"You're getting much better," he said, looking where I etched a ward into the dirt around our camp, the lines glowing stronger than the day before. It felt instinctive now, the tool an extension of my hand, pulling at something inside me that responded quicker each time, unpredictable bursts where the power surged and held, leaving us both staring at the result. "I don't know how," I'd admit once, as a rune I'd drawn to light our path burned steadily ahead, illuminating twisted vines that seemed to recoil from the glow. "It just... happens." He'd nod, his eyes thoughtful, close enough that I could feel the heat from his shoulder brushing mine. "That's how it starts. Instinct over knowledge. You're tapping deeper than I expected." The praise was rare, but it landed, building a quiet confidence amid the frustration of my limitations, the missing hand that made every grip awkward, every balance a challenge.
Questions peppered our talks, mine persistent, his answers opening slowly, like cracks in a dam. "Can youpleasetell me more about where we’re going?" I'd ask during a stretch of walking through mist-shrouded fields where flowers bloomed in impossible colors, petals unfurling with soft sighs. "Somewhere with answers," he'd reply, clipped but less evasive than before. "A place where old knowledge is kept, away from the Houses." I'd push, sarcasm slipping in to mask the fear. "Vague as ever. What, a library? A hermit in a cave?" He'd glance at me, ahint of tolerance in his eyes. "Something like that. Trust me a little longer." It wasn't enough, but the pushing felt like habit now, our voices filling the strange silences, turning tension into a rhythm that almost felt normal. We'd eat together, sharing sparse meals by rune-light, his stories emerging in fragments—tales of Velrith's fringes, creatures that lurked in the mists, Houses locked in endless rivalries. "Your sister sounds like a nightmare," I'd say once, after he mentioned her in passing, and he'd nod, the bitterness softening into something shared. "She is. But we're beyond her reach for now."
As the days blurred on, I felt myself strengthening, the rune on my arm a constant ally, its hum steadying me through the walks and rests. The missing hand adapted too, in frustrating increments—learning to balance without it, to gesture with my left, the phantom sensations fading from sharp pangs to dull echoes. Xavian noticed, his protectiveness easing into something more equal, our steps syncing without him always leading. We were getting close, I could sense it in the way the landscape changed, ruins giving way to denser forests where the trees whispered clearer, structures looming larger on the horizon. Whatever waited ahead, I was stepping deeper into it, stronger than I'd been but bound to this path, the pull toward answers—and toward him—growing with every blurred day.
33
XAVIAN
The approach to Eldridge Hollow had been gnawing at me for days, a tightening coil in my chest that I kept buried under the steady rhythm of our steps, the constant scan of the horizon for threats that hadn't yet materialized. This place had lingered in my mind like a half-forgotten anchor, one of the few remnants from my life before the exile that might still hold, tucked away in the border wilds where Nyra's influence hopefully would have thinned to whispers. It wasn't much—a small enclave of healers and outcasts, neutral ground where rogue practitioners mended what the great Houses broke, trading in relics and favors without the choke of politics. I'd passed through before, years before my exile, and remembered Seryth's face, her steady hands weaving essence into flesh like thread through fabric. If anyone could reattach what I'd severed from Morgan, could knit bone and nerve back together before the preservation rune faded entirely, it would be her. The thought had driven me harder these last miles, my pace quickening without comment, the landscape blurring into a haze of twisted forests and mist-shrouded ruins as I pushed us forward. Hope wasn't a word I allowed myself often, not afterso long scraping by in shadows, but it simmered low, controlled, fueling each step with the quiet promise that this might give Morgan back some piece of what she'd lost—because of me.
Morgan had kept up, her strides more assured since that self-carved rune had steadied her, though I caught the occasional wince when the terrain turned rough, her missing hand a constant shadow in her movements. She didn't complain, not outright, but her questions had sharpened along the way, probing at the edges of my silence about our destination. I'd deflected where I could, offering fragments to keep her moving, but now, as the familiar ridge came into view, the anticipation tightened further, urging me up the final slope with a focus that bordered on urgency. The Hollow should have been visible from here, a cluster of low stone dwellings nestled in the valley below, smoke from communal fires curling into the violet sky, the faint hum of wards marking its perimeter. But as we crested the rise, the valley stretched out empty, unnaturally so, and that coil in my chest snapped into something colder, sharper.
