Moments later, deeper in the Fifth Zone, the three of us push through damp undergrowth. The air here tastes heavier, roots crowding the ground in twisting veins.

Tessa flicks her ears back, eyes narrowing at Morven. "So… you somehow have a memory of being some kind of prestigious wizard?"

I float alongside her, spines humming faintly. "So the name Morven—that was taken from someone in your memory?"

He doesn't hesitate, his pale face unreadable. "Yes. It seems so, apparently but you're the one who started calling me that."

"Yeah, I knew something was up with you," I say, my shell humming as I drift closer. "You're too strange to be just some random monster."

Tessa tilts her head, tail swishing. "So what—you're a reincarnator like us?"

Morven's lips twitch in something almost like a smile. "Maybe, but not quite. I recall memories that aren't mine, knowledge that isn't mine."

I frown, spines flexing. "Sounds more like inheritance."

"Or possession," Tessa adds, ears flattening a little.

Morven's gaze sharpens. "Possession implies I am not myself. But I assure you—I am plenty myself."

"Yeah, sure," I mutter. "Mr. Going-On-Insane-Randomly."

"Those episodes," he replies smoothly, "are simply echoes. A price for carrying more than one mind's worth of memory."

Tessa snorts. "That's just a fancy way of saying you're nuts."

Morven bows his head slightly, still walking with that eerie composure. "And yet, functional. Nuts can still be useful when cracked open."

"Did you just compare yourself to a walnut?" I say.

"Walnuts," he answers without missing a beat, "contain wisdom. Or so the poets once claimed."

Tessa bursts out laughing. "Oh my gods, you are insufferable."

"So I take it," I say, tilting toward him, "that's the reason you're tagging along and looking toward the surface? Ottomania, Vermania… and this woman you called Liz?"

Morven's eyes flicker—faint light, too calm for someone holding back so much. "Ottomania was a battlefield etched into me. Vermania, a nation of healers turned into an ocean of blood. Liz… she was the one who held the pieces together, if only for a while."

Tessa glances between us, ears forward. "That's not just some random memory, is it? You feel it."

He inclines his head. "Not like stories told, no. More like smoke that still clings to the skin. I cannot tell where memory ends and where I begin."

I click my spines, uneasy. "And yet you're still marching toward the surface like it's where you belong."

"It's not belonging," Morven replies, smooth and certain. "It's inevitability. If my fragments came from above, then above is where the rest of me waits."

Tessa bares her teeth in a crooked grin. "I don't know if that's badass or terrifying."

"Both," I mutter.

Morven walks a step ahead, his voice quieter now, less steady than usual. "Still… I gain memories when I absorb the artifacts. They aren't just scraps of knowledge—they feel like fragments of something larger. Fragments of who I was, to be more accurate."

He slows, one hand curling tight before relaxing again. "And that makes me afraid. If I keep absorbing these memories and become who I was… will I cease to be the current me?"

Tessa glances sideways at him, ears pulled back, firelight fading on her claws. "So you're scared of turning into your past self more than you're scared of dying?"

"Dying," Morven says, not looking at either of us, "would be simpler."

I frown, my shell humming as I drift closer. "Sounds like a messy way of saying you're not sure if you're Morven at all."

His glassy eyes flick toward me, unreadable. "That is exactly the problem."

Morven chuckles, low and humorless, and his steps barely break stride. " 'Morven' isn't even my name," he says, voice carrying that smooth, uncanny cadence. "I'm merely a husk… waiting to be filled with pasts."

Tessa wrinkles her nose. "Wow. That's not creepy at all."

"Creepy's an understatement," I mutter, spines flexing with unease. "So what, you're just… a jar waiting to be poured into?"

He spreads his hands slightly, as if presenting himself. "If that jar learns to walk, talk, and kill—does it matter what was poured into it?"

Tessa snorts. "Yeah, it matters. Nobody likes drinking mystery soup."

I don't know why, but seeing him all sappy like this ticks me off. Morven doesn't usually do this—doesn't usually let the cracks show. He's supposed to be the weird, smug, unsettling one, not… whatever this broody philosopher act is.

"Alright, enough of that," I snap, hovering a little closer. "You're acting like some tragic ghost from a bad play."

Tessa smirks despite the tension. "Finally, someone said it."

Morven only tilts his head, calm as ever. "If my honesty unsettles you, perhaps that says more about the listener than the speaker."

"Or maybe," I shoot back, "you're just unbearable when you're sad."

