The town had no name left.
It was a husk of what it once was—shuttering buildings, empty streets, and the faintest scent of old wood and saltwater. The sign, hanging by a single chain, read "Welcome" in faded letters, though no one ever came. No one ever left.
Caelum could feel it before they even stepped through the town's edge—an oppressive silence, the kind that clung to the air and turned the sky to gray. The wind blew through the streets, but it didn't seem to touch anything. No birds flew above. No voices rose. Even the rustling of leaves had been swallowed by the stillness.
Lira shuddered. "It's… wrong."
Bram, though silent, tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Caelum could feel the tension radiating from him, the unspoken urge to protect, to push forward, to fix what was broken. But how could they? How could you fix what wasn't even acknowledged?
They passed through the main square. There were people—figures cloaked in tattered, weathered garb, moving slowly through the streets. No one spoke. Not a single word escaped their lips. They walked with a heaviness that Caelum could feel in his chest, as if the very act of existing here was a burden.
A woman stopped in front of them, her eyes dull, staring past them as though they were invisible.
"You're new," she said, her voice soft and empty.
Caelum nodded, though he couldn't speak. The words had vanished with the shard. He could only watch as the woman continued.
"Most people stop here… because they're tired. Tired of feeling too much." Her hands trembled at her sides, but whether in fear or need, it was hard to tell.
"I… I need to ask," Lira said, her voice soft but tinged with a quiet urgency. "What happened here?"
The woman turned her hollow gaze to Lira. "It was a trade. A long time ago. We gave away our grief, our sorrow. We thought it would make us free. But we didn't know… we didn't know it would take everything."
Caelum felt the weight of her words settle over him like a cold fog.
The woman continued, her voice wavering. "Now we live without feeling. The pain is gone, but so are all the good things. No joy. No hope. Just empty days."
"And you can't leave?" Bram's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and direct.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "We can't. Not unless someone offers themselves. Someone has to take the burden of the Heartbearer. Someone has to become the spirit who heals what was lost."
The wind howled briefly, but it felt like an echo, like something that once had meaning but no longer did.
Lira looked at the woman, her expression hardening. "A spirit? You mean someone has to give up their life? Forever?"
The woman nodded, her eyes glistening with an unshed tear. "Yes. The Heartbearer remains with us, bound to the town. They absorb the sorrow, the regret, the emptiness. They heal us. They can never leave. They become part of the land. If someone doesn't take the role, the town will continue to die. But no one has the courage to volunteer."
A chill swept over the group, but it wasn't from the cold air. It was the weight of the decision that hung in the air—the heavy knowledge that in this place, emotion had a price. And that price was far steeper than any of them had imagined.
"I'm sorry," the woman said. "We are sorry. We took too much. We gave too much. And now we're all… lost."
Bram's eyes narrowed, and Caelum could feel the anger bubbling within him. He wanted to speak, to ask questions, to understand how this could have happened. But the words, the right words, refused to come.
Lira stepped forward, reaching out to the woman. "Is there no way to fix it? No way to undo the bargain?"
The woman looked at her, the barest hint of something passing through her dull eyes. "The bargain cannot be undone. It was made with the fey, and their rules are… unyielding. But the Heartbearer can break it. The one who takes their place will heal the town. They will restore what was lost. But they will never leave."
There it was—the heart of the matter. The truth Caelum had been waiting for.
"You mean," Lira said slowly, "one of you would have to become the Heartbearer? Someone would have to sacrifice themselves to fix the town?"
"Yes," the woman whispered. "But no one is willing. The cost is too high."
A sudden realization hit Caelum like a thunderclap. He turned toward Bram, seeing something shift in his eyes. Bram's hand gripped his sword tighter, and for a moment, Caelum thought he might take the woman's place himself—offer himself as the Heartbearer, as he had so often done in the past for those he had sworn to protect.
Bram met Caelum's gaze, and for a moment, they both understood.
"I won't do it," Bram said, his voice low but firm. "I refuse."
"Then who will?" the woman asked. "Who will save us?"
Caelum stepped forward, the weight of the shard pressing against his chest. He felt its pulse—strong, unyielding. He could feel the decision rising in him, but it wasn't his alone to make.
Lira turned to him, a question in her eyes.
Caelum's eyes flicked to the town, to the silent faces of the people, the hollow emptiness that had become their lives. Could they let this continue? Could they leave these people to their fate?
But the price—the sacrifice—was enormous. It would take more than just one person to change this town. It would take more than a decision. It would take a life.
As the group stood there, in the silence of the dying town, the shard glowed faintly, and Caelum knew—this was the cost.