I pull my hand back from her neck, the charged moment of connection transforming into a vow. She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide in the shifting, watery light, searching my face for the meaning of my touch, of my stillness.
I cannot give her the words. Not yet. But I can give her my resolve.
I turn from her and look out through the roaring, shimmering curtain of the waterfall. The world beyond is no longer just a wilderness to escape into. It is a path. A challenge.The moon has set, and the first, pale hint of dawn bleeds along the edge of the mountains.
I’m no longer just escaping. I am on a quest. And I will not fail.
11
DINA
The first rays of dawn paint the eastern sky in bruised purples and pale, bleeding golds as we emerge from behind the waterfall. The world is a canvas of muted colors, raw and untamed. The cold is a constant companion, but the fire of our escape, of his touch on my neck, still burns low in my gut. He leads now, his enormous frame moving with a new, focused purpose. He does not speak, but his steps are steady, resolute, pointed toward the rising sun. I follow, my heart a frantic, hopeful drumbeat in my chest. He has a destination. He has a plan.
The plains stretch endlessly before us, a sea of whispering grasses. The Batlaz hounds are silent for now, but the threat of them, of Lord Jildred, is a cold hand always at my back. We move quickly, his long strides setting a brutal pace that leaves my lungs burning and my legs aching. He does not look back. He just keeps moving, a relentless force of nature.
As the sun climbs higher, beating down on the exposed plains, the exhaustion begins to drag at me, heavy and unforgiving. The ache in my bruised face screams with every step. I stumble, my worn slippers catching on a root, and nearlyfall. A low rumble of concern, or perhaps impatience, sounds from his chest. He stops, waiting for me to catch up. I meet his gaze, and I see not a monster, but a grim determination, and a spark of something else—an awareness of my frailty. He turns his head toward a cluster of dark, brooding trees on the horizon, a promise of shade, of temporary respite.
We reach the tree line as the sun is at its zenith, a harsh, unforgiving orb in the sky. The forest is ancient, its trees gnarled and twisted, their branches draped with thick, suffocating vines. The air here is cooler, damp, and smells of rich earth and decaying leaves. It is a welcome relief from the glare of the plains, but an oppressive silence hangs heavy, broken only by the buzzing of unseen insects. Even the birds are quiet.
He pushes through the thick foliage, carving a path with his massive body, and then he stops. He is rigid, his head cocked, his nostrils flaring. He turns to me, his red eyes burning with an intensity that makes my blood run cold. He nudges me, a sharp, insistent push.Look.
Through the dense tangle of vines and undergrowth, I see it. Not a natural formation, but a jagged line of worked stone, half-swallowed by the encroaching forest. "What is this place?" I whisper, my voice seeming loud in the sudden quiet. He doesn't answer, just pushes forward. Ruins. Ancient. The air around them feels different, heavy with the weight of forgotten time.
We enter the remnants of what was once a grand structure. Broken pillars, choked with ivy, reach toward the sky like grasping skeletal fingers. The ground is littered with fragments of carved stone, half-buried in the leaf litter. The silence here is even deeper, a sacred quiet. "It feels like a temple," I murmur, half to myself. This place holds secrets.
He leads me to what appears to be a section of a collapsed wall, now leaning at a precarious angle. He points a massive,clawed finger. The stone is covered in carvings, weathered by centuries, but still discernible. They tell a story.
I step closer, my hand hovering over the stone before I dare to touch it. "These are… Orcs," I breathe, my eyes wide. "But they're not like… they're not Urogs. They look so proud." My fingers trace the outline of a warrior in profile, his tusks gleaming, his face strong. "Look! The sun symbol," I gasp, pointing to the familiar shape on the warrior's armor. My gaze snaps to his massive shoulder. "It's the same as your tattoo! Is this… was this your clan? Your people?"
A low, deep rumble vibrates from his chest. It’s not a growl of aggression, but a sound of profound, ancient pain. He gives a single, sharp nod, his red eyes fixed on the stone with a burning intensity. His clan. My breath sticks in my throat. This is their history, preserved in stone.
My fingers trace the other carvings, a strange, electric thrill running through me as I narrate our discovery. "They're fighting here… and hunting. Look at the size of that beast!" I follow the story in the stone, and then I see an image that makes my heart leap with a desperate hope.
"And this…" My voice drops to an awed whisper. "What is this place? A font of some kind? It's glowing. They all look so… reverent." The water depicted is luminous, radiating light, and the Orcs stand around it, their hands outstretched. My eyes find the single word carved beneath it in the angular, ancient script. I sound it out, my tongue clumsy. "Wild… spont? Is that what it's called?"
His name for it. My eyes snap to his. “Do you want to go to this place?”
The red fire in his gaze is brighter than ever, alight with purpose. He lets out a short, eager grunt and nods again, more forcefully this time.
"This is it," I breathe, my gaze dropping back to the wall. I follow the narrative etched in stone. "Look! That one… his body is twisted, like yours. An Urog." The carving shows the corrupted Orc bent over the glowing water. "And then he drinks, and he's… he's whole again! The curse is gone!" Hope, brilliant and blinding, flares within me. "Is this it? Is this the cure you're looking for?"
He makes a deep, affirmative sound, a guttural noise of pure, desperate hope that mirrors my own. This is the answer to our prayers.
But my eyes drift to the next image… the last image on the wall… and the hope snuffs out like a guttering candle. My smile fades.
"But… what is this last one?" My voice is hesitant now, confused. "That's not an Orc. It's a human." The figure's hands are outstretched, not reachingforthe font, but toward it in an act of sacrifice. Their body is fading, becoming transparent. "They're… fading away. Giving themselves to the water. Why? What does it mean?"
I look up at him, searching his face for an answer, but he has turned his head away, his jaw tight. A low, pained growl escapes his throat, and he refuses to meet my eyes. The gesture is so full of conflict, of a truth he doesn't want me to see, that my blood turns to ice in my veins.
The implication is stark. Horrifying. "It's a price, isn't it?" The words are a choked whisper, dragged from my lungs. He flinches as if I've struck him, his massive fist clenching at his side. The magic… it's not free. "It needs… a sacrifice," I realize, my own words horrifying me. "A human life."
My eyes snap up to his, full of a dawning, terrible understanding. "It takes a?—"
The sharp, sudden whistle of an arrow cuts through my sentence, a sound of deadly intent. It flashes past my head witha terrifyingthwip, embedding itself with a solidthunkinto the ancient stone wall just beside my ear, inches from the carving of the fading human sacrifice. The shaft quivers, its fletching made of black raven feathers.
Lord Jildred's hunters. They have found us.
12
