“Yes. That’s Aura. Therion and I both received our horses as gifts from our fathers at the solstice ten years ago.” The look in his eyes is wistful and warm.
“How long have they been here in Galreth?” I probe, trying to glean as much information as I can about how their entire operation works.
“A couple of months. We leave them here when we cross The Joining. Galreth is close, so it makes sense. Plus, they’d kind of stand out if we were to take them further.”
I smile despite myself, and silently reprimand myself for the way Kael can distract me from... well,everything.
We mount Nyx, setting off towards the Astral Compass, and settle into a comfortable tempo behind the others.
The rhythm of Nyx’s hooves against the frozen earth is almost hypnotic, steady and reassuring despite the tension that coils tightly between us. The Nyvaryn Ranges rise ahead like jagged teeth against the pale sky, their peaks shrouded in mist. Snow clings stubbornly to the cliffs, even as the sun struggles to burn through the haze.
Therion leads the group with quiet precision, Aura’s white coat blending almost seamlessly with the frost-dusted ground. It’salmost eerie how perfectly horse and rider match. Behind him, Ronyn rides with Seren perched behind him, her nose buried in her book while Ronyn scans the terrain with sharp, calculating eyes.
I try to focus on the path ahead, but the silence between Kael and me is deafening. The steady sway of Nyx’s gait pulls my back closer to Kael’s chest, his warmth bleeding through the layers of my cloak. It’s both comforting and maddening, a reminder of just how close we are despite the chasm that’s forged between us.
The terrain shifts as we enter the heart of the Nyvaryn Ranges. The air grows thinner, sharper, and every breath feels like it scrapes against my lungs. The once-clear trail narrows into a rocky path, bordered by steep cliffs on one side and a drop into fog-shrouded oblivion on the other.
Nyx moves with care, his steps deliberate as he navigates the uneven ground. I can feel Kael’s tension through his rigid posture, and I wonder if he feels the same pull I do—the sense that we’re being watched.
“Does it always feel like this here?” I murmur, breaking the silence.
Kael doesn’t turn, but his voice is low when he responds. “The Nyvaryn Ranges don’t like trespassers. The land has a way of reminding you that you don’t belong.”
A shiver runs down my spine, and I clutch the saddle tighter as a gust of icy wind whips through the pass.
The wind sharpens as we push further into the Ranges, threading between towering cliffs of slate and ice. The cold seeps deeper now, slicing through layers of fabric and biting against exposed skin.
Therion tightens his cloak against the chill, his keen eyes scanning the ridgeline above. I’ve watched him enough now to know when he is wielding his Aetherstride magic. Something preternatural takes over him, his eyes move with animalistic precision and alertness—always tracking, always seeing the unseen. Aetherstrides are born under The Sapphire Lynx constellation and are imbued withHunter’s FocusandSwiftstep. They track targets with unerringaccuracy, and their speed and reaction time is uncanny, embodying traits of the lynx they are born under.
There is something here, something watching. I can see it in Therion’s stillness.
I feel it too.
Nyx’s ears flick back, his muscles bunching beneath me as he senses something beyond my comprehension. A presence, silent and vast.
A sudden gust howls through the pass, carrying with it a sound so low, so deep, it takes me a moment to register it.
Not the wind.
A chant.
It is distant at first, a steady hum like the echo of thunder rolling across the peaks. The sound is not human, not entirely, but it carries the weight of voices—layered, ancient, reverberating through the stone like something buried and waiting.
Kael’s hand instinctively shifts to the hilt of his sword. We all feel it.
Ronyn mutters a curse under his breath whilst he nocks an arrow with haste. “I don’t fucking like this.”
Seren stiffens behind him, her book nearly slipping from her grasp. Her pupils dilate as she tilts her head, as if listening to something beyond our world.
Then, they appear.
Emerging from the mist and stone, cloaked figures descend from the cliffs, their movements eerily fluid, as if the mountain itself has released them from its grasp.
They move in perfect silence, except for the chant—a resonance so deep it rattles inside my bones.
Their skin is deep bronze, and on their skin between their furs and brown leathers, they are marked with inked symbols that coil like constellations across their hands, chests, and throats. Their hair is jet black, woven into thick braids interlaced with strips of dark iron.
And their masks—carved from pale bone, smoothed by time, each one marked with the same sigil: a crescent moon pierced bythree stars.
