The path twisted upward, stones half-swallowed by moss and memory. Caelen climbed in silence, the trees thinning as the air grew thin and strange. At the summit, nestled in a glade choked with ivy and silence, stood a crumbling shrine.
Its stones bore no name. No offerings lay at its feet. It was forgotten by time—and yet, it pulsed with quiet power.
At its heart stood a figure cloaked in gray. Tall. Still. Its face lost beneath a deep hood, and the air around it shimmered—not with heat, but with presence. It felt like standing between breaths.
"You are the Ashbound," the figure said, voice soft as wind through leaves. "I am the Watcher. Keeper of balance. You stand at a crossroads."
Caelen's scar flared with sudden heat, and his curse recoiled like a wounded beast. The Watcher radiated something ancient—neither kind nor cruel, neither light nor dark. Simply... inevitable.
"What do you want from me?" Caelen asked, voice low.
"To offer you a choice," the Watcher replied.
The forest seemed to still around them.
"Your curse can be severed," the Watcher said. "The weight lifted. The pain ended. Or… you may embrace it fully. Become its master. Wield its power with clarity."
Caelen's breath caught.
"Sever it?" he asked. "You mean... I'd be free?"
"Yes," the Watcher murmured. "But you would no longer feel the pain of others. Nor their joy. You would live untouched, untethered. Alone in your own heart."
The words landed like stones.
The temptation was sharp. To be free. To finally rest.
But the reflection in the marsh returned—those hollow eyes, the absence of care.
"And if I become its master?" he asked.
"You would feel everything," the Watcher said. "More than ever before. But you would endure it. Harness it. Yet you may lose something essential. Your softness. Your self. Perhaps your humanity."
Caelen's chest tightened. Two paths. One empty. One endless.
Elira's face flickered behind his eyes. Her fire. Her belief.
The healer who'd turned to ash. The boy with no tears. The mother who sang to the stars.
"I choose neither," Caelen said. His voice shook—but held. "I will carry it as I am. Not as a master. Not as a ghost. Just… me."
The Watcher tilted its head, something unreadable beneath the hood.
"A brave choice, Ashbound," it said. "Or a foolish one. Time will tell."
Then the figure vanished, swallowed by wind.
The shrine fell still again.
Caelen remained.
The curse settled inside him—not like a shackle, but like breath. Heavy, yes. But familiar.
He turned from the shrine and walked down the path.
Toward fire. Toward Elira. Toward whatever came next.