That earns a short bark of laughter from Tessa. "Ha! Burn."

Morven exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he can't decide whether to smile or brood harder.

"Instead of filling yourself with pasts," I say, keeping my voice flat but sharp, "why don't you try filling yourself with the present—and the future?"

Tessa perks up at that, tail flicking. "Yeah, what she said. You've got two amazing companions right here." She grins at me, all teeth. "Well… one amazing companion and one sarcastic floating egg."

"Gee, thanks, Tess," I mutter.

Morven actually pauses at that, his steps slowing. For once he doesn't fire back some polished line—he just looks at us, eyes unreadable. "Present and future," he repeats, almost testing the words on his tongue.

"Yeah," I say, floating closer, spines clicking softly. "Start being who you are now. Not who you were. Not whoever you're afraid of becoming."

Tessa nudges his side with a paw. "And hey, if you turn into some big scary wizard ghost, we'll just kick your ass until you remember you're Morven."

His expression cracks into the faintest smile. "A strangely comforting threat."

We don't even realize how far we've gone until the light begins to fade. Not the slow creep of dusk, not the true coming of night—just the forest itself dimming, like someone's turned down a lantern wick.

Tessa lifts her head, ears twitching. "Huh. The 'night' is here." Her claws scrape the dirt, unease in her posture. "I always hated the way the light just… dims off. Like the whole place is suffocating itself."

I send my senses outward, pressure waves bouncing through trunks and roots, but the darkness feels thicker than it should, swallowing sound and space.

Morven glances upward, his glassy eyes reflecting the dim canopy. "Artificial night," he murmurs. "A rhythm set by something other than stars."

"Which also means a signal that we should rest?" I say, my shell humming low as I drift closer to the ground. "I don't know… but this is the closest thing we've got to a circadian rhythm down here."

Tessa stretches her legs, wincing a little as the venom's stiffness hasn't fully faded. "Ugh, I'll take it. My body doesn't care what the light's doing—I'm beat."

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Morven folds his arms behind his back, eyes narrowing into the dim. "Sleep, then. I will keep watch. Something tells me this false night draws more than just tired eyes."

"Don't get too dramatic," I mutter, spines loosening as I settle. "You already did your broody act for the day."

Tessa smirks through a yawn. "Yeah, he's maxed out his quota."

"Let me keep watch instead," I say, pulsing my shell faintly as I hover lower. "Besides—" I throw on a mock-serious tone, imitating Morven's cadence—"I don't really sleep. I just project my consciousness psychically while my body undergoes metamorphosis."

Tessa snorts mid-yawn, tail thumping against the dirt. "Oh gods, that was spot on. Creepy voice and all."

Morven tilts his head, his glassy stare settling on me. "If that was meant as parody," he says slowly, "then I should be flattered. It was uncomfortably accurate."

"Good," I reply. "Now go brood over there and let me handle watch duty."

Tessa curls up, still chuckling. "You two are like an old married couple. One's dramatic, the other's sarcastic, and I'm just stuck here as the third wheel."

"More like an emotional babysitter," I mutter, sending my senses outward into the false night.

Tessa yawns wide enough to show every tooth, tail flicking lazily. "That's true… welp, I'm getting eepy now. Good night, Nur."

She curls into herself, embers fading along her fur, while Morven lowers onto the moss with the stiff precision of someone pretending to be human at rest.

Just as the quiet starts to settle over us, a howl cuts through the false night—long, guttural, carrying far across the trees. The sound rattles in my shell, sharp enough that my spines bristle without me thinking.

Tessa's ears twitch even in her half-doze. "...you've got to be kidding me."

She jerks upright, her whole body trembling. She takes one step, then another, unsteady, her claws dragging against the moss. Her ears pin back tight as her eyes lock in the direction of the sound.

"No…" her voice cracks low, almost a whimper. "This howl—nonono… it can't be."

She staggers a little closer, every muscle tight like she's about to snap in half, the fire in her fur guttering instead of blazing.

"What's the matter, Tess?" I ask, pushing forward, spines humming sharp in the dark.

Her breath comes quick, uneven. "This howl… It's all too familiar. It sounds like… them. One of them."

"Your family?"

"Yes," she whispers, ears flat, eyes wide and glassy. "But it can't be, Nur. They're dead. They're all dead!"

I hover closer, the false night pressing heavy around us. "Then either something's playing tricks, or someone's trying really hard to sound like them."

