He nods. “I served your father. I’ll serve you… one more time.”
Holt curses softly, turning away, shoulders trembling. I stand, glance at Carmilla. She regards me, face composed, but I see sorrow flood storm-grey eyes.
“Is there chance to reverse?” I ask her.
She steps closer, intones small diagnostic rune. Azure sparks dance over Gerran’s chest, swirl, then flicker out, snuffed by inner gloom.
She answers with regret. “Spore reached inner branches. Extraction would shatter lung tissue.”
Gerran coughs again, doubling, palms braced on knees. Black motes drift, riding newborn breeze like burnt paper scraps.
I draw knife—silver-steel, spirit-tempered, the same blade that ended Yarrow’s suffering. Metal glints dull in predawn gloom.
Gerran straightens, bares neck in wolf salute. No fear scent, only resignation.
Holt growls, “Damn shadows,” then grips friend’s hand.
I wrap left arm round Gerran’s shoulders, meeting his gaze. “You run first into next hunt, brother.”
He smiles, weak but bright. “Save prey for me.”
I strike. Blade slides clean through upper spine, sever deeper cord. His heart stops without time for shock. Body sags; Holt catches knees, sob escaping. Obsidian dust bursts with final exhale, swirling around us before wind sweeps it north into treetops.
The air smells of iron and regret.
I wipe blade on snow, sheathe. Holt cradles corpse briefly, foreheads touching. Custom demands pyre unless terrain forbids. Uphill, a cliff juts—a perfect perch. I crouch, lift Gerran’s small frame over my shoulder, muscles accepting weight heavier in spirit than flesh.
Carmilla and Holt gather dry branches—pine, a bit of juniper for blessing smoke. We hike narrow switchback until escarpment unveils valley of untouched snow, pale blue indawn’s first glow. I set body upon stone dais—natural slab shaped by a giant’s careless hand.
Holt arranges wood beneath and around, chanting pack stanza: “Earth give birth, flame renew, sky embrace.” His voice cracks halfway but finishes strong.
Carmilla offers thin vial—sun-sap resin distilled by oracles. I drizzle amber onto timber. Holt touches taper to resin. Fire blooms, blue rimmed gold, hissing as it licks frost-burned bark.
We step back, watching orange tongues devour cloak, fur, flesh. Obsidian motes trapped in lungs snap like embers, popping tiny sparks that ride heat column upward. They fade before drifting far; the sacrifice circle contains taint.
Wind carries sweet juniper smoke around cliff top, wreathing us. My chest aches—loss stacked on loss.
Holt breaks silence. “He had a mate in river valley. She should hear truth before rumor.” His shoulders slump.
“I’ll send raven myself,” I promise.
He nods, wipes eye.
Flames roar, then settle. The sun clears ridge, rays spearing shrine peaks far north. Carmilla steps beside me, gloved hand brushing mine—a silent pledge of solidarity. I flex fingers, then clasp hers briefly. Warmth passes between, quiet as breath.
She releases, turns to Holt. “Burnt spores safe. But ash still carries story. Scatter downwind, never into watercourses.”
He grunts acknowledgement.
We wait until fire falls to glowing bones and charcoal. I gather cooled fragments in leather pouch etched with containment sigil Carmilla supplies. Ash destined for sanctum brazier at council, proof of disease.
Afterward, Holt shoulders pack. “I escort half-day more, then return to ridge with word.”
“Take fresher route east,” I counsel. “Avoid my tracks.” He agrees, bows, lopes downslope, disappearing among firs, grief scent trailing.
Carmilla and I remain. The cliff overlooks sweeping vista—frost-tipped trees interlaced with swirling ground mist. Sun’s newborn light paints gold edges on every branch. Beauty jars against acrid memory.
I break it first. “Another pupil gone.” Voice ragged.
