Vera and Serel left The Bleeding Chalice not long after finishing their meals and picked up where they’d left off exploring Marrowfen the night before.

  The city was far livelier now. People crowded the streets in every direction—hawking wares, shouting greetings, hefting crates, or leading beasts of burden down narrow stone paths slick with morning dew. Unsurprisingly, the bustle seemed to shrink Serel back into herself a bit. She clung tightly to Vera’s side, shoulders slightly hunched, steps smaller. But even so, the wonder in her eyes was impossible to miss.

  They followed a lane that opened onto a broader thoroughfare, then crossed an arched stone bridge spanning one of Marrowfen’s many sluggish, brackish canals.

  In the distance, above the clustered rooftops, the Marrowvault’s obsidian spire stabbed skyward, encircled by its ring of sanctum towers.

  Serel’s eyes kept straying to it.

  Vera noticed, of course, and made a mental note. They’d go there eventually. She’d show the kid the vault up close. In fact, she would show the ossuary beneath the city, if they could find a way in. That had been one of her favorite set-pieces in this zone, and now that she was here for real… well, she was curious too.

  Though it would probably have to wait, accessing the vault had been tricky even in the game. She doubted it would be any easier here.

  For now, there was still plenty of city to explore.

  Their route first took them toward Marrowfen’s main waterfront, weaving through a patchwork of residential blocks and work-yards until they emerged near a wide stone quay. The area was bustling with activity. Grand buildings of ash-colored brick and wood loomed overhead, casting long shadows across the water. Dockhands called back and forth as they loaded barges and trams, while across the channels, these unique boats drifted lazily, drawing Serel’s full attention.

  As Vera asked around, she learned the vessels were called leechskimmers—narrow, shallow-draft skiffs with reinforced resin hulls built to withstand the chemical bite of the Verrid Flow’s most reactive waters. Each skimmer was outfitted with a latticework dredging basket underneath called a rootcage, which they dipped into soft peat pockets to extract root pulp, detritus, and other organic silt used in alchemy, tanning, and half a dozen trades.

  Serel was fascinated. So was Vera, to be honest. None of this detail had ever been in the game.

  She liked that. Liked that the world had more to it than she remembered. More depth. More texture.

  Once Serel had her fill of watching the skimmers and imploring Vera to quiz dockhands about everything from how the boats moved to the cut of their boots—she was pretty sure the girl was just overjoyed at the opportunity to ask questions, even if by proxy—they slipped back into Marrowfen’s twisting streets.

  This time their path carried them into one of the city’s older districts, where the air smelled faintly of moss and iron. There, they passed far more of the buildings shaped entirely from bone—some so finely carved you wouldn’t know what they were if not for the ivory hue. Others were nothing more than massive, unworked bones jutting between structures like the ribs of a long-dead beast the city had grown around.

  Serel couldn’t stop pointing, whispering how beautiful they were, like she was afraid to say it too loud.

  Vera was just relieved Serel didn’t mind. Some kids would’ve found it creepy or unsettling. But not this one.

  She herself loved the aesthetic of a city fashioned from bones. Back in her world, plenty of people would probably have wrinkled their noses or called it grotesque, and it seemed like the kind of place most children would’ve had nightmares just walking through.

  Serel was pretty great in that regard.

  Was Vera actually lucky this specific kid was the one she’d ended up stuck with? As weird as it was to think about… maybe. Probably.

  She really hadn’t expected to have that thought. Especially after how many times she’d already spiraled through bouts of severe anxiety over the last couple of days. Heck, her last panic session had been just this morning.

  Eventually, they arrived at a broad square tucked beside a sprawling marketplace, where a tangle of wooden stalls and open counters buzzed with life. Vendors shouted over one another, children weaved through the crowd, and the scent of spices, dried herbs, and freshly baked bread filled the air.

  Vera’s attention lingered on the market.

  It seemed like a good place to fish for info. Bustling enough that most people hopefully wouldn’t have time to pay her or Serel much attention, and chaotic enough that eavesdropping wouldn’t raise suspicion. She’d try to make a round through it and see what she could pick up.

  But before she could even suggest it, Serel tugged at her arm.

  “Come on!” the girl said, half-giddy.

  Vera let herself be pulled toward the edge of the square, where a smaller bone structure stood on its own. This one was carefully maintained, cordoned off by short iron posts and a woven white chain, its base free of grime and moss.