Tessa shakes her head, voice breaking. "No… no, that pitch, that rise at the end—that was ours. That was our pack's call."

Morven sits up smoothly, his glassy eyes narrowing into the dark. "Echoes of the dead… or the dead themselves."

Tessa whirls on him, teeth bared. "Don't say that."

He inclines his head, unbothered. "Then you tell me—would you rather it be memory, or truth?"

Tessa straightens, shoulders stiff, claws digging into the soil. "One way to find out," she mutters, and she tips her head back, chest swelling as she drags in breath to howl.

But before the sound can break free, Morven is on her in a blur—unnatural speed, hand clamping her snout shut. The movement is so smooth it's almost silent, like he'd rehearsed it a thousand times.

Her muffled snarl vibrates against his grip, eyes blazing with heat and anger.

"Don't," he says, voice low but firm, glassy stare boring into hers. "Not unless you wish every shadow in this forest to answer."

Tessa wrenches back, the growl in her throat louder now. "That's my family, Morven! You don't get to—"

"Or a lure," he cuts in, tone sharper. "A howl is not always welcome."

I hover closer, spines bristling. "Enough—you're both right, but yelling's going to get us killed faster than howling."

"Tessa," I say, keeping my voice steady even as my shell hums with tension, "I know you miss them. I know you do. But now's not the time. Just like Morven said—it could be a trap."

Her ears twitch back, eyes still burning with that desperate hope.

"Think about it," I press on. "What if it's not them? What if it's some monster that feeds off sorrow, luring you in with the voices you want most to hear? We've already seen worse tricks down here."

Tessa's breath hitches, claws carving little furrows into the dirt. She doesn't answer right away, but the way her tail droops tells me she's fighting herself more than either of us.

Morven releases her snout slowly, his voice smooth as glass. "Hope is a cruel bait, Tessa. Don't let it hook you."

Tessa's ears flatten, her gaze dropping. "Both of you are right… I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Tessa," I say, softening my tone. "I understand what you're feeling."

Morven gives a slow nod, saying nothing, but the weight in his expression agrees.

Tessa huffs, a shaky breath leaving her chest. "That doesn't mean it hurts any less."

"I know, I know, Tess," I reply, hovering a little closer. "But moping around won't do you any better, you know? That's why we have to keep moving forward."

She looks at me, eyes still glassy with that ache she can't quite hide.

"Now," I add, quieter, "get some sleep, okay? I'll keep watch."

Her shoulders sag as she curls back down onto the moss. "…fine. But wake me if it howls again."

Then she curls herself into sleep.

"I will," I say, even though we both know I'll let her rest.

Well, what the hell is going on today? First Morven with his sappy identity crisis, now Tessa with the ghost-pack trauma. And somehow I'm the one playing therapist? You don't catch me doing that anywhere else, you know. Especially not in my past life. Ice Queen vibes, slayy.

Crazy part is… they listen. They actually listen.

Guess I'm the glue holding this mess together, for now.

---

Well, since they're out cold and I've got nothing better to do, I guess it's time for magic practice.

Speaking of cold—yeah, I did some frost magic. Cool, right? Been practicing that for a while now. Funny thing is, it started with fire. Producing fire is a whole process—fuel, oxygen, heat. I figured, why not cut the middleman? Just crank up the heat and burn the enemy directly. Instead of creating fuel, I could treat the enemy as the fuel. Clever, yeah?

Well, turns out it's not that simple. Manipulating heat on a single moving target is ridiculously hard. The main problem is distance—the farther away they are, the more mana it takes to keep the manipulation focused. That's why people just lob fireballs. Simple, cheap, efficient. Meanwhile, I'm trying to microwave someone from across the field, drains mana like no tomorrow.

So close-range heat manipulation? Efficient. Long-range? Total headache.

So creating fire is hard. Blasting heat straight at an enemy works if they're close, but the moment I try to push it inward—really burn them from the inside—it takes time, too much focus. And in a fight, time gets you killed.

That's when it hit me: what if I flipped it? Instead of shoving heat inward, what if I dragged it outward? Bam. Frost magic, just like that. I didn't invent a new element, I just… shifted the math. Pulling heat out is way easier than forcing it in. The world does half the work for you—the cold just fills the gap.

And gods, it feels smoother. Efficient. Like my mana actually wants to move that way. No surprise Morven had to butt in with his 'magic is different for each person' lecture. He's right, though, annoyingly enough. Everyone's got their own knack. Some people push, some pull, some just set everything on fire and call it a day.