It wasn't gone in the way time erodes things, not abandoned with the slow creep of vines over forgotten walls or the scatter of weathered debris that speaks of gradual decay. No, this was erasure, deliberate and wrong, as if the land itself had swallowed the enclave whole and left behind a scar that refused to heal. The valley floor, where homes and healing halls should have stood, was a flattened expanse of charred earth, blackened soil cracked in patterns that resembled shattered glass, radiating outward from a central point like the impact of something immense. Faint wisps of smoke still rose from fissures in the ground, carrying a acrid scent that burned in my nostrils, not woodsmoke but something metallic, laced with the bitter tang of spent magic. Ruins of structures poked through here and there, but they were twisted, stone melted and reformed into grotesque shapes, as if subjected to a heat that warped reality itself. Thewards I'd remembered, those protective barriers that hummed with neutral power, were absent, replaced by a lingering dissonance in the air, a vibration that set my teeth on edge, like the echo of a scream long faded but not silenced. This wasn't natural decay or even a raid gone wrong; it was obliteration, the kind that left traces of intent, of power wielded with precision to ensure nothing remained.
Frustration surged through me, cold and biting, clenching in my fists as I scanned the devastation, anger rising not as a roar but as a controlled burn, fueling the realization that another door had slammed shut just as we'd reached it. Eldridge Hollow had been a viable refuge, removed enough from Nyra's grasp to buy us time, to perhaps restore Morgan's hand and give us a base to plan from. Now it was ash and echoes, another consequence of my delay, of years lost in exile while she tightened her hold on everything I'd known. I should have anticipated this, should have known her reach would extend even here, erasing potential threats before they could harbor exiles like me. The failure stung, sharpening my focus into a blade of resolve, but I didn't let it show, not yet, turning instead to Morgan, who stood beside me, her expression shifting from anticipation to confusion as she took in the empty valley.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice carrying that edge of frustration she'd honed over our journey, sharp and real, cutting through the heavy air. "This is where you were taking us? It looks like a bomb went off. What happened here?"
I kept my tone even, masking the anger simmering beneath with a practicality born of necessity, already recalibrating our path in my mind. "It was supposed to be a village. Healers, outcasts—people who could have helped you. But it's gone. Wiped clean. We'll make camp here for the night, among what's left. In the morning, we move on. There's another option, farther out, but viable."
She turned to me fully, her eyes narrowing, confusion giving way to the frustration that had been building in her for days, her voice rising with an incredulity that matched the exhaustion etched in her features. "Make camp? Move on? Xavian, you've been dragging me through this nightmare for days, promising answers, help, something, and now we're at a dead end, and you just shrug it off like it's a detour? I still don't even know what the full plan was! What was this place supposed to be? Who were these people? You keep me in the dark, feeding me scraps, and expect me to just follow along?"
Her words landed like barbs, stoking the frustration already burning in me, and I felt my control slip just enough to let sarcasm bleed through, dry and biting as I met her gaze. "Forgive me for trying the route that would have reunited you with your hand first."
She recoiled slightly, her face flushing with a mix of anger and hurt, her voice cracking with incredulity as she fired back without hesitation. "The hand you cut off?"
I opened my mouth to respond, the defense rising sharp on my tongue—that there had been no choice, that the blade would have consumed her entirely if I hadn't acted, that every second of delay had been a gamble with her life—but the words died unspoken, cut off by a sound that sliced through the air, high and unnatural, a keening wail from the charred ruins below that made both of us freeze, our argument forgotten as something stirred in the ashes we'd thought empty.
