The forest remained eerily silent after the battle, the scent of charred flesh and burnt magic lingering in the damp air. The only sound was Achem’s ragged breathing, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as he fought to steady himself.

The visions… the voices… the weight of Rogar’s memories still clung to him like a second skin.

Lysara stood a few feet away, her hands still glowing faintly with residual fire magic. She watched him carefully, her expression unreadable.

Achem clenched his fists. The summoner’s words echoed in his mind.

"You are not Rogar."

"You wear his face, but you are not him."

Then what was he?

A man reborn? A stranger wearing the flesh of a fallen king? Or something worse?

He had no answers. Only more questions.

Lysara broke the silence. "You hesitated back there."

Achem looked up sharply.

Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "That summoner almost killed you, and you just… froze."

Achem exhaled, rubbing his temple. "It wasn’t just a spell." His voice was low, hoarse. "It was something else. Like it was trying to break me from the inside."

Lysara studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "A memory curse," she murmured. "Not just any kind, either. A targeted one."

Achem frowned. "You’re saying someone specifically wanted to use it against me?"

Lysara crossed her arms. "That wasn’t some wild mage throwing spells at random. That was deliberate."

The thought sent a cold chill down Achem’s spine.

If someone knew about him—about what he was—then that meant they had been expecting him.

And that meant he was already being hunted.

----------------------------------------

The journey back to the safe house was slow.

Achem was exhausted—his body screamed for rest—but the weight of the night’s events left him restless.

Lysara moved beside him, her steps sure despite the weariness in her eyes. "You’re different," she said finally.

Achem turned his head. "What?"

"You fight like a man who remembers war," she continued, not looking at him. "Your reflexes, your instincts… They’re too sharp for someone new to battle. But your mind?" She finally met his gaze. "That’s not Rogar’s mind."

Achem didn’t know how to respond to that.

She wasn’t wrong.

He felt it too—the strange disconnect between the way his body moved and the way his thoughts lagged behind. It was like his flesh remembered, but his soul did not.

"I don’t know what I am," Achem admitted.

Lysara’s lips curled into a small, knowing smirk. "Then we better figure it out before someone else does."

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By the time they reached the safe house, dawn was beginning to break.

The abandoned outpost stood silent and unmoving, half-hidden by thick vines and overgrown roots that coiled around the crumbling walls.

It was small, isolated—a forgotten place in a dying kingdom.

Achem let out a slow breath as he stepped inside, letting his body finally relax.

Lysara wasted no time lighting a small fire, warming her hands over the rising flames. She looked up at him, her dark eyes flickering with something unreadable.

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"You need answers," she said.

Achem ran a hand down his face. "No kidding."

Lysara’s smirk widened. "I might know where to start."

Achem raised an eyebrow.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "There’s someone who might know more about your… situation. A seer. Old, powerful, and very inconveniently located."

"Let me guess," Achem sighed. "Dangerous to get to?"

Lysara gave him a slow, almost mocking nod. "Extremely."

Achem exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Of course it is."

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The next night, Achem found himself standing before the gates of Black Hollow, the city looming in the darkness like a beast waiting to devour all who dared enter.

The walls were tall and ancient, worn by time yet still standing strong. Torches flickered in the windows of guard towers, their orange glow barely cutting through the fog that curled around the streets like living mist.

It was a city of mercenaries, thieves, and those who had nowhere else to go.

Achem pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his face. They couldn’t afford to be recognized.

Lysara stood beside him, arms crossed. "Try not to look like a lost noble wandering into a den of wolves."

Achem scoffed. "I wasn’t planning on it."

She smirked. "Good. Because if they realize who you are, they won’t just kill you. They’ll sell you to the highest bidder."

Achem gritted his teeth. He knew what she meant.

If word got out that Rogar was alive, the entire kingdom would turn into a blood-soaked battleground.

They had to move carefully.

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The streets of Black Hollow were narrow, lined with stalls selling stolen goods, questionable food, and even more questionable weapons.

Achem kept a hand on the hilt of his sword as they moved through the crowd.

Every glance, every whisper felt like a potential threat.

Lysara led the way, her movements fluid, as if she had been here many times before.

They passed a tavern where a group of mercenaries laughed over mugs of ale, their weapons still dripping with fresh blood.

A butcher’s stall displayed slabs of meat Achem wasn’t entirely sure were from animals.

The stench of filth and desperation clung to the air.

Lysara finally stopped outside a small, rundown shop tucked between two larger buildings.

Achem frowned. "This is it?"

Lysara gave him a sideways glance. "What, expecting a grand temple?"

Before he could reply, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

----------------------------------------

The inside of the shop was nothing like he expected.

It was dark, lined with shelves full of strange artifacts—bones carved with runes, bottles of shimmering liquid, stacks of brittle parchment covered in unreadable text.

Achem’s gaze swept over the room, his gut twisting with unease.

Then—a voice.

"You’re late."

Achem turned sharply.

At the back of the room, sitting behind a desk cluttered with odd trinkets, was an old woman wrapped in dark robes.

Her eyes were milky white, her face lined with deep wrinkles.

Lysara leaned against a shelf. "Nice to see you too, grandmother."

Achem blinked.

Grandmother?

The old woman tilted her head, her sightless eyes locking onto Achem.

"You wear a dead king’s skin," she murmured. "But your soul does not belong to him."

Achem’s breath caught in his throat.

The old woman smiled—a slow, knowing thing.

"Ah," she whispered. "Now I see."

Lysara frowned. "See what?"

The woman leaned forward, her fingers tapping against the desk.

"He does not just carry Rogar’s memories," she said softly.

"He carries something else. Something… ancient."

Achem’s stomach twisted.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The woman’s blind eyes seemed to pierce straight through him.

"You are not just a man reborn," she said.

"You are a vessel."

The room fell into silence.

Achem’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Because deep down—he already knew.

And whatever lived inside him was waking up.