Me? I guess I'm built to take the warmth away.

So yeah—I focus on heat radiating outwards, and frost forms as it bleeds away. It feels natural, cleaner. The speed I can push heat out is faster than trying to drag it in. But the problem is distance. The farther I try to work, the harder it is to focus, and the more mana it eats.

And then there's the ceiling. No matter what, I can't rip all the heat out of something. There's always a limit, always that stubborn ember left behind. What I can do is improve the rate, improve how much heat I can strip in one go.

So just from heat alone, there are three main factors: distance, manipulation rate, and ceiling. Three things to balance, all pulling mana in different ways.

And that's just for heat. You can probably guess how ridiculous it is when you scale it up to making fire. Everyone thinks fire magic is simple—just throw a fireball—but down here? It's stupidly complex, unnecessarily so. Sometimes I wonder if the world made it hard on purpose.

I'm still lost in my own head, tracing numbers that don't exist—distance, rate, ceiling—when I feel a tap against the back of my shell.

I jolt, spines flaring a little before I rein them in. Morven's standing there, pale and steady as always.

"Time to switch," he says, voice low but firm. "You need your rest too."

I hover a little higher, reluctant. "I told you, I don't really sleep—"

He shakes his head once. "Even so. Cocoon or not, mind and mana fray if pushed too long. Let me take the watch."

I sigh, clicking my spines. "Fine. But if something eats us while you're busy brooding, I'm haunting you."

The corner of his mouth almost twitches into a smile. "Duly noted."

Before I can fully pull back to settle, Morven speaks again, his voice smoother than usual, almost thoughtful.

"Your progress with magic is quite impressive," he says, watching me with those glassy eyes. "The way you've been mastering the basics—manipulation, focus, control—instead of leaping straight to complex constructs… that is unlike most people."

I tilt a little, spines twitching. "Most people just throw themselves at flashy spells, huh?"

He nods slowly. "Yes. They crave spectacle, not foundation. But you—you build from the ground up. It shows."

For a second, I'm not sure if he's complimenting me or diagnosing me. Probably both.

"Well, thanks, Morv," I say, giving him the faintest nod. "Now if you excuse me, I'm going to sleep."

"Alright," he replies, quiet as ever.

I don't really sleep in this form. Not the way I used to. I just… loosen my grip, let my mind relax, draw back my psychic reach until the world dulls to nothing but a faint hum. And then, slowly, I go unconscious.

The void pulls me under before I even realize I've slipped.

Then.

There it is again—the same strange dream I had before. Only this time it feels heavier, sharper, like the edges have been cut differently.

A cage hangs in nothingness. No ceiling, no chains—just the bars themselves, suspended in the white void. They gleam faintly, like gold left too long in the rain, dulled and tarnished.

Inside sits the woman. The same one as before. I still can't see her face, but her hair spills down her shoulders, strands of molten gold that shimmer as if dusted in sunlight. She doesn't move. Her hands rest quietly in her lap, limp, like she's forgotten how to lift them.

Then I hear footsteps. A man approaches—the same man from before. Plain clothes, book clutched to his chest. His steps echo in the nothing, though there's no ground to echo from. He kneels at the cage, presses one hand to the bars, and his mouth moves. I can't hear the words. Not one.

The woman stirs. Slowly, as if the sound itself is dragging her awake. She lifts her head for the first time, tilts it toward him, and when she moves, dust flares. Her hair glitters brighter, scattering golden motes across the void.

Her hand slides through the bars, trembling but sure. She brushes his fingers, and the cage itself brightens from within.

The man pulls something from the book. A key. No—a quill. He holds it steady, then draws a shape onto the bars. The golden lines ripple and part just enough for him to slip inside.

And he does. He sits beside her in that impossible cage. Opens the book. Turns pages one by one. The words rise, vanish, reappear, too quick to read. She leans against him, her head resting against his shoulder, and for a moment it almost feels warm. For a moment, it almost looks like freedom.

But when I look again, the bars are unchanged. Still whole. Still bright and unbroken. The cage has not moved at all.

The woman and the man remain inside, together but trapped.

I jolt awake, spines stiff. There's this weight in my chest like I swallowed the bars themselves. The feeling doesn't fade.

Sometimes, rescue isn't rescue. Sometimes it's just another prison—painted brighter so you don't notice the lock.

End of Chapter 66

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