34
MORGAN
The sound cut through the air like a vibration rising from deep within the earth, low and resonant, humming up through the cracked soil in a way that made my bones ache before my ears even fully registered it. It wasn't a natural rumble, nothing like thunder or the distant groan of shifting stone; this felt alive, insistent, pulsing with a rhythm that set my teeth on edge and sent a fresh spike of fear lancing through my chest. I froze, my body snapping back into that instinctive brace I'd honed over days of walking these strange wilds, every muscle tensing as I whipped my head toward the direction it came from, down in the valley where the charred ground stretched out like a wound. The argument with Xavian evaporated in an instant, replaced by the cold certainty that this was it—another threat, Nyra's people or something worse, drawn by the invisible trails we'd left behind. My good hand clenched into a fist at my side, the rune on my arm flaring with a subtle warmth as if responding to my spike of adrenaline, but it did little to steady the panic rising in my throat. We were exposed here on the ridge, no cover, no weapons beyond the tool in my pocket andwhatever Xavian could summon, and with my body still aching from everything, running felt like a distant dream.
Xavian reacted faster, his posture shifting beside me in a blur of controlled motion, the sarcasm from moments ago gone as if it had never been, replaced by that sharp, predatory focus I'd seen in him during our tense moments on the road. He stepped in front of me slightly, angling his body to shield mine, one hand already reaching for the dagger at his belt, his eyes narrowing on the valley floor where the hum seemed to originate. The sound grew, not louder but deeper, vibrating through the ground until I could feel it in my feet, a steady thrum that made the blackened earth tremble faintly, cracks widening like veins opening up. Something was coming, emerging from the scorched expanse, and I braced for violence, my mind flashing to the worst—shadowy figures like the ones Xavian had described, or worse, some creature twisted by this world's magic, drawn to the remnants of whatever catastrophe had leveled this place.
A figure rose from the ground, not bursting out but unfolding slowly, as if the earth itself was parting to release them, soil and ash cascading off a cloaked form that straightened to full height with a deliberate grace. They were tall, broad-shouldered, the cloak blending with the charred landscape in shades of gray and black, face hidden under a deep hood that cast shadows even in the dim light. My heart hammered, fear coiling tighter because this didn't feel random; the way they emerged, right at the center of the devastation, screamed ambush, and I expected an attack, a spell or blade flashing out to end us before we could react. Xavian tensed further, his dagger half-drawn, but then recognition hit him like a visible wave, his shoulders dropping just a fraction, the tension breaking into something that looked almost like relief.
"Nexlin," he said, his voice low but carrying a warmth I'd never heard from him before. He sheathed the dagger, steppingforward without hesitation, and the figure pushed back their hood, revealing a weathered face, lined with age but sharp-eyed, a gray beard trimmed close and streaked with white, eyes crinkling at the corners in what might have been a smile. They closed the distance in a few strides, and Xavian met them halfway, the two embracing in a solid clasp, arms wrapping around each other with the kind of familiarity that spoke of shared history, not overly emotional but real, grounded, like two pieces fitting back together after too long apart. It wasn't a hug full of sentiment; it was firm, brief, a greeting between men who'd faced hard things side by side, Xavian's hand clapping the man's back once before they pulled away, both scanning each other with quick, assessing glances.
The shift threw me completely, disorienting in a way that made the world tilt a little more. I'd only known Xavian as this isolated figure, controlled and dangerous, always on edge, his interactions with me laced with tension and guarded revelations. Seeing him like this, recognized and welcomed without fear, without that undercurrent of threat he carried everywhere, cracked open a new view of him that I wasn't prepared for. He looked... human in that embrace, less the exiled predator and more a man with roots, with people who knew him from before the blade and the betrayal twisted everything. It unsettled me, stirring questions I hadn't even formed yet, making me feel like an outsider peering into a life that predated me, one where he wasn't defined by curses and shadows.
