That flicker crosses his features again—recognition edged with interest he probably doesn’t want to feel. He hefts my pack onto his shoulder alongside whatever gear he carries and turns north.
“Then we move.”
My ankle protests every step. Somewhere behind us, the remains of the ritual node settle into permanent silence.
I’ve walked into danger before. I’ve survived things that should have killed me, destroyed things that should have been indestructible, and made choices that still wake me screaming in the dark.
This feels different.
I watch the shift of muscles beneath his clothing as he navigates the unstable terrain. The economy of each step. The way his scarred hands hover near weapons I can’t see, readyto draw against threats that haven’t materialized. Every line of his body speaks of controlled violence—power held in check by discipline so complete it might as well be instinct.
He’s built for ending things.
So am I.
The similarity should disturb me more than it does.
I don’t know what to do with that information. Don’t know what to do with any of this—the steadied ash, the unexplained calm in his presence, the fact that I chose to stay when every survival instinct demanded flight.
So I file it away, add it to the growing list of things I can’t explain, and I keep walking. One step. Another. The pain in my ankle fades to background noise as my body adapts to movement.
The ash storm fades behind us. Ahead, nothing but gray horizon—vast and patient and merciless.
Arax doesn’t look back.
I do.
The ritual site has disappeared into the swirling gray, taking the voids where bodies used to be with it. Somewhere in that mess of corrupted magic and geometric voids, the refugees I saved are moving toward safety. Three families who’ll never know my name or his, who’ll never understand how close they came to erasure.
