By IMERPUS RELUR
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The silence of the forest was unnatural. Not a single bird, not a single rustle of leaves. Imer stepped lightly across the cracked roots, eyes narrowed as the mist parted for him like a loyal servant. His right hand was loose, but his palm burned—his body responding before his thoughts could catch up.
The trail was made of bones.
Clean white femurs, shattered skulls, brittle rib cages laid like stepping stones on a winding path that went deeper into the woods. It didn't feel like a warning. It felt like an invitation.
He knew this place.
Not from memory, but from something older—embedded in his sinew, carved into the marrow of who he was. The bones were not random. Each one pulsed faintly. They were calling to him.
"You're early," a voice murmured.
He turned without flinching. The figure who emerged wore no face—just a smooth surface, silver, reflecting Imer's own expression. Its cloak dragged across the bones like wind across sand.
"I'm always early," Imer replied.
They stood in the space between now and before. The figure pointed at his chest.
"It's begun again. You've eaten too much."
Imer's jaw clenched. "Not enough."
The figure chuckled without breath. "Then eat this truth."
It extended a hand, revealing a small orb—black, rotating slowly, like a dying star. As Imer reached out, the orb pulsed. Inside, he saw a vision:
Himself—not himself—kneeling before a city made of screaming mouths, his hands bound by threads of regret.
He didn't blink. He didn't hesitate.
He swallowed the orb.
The woods shuddered. The bones groaned.
The trail lit up like veins struck with memory.
Behind him, the faceless figure vanished into vapor.
Imer stood alone again—but now, the trail wasn't just leading forward.
It was echoing backward.
Every step he had taken, every sin he had consumed, now traced him in reverse—asking him if he remembered what he left behind.
He didn't answer.
He walked.