The descent from the mountainside was slow, but not due to fatigue. He moved with the same calm certainty he had always possessed, the same lack of urgency that came naturally to beings for whom centuries passed like drifting clouds. Time did not press him; it bowed politely and stepped aside.

The world around him changed as he descended.

The rocky ledges grew wider, merging with sloping paths carved by wind and rain over ages beyond counting. Pebbles shifted under his feet, crunching lightly, rolling downhill in miniature avalanches. Moss clung to the shaded crevices, velvet-soft to the touch, glowing faintly where the last sunlight touched it.

Above him, the sky dimmed from gold to soft lavender as the sun dipped behind distant peaks. Thin strands of cloud caught the fading light and shone silver-white, as if the heavens were weaving a tapestry in his honour.

The air grew warmer as he dropped lower, less crisp, carrying the vibrant scent of earth and greenery. A forest stretched below him, an expanse of emerald and shadow, breathing softly beneath the twilight.

When he reached its edge, he paused.

The trees towered above him—ancient, thick-trunked, dressed in coats of moss and climbing vines. Their branches intertwined to form a canopy of layered leaves, filtering the dimming light into mottled patterns that danced upon the forest floor. The wind rustled through them, carrying traces of wildflowers and rich soil.

Birds called to one another, chirping their final songs before nightfall. Farther in, a predator's low growl echoed, answered by the distant crash of hooves fleeing through brush. Life pulsed through the forest, a rhythm as old as the world itself.

He stepped forward.

His foot sank slightly into soft earth. Leaves brushed his pale ankles. The forest embraced him without hesitation, accepting him as though he were carved from the same ancient soil.

Sunbeams that pierced the canopy bent subtly, as if unwilling to touch him directly. They curved and softened, casting a muted glow around his form instead. The air cooled in his immediate vicinity.

He walked through the forest with measured steps.

Owls shifted silently on branches overhead, glowing eyes studying him. Small animals froze when he approached, scampering away only after he passed, as if recognizing a presence older than instinct.

The deeper he went, the thicker the smells of life became—sap, dew, fungi, distant flowers, and something sweet and earthy rising from within the roots. Each scent brushed against him like memories he couldn't quite grasp.

He walked for hours, unhurried.

The sky darkened to indigo. Crickets serenaded the dusk. Fireflies drifted through the underbrush like wandering stars.

And far ahead, past the last veil of trees, soft lights began to appear.

The town.

Warm lanterns flickered behind windows, their golden glow spilling onto cobbled streets and wooden beams. Smoke from fireplaces curled into the air. Voices drifted faintly through the forest—laughter, conversation, the everyday sounds of life.

Civilization.

He stepped out from the treeline just as the sun vanished fully behind the horizon, leaving the sky cloaked in gentle night. The air was warmer here, touched by hearths and human activity.

He approached the northern road, leading directly into the settlement he had glimpsed through the blood sphere earlier. The path was packed earth, smooth from frequent travel. Lantern posts lined the entryway, swaying slightly with the evening breeze.

As he entered the town, he was met by a mild, pleasant bustle.

It was not as lively as it had been earlier in the day. Fewer carts moved along the roads, and most merchants had packed away their daytime displays. But people still crossed the streets, some carrying baskets, others leading animals, a few chatting outside inns or taverns.

Warm, welcoming.

Alive.

And every pair of eyes that drifted toward him lingered.

It took him longer than it should have to realize why.

He glanced down at himself.

His clothing—whatever remnants had clung to him after slumber—was dusty, torn, and caked with bits of dried soil and cave debris. Perhaps it had always been so upon waking, or perhaps the mountain descent had left more of an impression than he expected. Either way, compared to the neat attire of the townsfolk, he stood out like a misplaced relic.

A group of children passed by, whispering loudly enough that even mortals could have heard.

"Is he a traveler?"
"Look at his hair… it's white!"
"Maybe he's a noble?"
"No noble dresses like that."

Their mother quickly ushered them along, offering him an apologetic, nervous bow.

He did not respond.

Instead, he continued walking until he reached a small stall beneath a hanging linen canopy. The merchant was an older man with weathered skin, sorting folded garments by lamplight. Tunics, robes, cloaks—simple but finely made.

The merchant looked up when he approached, eyes widening slightly at his appearance.

"Evenin' there," the man greeted cautiously. "Lookin' for somethin' to wear, perhaps?"

Aurelius—or the man who would soon choose that name—tilted his head slightly. He raised his hand in a casual gesture above the merchant's open palms.

A gold coin fell into them.

The merchant froze, staring down at the shining piece, mouth parting in disbelief.

"Is… is this real?" He rubbed it between his fingers, testing the weight, biting it with a trembling grin. "By the gods… this is real gold!"

His face lit up with a joy that tugged at the corners of his eyes.