The man—Nexlin—stepped back, his eyes flicking to me with a curiosity that wasn't hostile, taking in my bandaged arm and the way I stood a little behind Xavian, still braced for trouble. "Xavian Seraxen," he said, his voice deep and rough, carrying a warmth that eased some of the knot in my chest despite myself. "Been a long time. We thought you were lost for good after the exile. And now you show up looking like you've crawledthrough the wilds with... company." His gaze lingered on me, not unkind but probing, as if piecing together what I meant in this unexpected reunion.
Xavian nodded, his posture relaxing further, though that watchful edge never fully left him. "Nexlin. It's good to see you. We came looking for Seryth. For help." He gestured to my arm, the implication clear without spelling it out, and Thorne's expression shifted, understanding dawning as he took in the bandages, the way I held myself carefully.
"Seryth's still with us," Nexlin replied, his tone turning serious, a shadow crossing his face as he glanced back at the devastated valley. "But things aren't what they were. You see what's left up here. Your sister’s reach has grown, Xavian. She's been wiping out places like this, any enclave that won't bend the knee or pay tribute. We didn't burn; we went under. Moved everything below the cliffs, into the old structures hidden there. It's not safe—nothing is anymore—but it's hidden. We stay quiet, avoid drawing her eye, and survive. Come on, I'll take you down."
His words landed like stones in still water, rippling through me with a confirmation that hit harder than I'd expected. This was the first time I'd heard it from someone other than Xavian, someone outside our isolated bubble, speaking of Nyra's devastation as fact, not story. It made her real in a way his scattered stories hadn't fully captured, a force that could erase whole villages, drive people underground just to exist. I felt a chill despite the heavy air, processing the weight of it—Nyra wasn't just Xavian's personal demon; she was a shadow over this entire world, systematic and unrelenting, eliminating anything that didn't fit her control. It amplified the fear I'd been carrying, making our flight feel less like escape and more like running into a larger web, but there was a thread of relief too, cautious andthin, in knowing this place hadn't been completely destroyed, that help might still be within reach.
Nexlin led the way, moving with a sure-footed grace down a path that skirted the edge of the valley, weaving through boulders and overgrown scrub that hid the descent toward the cliffside. The terrain felt deceptive up close, the charred earth giving way to rocky outcrops that looked natural but concealed intent, deliberate camouflage in the way vines draped over certain stones, masking what lay beneath. Xavian walked beside me, close enough that our arms brushed occasionally, his presence a steady anchor as the ground sloped downward, the mist thickening around us with a coolness that clung to my skin. I kept my eyes on Nexlin, still processing the ease between him and Xavian, the way they'd embraced without hesitation, like old friends reuniting after too long. It humanized Xavian in a way that unsettled me, peeling back layers I'd only glimpsed before, making me wonder about the boy he'd been, before betrayal and curses shaped him into the man I knew.
As we approached the cliff face, Nexlin paused, glancing back at us with a nod. He knelt by what looked like a nondescript cluster of rocks at the base of the cliff, weathered and moss-covered, and pressed his hand against a flat stone, tracing a quick pattern with his fingers. The air hummed faintly, similar to the runes I'd felt before, and the rocks shifted with a low grind, revealing a narrow opening that descended into darkness, steps carved into the stone leading down. It was clever, the disguise seamless, speaking of years of necessity, of a community that had learned to vanish rather than fight.
Before we stepped inside, Xavian turned to me, his voice low, as if sharing this was a bridge he hadn't planned to cross yet. "I know this place from when I was younger. Ran here as a boy, after some trouble at home—stupid stuff. They took me in for a few days, no questions, just shelter until she came looking.Didn't stay long, but the people here... they remembered. Ran into a few of them over the years, before everything fell apart. Nexlin was one of the ones who helped back then." It was brief, personal without oversharing, but it added depth, painting a picture of a younger Xavian, rebellious and seeking refuge, far from the exiled guardian he'd become.
I nodded, absorbing it, the insight shifting my view of him a little more, humanizing the edges. Thorne waited at the entrance, the passage beyond flickering with soft light from deeper within, and as we followed him down, I felt the weight of stepping into Xavian's past, into a hidden world that had survived by staying unseen, cautious relief mingling with the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
