Argolaith stood in the graveyard of forgotten souls.
Each gravestone rose from the dead earth like a memory buried too deep. They stretched in every direction—rows upon rows of smooth black stone, their surfaces unmarked by time or name. A cold wind stirred with no sound, no scent, no beginning.
His name remained etched into the first stone.
A warning.
A threat.
A possibility.
He had not died.
But the world was showing him how easily he could.
There was no clear path.
No voice.
No flames.
No illusions whispering sweet lies.
Just loss.
This wasn't a world trying to keep him trapped.
It was a world trying to convince him to stop walking.
The rune on his arm glowed faintly blue—a light against the void. The only thing grounding him to truth.
He took one step.
The gravestones did not react.
Another.
Still nothing.