"Sir, you may choose anything you wish! Anything at all!"

The merchant rushed around his stall, pulling out finer garments usually reserved for nobles: embroidered cloaks, dyed fabrics, even ceremonial pieces saved for festivals.

The man examined each carefully.

He took his time—touching, weighing, studying. Silks that shimmered faintly. Wool dyed deep with reds and blues. Intricate patterns crafted with patience. But none held his interest for long.

Until he saw it.

A robe of white fabric—clean, sharp, immaculate. Lined with maroon stitching that traced its borders like quiet veins of colour. Tiny embroidered flowers patterned the edges, subtle but intricate, like delicate memories sewn into cloth.

It was paired with black undergarments, soft and smooth, and a ceremonial dagger.
The dagger was not meant for battle—its blade too thin, its edge too polished, its balance more decorative than deadly. It came in a silver sheath, attached to a wide maroon strap that matched the robe's detailing perfectly.

A complete ensemble.

He took the robe in his hands, feeling the texture. It was light, but durable. Soft, but not fragile. Crafted with care.

The merchant watched nervously.

"So?" the man asked. "Does it suit your taste, sir?"

He walked to the mirror propped against the back of the stall.

The reflection that gazed back at him looked eerily at home in the attire.

The white robe complemented his pale skin, glowing faintly in the lamplight. The maroon accents framed his long white hair, enhancing its silken sheen. The silver sheath glinted beneath his arm. The black undergarments added depth, grounding the ethereal look into something regal.

A small smile—subtle, rare—touched his lips.

He looked toward the merchant.

"It is perfect. Thank you."

The merchant puffed with pride, bowing so deeply he nearly toppled over.

Clad in his new attire, the man stepped away from the stall and continued down the road.

The town's lights flickered in warm, uneven patterns. The sound of laughter drifted from nearby taverns. Horses clopped along the stone path. The smell of freshly baked bread mixed with the sharper scent of ale.

Despite needing no sustenance, no rest, he chose to enter an inn.

Its sign hung from a beam overhead, painted with the image of a candlelit feather and labeled The Hearth & Quill.

The inside was warm, filled with low chatter. Lanterns swayed gently from ceiling hooks. Music drifted from a small string instrument near the back.

He approached the counter.

The innkeeper—a stout man with kind eyes—looked him over and nodded politely.

"Good evening. Looking for a room, sir?"

"Yes," he replied. "A room for a few nights."

"Of course! May I have your name for the registry?"

The question struck him like a blow.

His expression did not change, but his eyes did—flickering with restrained emotion. Countless names rose from the depths of memory. Names soaked in blood. Names whispered in fear. Names spoken in reverence. Names used only in war.

Names attached to joy, loss, triumph, ruin.

Each name was its own lifetime.

His throat tightened, though he produced no breath.

A pause.

Then, slowly, deliberately:

"Aurelius… Noctivus."

A new story.
A new alias.
Unburdened by the ages before.

The innkeeper scribbled it down without hesitation.

"A fine name, sir. Here's your key—Room Eleven, second floor. If you'd like food, we have a full menu."

"I will take a meal," Aurelius said.

Even though he needed none, the idea appealed to him. Eating was a ritual. A tether to humanity. A way of remembering eras long passed.

He chose a quiet corner, away from wandering eyes.

Minutes passed.

A waiter emerged from the back carrying a tray with wine and a steaming plate. He approached with a genuine smile—

—but froze when shouting erupted from the far side of the inn.

Two men were locked in a violent brawl. Chairs toppled. Glass shattered. One man slammed the other across a table. Patrons scrambled back, shouting, ducking for cover.

But Aurelius did not move.

He did not turn his head.

His gaze remained fixed calmly on the waiter—who trembled, glancing between Aurelius and the chaos behind him as if unsure whom he owed more fear.

With shaking hands, the waiter rushed the tray forward.

"S-sorry for the delay, sir!" he blurted, placing the plate down with care before fleeing behind the counter and disappearing into the staff room.

Aurelius looked down at the meal.

Steam curled upward. Spices drifted in warm, familiar notes. The aroma reached him, gentle and nostalgic. Though he had no need for sustenance, he inhaled deeply.

For the first time since awakening, a true smile—wide, unguarded—lit his face.

He lifted his wine glass.

The crimson liquid swirled smoothly, catching the lantern light like captured dusk.

He took a sip.

The flavor coated his tongue, rich and dark with a velvet smoothness only perfected through centuries of brewing.

A quiet, contented breath escaped him.

"Velvet wine… a comfort untouched by time."

He set the glass down and leaned back, letting the warmth of the inn wash over him.

Night had begun.

And the world—this peaceful, unsuspecting world—had no idea that Aurelius Noctivus had returned to walk its soft soil once more.