  From a distance, it had looked like an unremarkable block of pale stone. But as they drew closer, Vera saw faint contours and shallow reliefs etched across its face—fine enough to resemble brush strokes in bone, as if someone had painted a story into its surface with a chisel.

  Some kind of monument, then. Or maybe a memorial.

  It wasn’t immediately clear what it depicted, but Vera’s eyes caught on a series of plaques resting near the base, mounted in frames of dark metal.

  She stepped closer, squinting down at the nearest one.

  And stopped cold.

  CinderCtrl

  Breaker of Chains, First Herald of the Godgrave.

  He who sealed the Ashkeeper’s second breath.

  Keeper of the Thrice-Lit Mirror.

  Architect of House Veilborn, Chosen of the Mirror-Saint.

  Last voice in the Vault of Thirteen.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Warden of the Pale Vale.

  Veilbound Paragon—for whom even Echoes hold their breath.

  Vera stared at the name. She read the plaque again. Then again.

  CinderCtrl.

  The name looked strangely out of place in this setting, but she knew it. Knew him. He’d been one of the names at the top of her friends list, after all.

  Her head turned slowly, eyes scanning the rest of the plaques. There were at least half a dozen more.

  She began moving down the line, reading each and every one.

  Kaelen Vire

  Sundering Hand of the Veiled Chain, Last Aegis of Emberfast.

  …

  Mireya Halstrad

  Last Sung of the Graven Daughter, Wielder of the Silent Bell.

  …

  SoulRefund

  Shatterer of the Smokebound Tithes, Victor of the Hundredfold Duel.

  …

  BlightReaver Branthorne

  Scourge of Graven Reach, Harrowed Blade of the Ashen Choir.

  …

  Yria Wakeshade

  Mistborn Duelist of the Pale Courts, Sealer of the Twelfth Vault, Never to speak again.

  …

  All names she knew. Most of them players. Every one of them high-end. Champions of the Legacy Cycle system who had pushed the game to its absolute limits—just like she had.

  “Mommy!” Serel’s voice rang out from a few steps away, bright with excitement. She was standing by the next plaque, pointing up at it with both hands, practically bouncing on her toes.

  Vera walked over, already suspecting what she’d see.

  Elaria Valecrest

  Flamebearer of the Covenant Flame.

  Scion of the Wounded Sun. Duelmistress of the Ember Courts.

  First Blade to pierce the Hollow King’s Heart.

  Bearer of the Dawnbrand, Redeemer of the Ashbound Fields.

  Victor at the Siege of Ninefold Wake.

  Her oath held through the Trial of Embers, where even legacies faltered.

  Honored Flame of the Ember Cycle

  “It’s Mama!” Serel beamed.

  Vera studied the plaque for a long moment. “…Sure is.”

  Her gaze drifted to the next and final plaque in the row.

  She approached it slowly.

  Veralyth Mournvale

  Truebound and Ashborn Ascendant.

  Vanquisher of the First Warden and the Ember Throne’s Collapse.

  Breaker of the Mirror-Sanctum. Slayer of the Hollow King and His Silent Lords.

  Bane of the Ashkeeper and Unraveler of the Thirteen Vault Oaths.

  Final Hand of Judgment at the Crucible of Echoes, where the Chainfather Ascendant fell.

  Bearer of Stillwake.

  Marked Chosen of the Hollow.

  Her eyes moved down the lines, weighing every title, every claim.

  It was, in essence, a roll call of Ashen Legacy’s greatest trials—each expansion’s major boss, each world-shaking tribulation once fought and cleared on her computer screen. It confirmed that, in this world, Veralyth Mournvale wasn’t just a character. She was remembered as the one who had triumphed over them.

  And judging by the other plaques, she hadn’t been entirely alone. The records tied her to some of the most notable NPCs and top-ranked players she remembered from the game.

  That much seemed to tell Vera another thing: there wasn’t an army of level 200 player characters stomping around this world farming raids on repeat.

  But it raised questions. How had the names been chosen? Why these players? Were these the only ones remembered, or were there more beyond this square? And most pressing: had any of them ended up here like she had?

  Her gaze lifted to the monument itself, tracing the carvings etched into polished bone. The panels depicted various scenes—the armies of man and the Covenant of Flame locked in battle against towering figures. The First Warden bristling with ashfire spears. The Hollow King’s endless dead surging like a tide. The black sun over the Ashkeeper’s field.

  She spotted stylized figures that might have been meant to represent herself and the others named on the plaques. They were heroic, larger-than-life… and not that accurate. One panel in particular showed what was probably supposed to be her squaring off against a monster the size of a cathedral, mantle billowing like some storybook hero. The problem was, she’d been drawn nearly half the monster’s size.

