The sun had long since dipped behind the hills when they saw it—a pale silver glow stretched across the horizon, not from fire or moonlight, but from water.
Lunasveil.
The lake nestled in a shallow basin of wind-smoothed stone, its waters utterly still, not a ripple across its glassy surface. Not even the breeze stirred it. From a distance, it looked less like water and more like polished obsidian—reflecting the stars above with unnatural clarity.
No birds called here. No insects hummed. The only sound was the crunch of their boots on the gravel path leading downward.
"It's so quiet," Lira whispered. "Like the world is holding its breath."
Bram knelt at the water's edge, frowning. "I've heard stories of this place. That it shows you what was lost. Or what could have been."
"It shows truth," Caelum said softly. "But not the kind you can name."
As he stepped closer to the water, the shard pulsed against his chest, a low thrum like a heartbeat. The still surface shimmered—and then the reflection changed.
He did not see himself.
He saw another Caelum. Same face, same eyes—but older. Wearier. This version stood alone atop a ruined tower, staring down at a broken land. His eyes glowed faintly with divine power. His hands were empty.
Caelum's breath caught.
The other him turned slightly. "You gave them the gift of emotion, then left them to drown in it," the reflection said. "You watched. And called it mercy."
"I'm here now," Caelum murmured.
"Too late for many," the reflection replied.
And then, it was gone.
The lake rippled—and Lira screamed.
Caelum turned to see her standing rigid, eyes wide as she stared into the water. Tears welled in her eyes. Bram moved to her, but she raised a hand.
"I see her," she said hoarsely. "My sister."
The lake's surface shifted again. This time, it showed a child no older than ten, her face alight with laughter as she danced across a field of poppies.
"I told her I'd come back," Lira whispered. "I left. She wandered too far. Fey took her… or the marsh. No one knows."
The child faded into mist.
Lira fell to her knees.
"I thought I buried that," she said. "I thought I made peace."
"The lake remembers what you try to forget," Bram said. But even his voice shook.
The reflection in the water showed him seated at a hearthfire, in a modest home. A young boy clung to his leg. A woman stirred stew in a pot. Bram—older, heavier, softer—smiled at them. Not a warrior. Not a guide. A father.
He exhaled sharply. "I could have stayed. I almost did."
They stood in silence for several minutes, each staring into the still lake, haunted by what it showed.
Then the shard pulsed again.
This time, the water shimmered like glass—and from its surface, something rose.
Not from beneath. From the reflection itself.
A figure stepped forward, rippling like smoke solidifying. It wore Caelum's face—but subtly wrong. Its eyes were hollow, like a sculpture's. Its voice, when it spoke, echoed with countless tones: high, low, male, female—all at once.
"I am the Reflection of Self," it said. "You seek the second shard. But only those who accept the weight of who they might have been may carry the truth it guards."
Caelum stepped forward. "Then test me."
The reflection didn't move. "This is no test. There is no passing or failing. Only choosing. You may take the shard. But to do so, you must bear its cost: remembrance, and the silence it brings."
Caelum's brow furrowed. "Silence?"
The reflection nodded. "For a time, your voice will be lost. Not your speech, but your truth. Until you confront what you most wish to remain unspoken."
Behind him, Bram tensed. "And if he refuses?"
"The lake keeps the shard. And offers forgetting in return."
Lira stepped forward. "No. We can't forget. Not again."
She looked at Caelum then. "You don't have to speak. We'll carry it with you."
Caelum hesitated.
The shard pulsed once more, brighter now.
He reached out—and touched the surface of the water.
The reflection dissolved. The lake shimmered—and the second shard rose, not from the depths, but from within the reflection. It hovered for a breath, glowing softly, and drifted into Caelum's hands.
As it touched his skin, he felt something pull tight in his chest. A thread snapping.
He opened his mouth—tried to speak—but no sound came.
Not even a whisper.
Lira caught him as he stumbled.
"It's all right," she said, her voice shaking. "We're still here."
The runes on the shard glowed faintly: a new symbol etched itself into the stone.
Pity. Not in weakness, but in recognition.
The cost of feeling too deeply.
Caelum's voice was gone. But in its place, a deeper understanding settled over him.
They made camp away from the lake that night. The waters of Lunasveil faded behind them like a forgotten dream. In silence, they sat together. No words were needed.
Bram whittled wood by the fire, his hands steady. Lira traced runes in the dirt beside her bedroll, her eyes lost in thought.
Caelum lay back and looked to the stars.
The shard pulsed faintly beneath his cloak.
Two truths gathered. Five more waited.
But something else waited, too—an understanding he hadn't yet faced.
The next step would lead them into the heart of a dying town, where grief took a different form: not memory, but hunger.
And in the quiet of that place, Caelum would learn just how deep pity could run.