Chronicles of the Untalented

The ritual had ended.

The silence that followed felt thicker than before—no longer the silence of fear, but of weight. The air didn't hum with danger anymore, but something still pressed down. Something neither of them could name yet.

Silas opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the faint, unnatural glow that filtered through the ever-present haze. His head felt clearer, more settled. But the world… it looked different now.

He glanced at Velira first.

She hadn't changed. Not really. But there was something gentler in her face now—less guarded, maybe. Her posture was still sharp, always ready, but her eyes had softened. Her presence didn't feel like a wall anymore. More like a window, partly open.

She was still Velira. But he saw her more clearly now.

Maybe it was just the contrast—because when he turned toward his effigy, that had definitely changed.

It still resembled him, but something had shifted. It stood taller, broader. Its frame was more muscular, more defined, the skin faintly translucent like cooled lava. Its features were sharper, crueler, its crimson eyes glowing steadily in the gloom. Less like a reflection now. More like a shadow that learned how to stand.

Silas gave a soft, crooked smile. Not forced. Just tired. Grateful. Something like that.

Velira saw it, and the tension in her shoulders eased—just a little. Her hand, which had unconsciously hovered near her effigy, finally dropped.

She broke the quiet first. "We should probably head back."

Silas blinked, snapped out of whatever strange haze had caught him. He nodded.

"Right," he said. "This place still wants us dead."

They packed what little they had. Velira's effigy, already heavy with purified water, walked ahead of them, slow but steady. The chill in the air faded slightly as they moved—like even the land itself was tired of them.

They didn't speak for a while. The silence between them didn't feel strained anymore. Just necessary.

Finally, as the distant outline of the city's haze-covered wall came into view, Velira glanced sideways.

"So…" she started, "what did eating that hellhound actually do to your freak of an effigy?"

Silas took a breath and let his awareness sink into the creature beside him. The bond between them was smoother now—less static, more like touching water instead of broken glass. He focused.

"Hmm," he said slowly. "It can… sense in the dark now. Not really 'see,' but it picks up shapes, heat maybe. Also, it's more stable now. I think I can inscribe two spell runes on it."

"Only two?" Velira raised an eyebrow. "Even I can handle three."

"Sure," Silas said dryly, "but I'm not exactly the poster child for normal."

She snorted. "That's the first true thing you've said today."

They were nearing the gates now, dim figures of guards barely visible in the fog. Their approach was wordless, but not unfriendly—just tired. People came back different from outside. Everyone knew that.

The guards let them through without comment.

Back within the city, the shift in atmosphere was subtle but real. The ground wasn't any warmer, but the air felt more contained—less likely to bite you. Silas exhaled slowly, tension slipping off his shoulders piece by piece.

No words passed between them as they made their way to the cathedral, Velira growing visibly wearier with every step. Her effigy still carried the stored water, but maintaining that drain on her mana was beginning to show in her face.

Eventually, a clergyman in draped robes led them down. Not the same path from before—not the strange hallway Silas's soul had wandered through. This was more formal, more practical. Less secrets. More stone.

They came to a wide, underground chamber where the cathedral's inner water reserves were stored—pools etched with old sigils, surrounded by metal runes and moss-blackened stone. Velira gave a slight nod, and her effigy slowly opened its arms. The water, thick with mana, poured outward like liquid light into the basin.

It was done.

Their mission, technically, was a success.

The clergyman nodded once, made a vague mark on a ledger, and quietly handed them both slates with numbers glowing faintly across the top.

Contribution points.

Money didn't exist here. Not real money. Not in the lower districts. What mattered were these numbers—your ability to eat, to sleep somewhere warm, to buy time, to survive.

Velira stared at her slate, eyes wide. For a moment, she looked like a child again. Not the hardened girl who stole from priests or whispered death jokes. Just a teenager who'd lived too long on the edge of hunger.

She held the slate tightly in both hands. She didn't say anything. But Silas understood.

He remembered nights when she'd gone without food, so he wouldn't notice. She'd never admit it—but it was there.

For her, this was a victory.

Silas looked down at his own slate, numbers glowing faintly. Not enough to change the world—but enough to stand straighter. Enough to buy materials. Enough to choose, maybe, what tomorrow looked like.

For the first time, they had something that looked like... control.

Not safety. Not peace.

But a semblance of normalcy.