  She suspected the sculptor had never met any of their subjects.

  One thing she was curious about was when this was built. The imagery clearly included the Chainfather cult and the Chainfather Ascendant, which placed it after the third expansion. That meant this couldn’t have stood here more than two or three years. Or it had been updated over time.

  The biggest question of all, though—the one that continued gnawing at her—was whether the ‘Veralyth Mournvale’ honored here had been a real, flesh-and-blood person who had truly accomplished these feats, or whether the world had grafted her literal game achievements wholesale into its history as some form of after-construction, the way it had seemingly done with Caldrin. She wasn’t sure how to determine that. The only thing she felt relatively confident about was that the Veralyth Caldrin and Serel knew probably wasn’t completely separate from herself. But beyond that, she didn’t dare assume.

  “Mommy.”

  The quiet voice pulled her attention down. Serel had moved to her side, glancing around as she tugged at the sleeve of Vera’s overshirt—the one hiding her sigil-scars. Vera considered her, then leaned down, and Serel cupped a hand to her ear, whispering while sounding very serious.

  “Mommy, that sign says your name!”

  Vera’s brows lifted. She pulled back, smiling faintly. “That’s right. Is that why you’re whispering?”

  Serel nodded hard. “Mmm. You said we had to hide. So we can’t speak loudly!”

  Vera chuckled, and before she knew it she was brushing a hand through the girl’s hair. “Good job. But it’s alright—nobody’s listening.” She glanced around to confirm. Nobody nearby was paying them the slightest attention.

  Turning back to Serel, she motioned to the plaque. “But do you believe me now, when I say they call me the Ashborn Ascendant?”

  Serel looked around even more, still taking the ‘hiding’ part very seriously, before whispering again. “They made this for you and Mama?”

  “Us and a few others. CinderCtrl and Mireya were actually friends of mine. We were in the same guild.”

  “Guild? What’s that?”

  “It’s like a team—a big group of people who work together. Ours was called Last Hearth.”

  Guilds in Ashen Legacy weren’t as massive as in some other MMOs; they capped out at forty members. Vera’s guild had only ten. All of them were serious about the game, though most kept to themselves outside of major raids. Even then, with three members ranked among the very best—players who could sometimes solo raid bosses—the group rarely gathered in full.

  Serel turned back to the monument, studying it in silence as if mulling over Vera’s words. When she looked at her again, her expression was different. Serel had always gazed at her like she was something larger than life, but now there was an extra layer to it. A new kind of wonderment.

  While Vera still wasn’t entirely sure if she deserved the weight of Veralyth’s legacy, right in this moment, she didn’t much care. She felt proud anyway.

  “Where are your friends now?” Serel asked.

  Vera’s eyes drifted back to the monument. “…Well, I don’t know. Time’s passed. That’s what we’re here to figure out.”

  Serel was quiet a moment, then asked more softly: “And Mama? Where is she?”

  A frown creased Vera’s brow. Serel had barely mentioned Elaria since their first meeting, but that first night had made it obvious the absence weighed on her.

  “…I don’t know that either,” Vera admitted. “But we’ll find out together, okay? I’m sure she’s fine.”

  Given the role Elaria had played in Ashen Legacy, it made sense she’d be central to whatever would have come in the fourth expansion. Characters like her didn’t just vanish. At least, not if this world followed the narrative the devs had been building toward. That wasn’t a guarantee, but Vera doubted Elaria of all people had simply been swept off the board.

  At least, she hoped that wasn’t the case. Her personal fondness for the character aside, Serel deserved better than that.

  And Elaria was famous. If anything had happened to her—or to the Covenant of Flame as a whole—they should hear whispers of it here in Marrowfen.

  “Come.” Vera reached down, taking Serel’s small hand and guiding her toward the noise and color of the marketplace. “Keep an eye out and let me know if there’s anything you want. You may not have realized it yet, but we’re very, very rich.”

  The brief tension in Serel’s face cracked, replaced by a sudden thrill. Her eyes lit up as she looked toward the stalls. “Can we get anything?”

  Vera tilted her head as though considering, then shook it. “Not anything. I’ll buy you… three things.” She paused, then amended, “No—four. Let’s say four things.”

  She now realized why her father had always looked for excuses to buy her gifts. Just imagining Serel’s face lighting up over whatever she got her made her feel almost… giddy.

  Giddy, of all things.

  Really, what was she even turning into?