer. Pitch a tent. Draw a map. And everyone looked: there she is—the one you have to look after. And they went. And died.
Rein came closer. Sat opposite. In silence. She looked up at him—red eyes, but no tears.
— If I hadn't been there, they wouldn't have died. Wouldn't have spent their last strength on me.
He looked her in the eye. Calm. No pity.
— No, — he said.
And nothing more. They sat like that—until it was quiet again. Just breathing. Two shadows. And between them—all that was left of the team.
The information desk was warm.
Literally—the sun fell through the window right onto the left side of the table, and the parchment under her fingers warmed up, as if breathing. Ellie had been sitting there for three days. No one asked her to. She just came in the morning, nodded to the registrar, and sat by the inkpot.
She wasn't wearing armor. Just a thin shirt and vest. Hair tied back, face clean, movements steady.
Her fingers trembled a little.
— Marsh root, bundle—three. Received, recorded, — she filed the slip in the folder, not looking up.— Next.
— I've got an artifact, — someone behind her, uncertain.
— Function?
— Uh… warms your hand.
— Useful if you're without pants. Hand it over.
She took the metal bit, sniffed—smelled of smoke and copper. Wrote: "Small heat pendant. One charge. No hazard."
That's how the day went.
She counted herbs, sorted beads, checked marks on maps. Listened to newbies' complaints. Sometimes gave advice. Sometimes—just looked, not replying.
They talked about her, of course. Not loudly. But they talked.
— That's her, right?
— From that village. Where no one came back.
— Only one survivor.
— They say the report doesn't list who died. Just: "remained."
— Weird.
The official report on the Moroi was posted in a sealed frame, on the third floor by the threat map.
Object: Moroi (unclassified spiritual anomaly)
Danger rank: S (highest)
Region: Uttar village, southwest sector
Zone status: sealed. Entry forbidden. All contact missions suspended.
Instruction: avoid all interaction, including magical reconnaissance. Under surveillance by two senior investigators.
Only survivor: Ellie F.
Report partially classified by council order.
No one asked Ellie what really happened there.
And she didn't tell.
In the evenings she returned to her room. Sat at her desk. Sometimes reread the report. Sometimes just stared at the wall.
Once someone left a small jar of jam and a note at her door:
"If you sleep badly—sweet helps. Sorry if it's not the right thing. M."
She had no idea who it was from. But it felt nice.
She ate it with bread. Not all of it. Left half.
Just in case.
For later.