The mountain loomed before them like a sleeping god, its peak shrouded beneath a veil of glassy clouds that fractured the sunlight into prisms of cold fire. The air was thin, sharp, slicing into their lungs with every breath.
They had begun the ascent not long after the burial, their footsteps slow, deliberate, heavy—not from the exhaustion of the climb, but from the weight of grief and the unsaid words that hung between them like ghosts. The earth still bore the fresh scar of the grave they'd left behind, a wound none of them could outrun.
Belial led the vanguard, his broad shoulders cutting through the wind as he marched beside Xin. They were like opposing forces tethered by a fragile thread of duty—Belial, all sharp edges and barely restrained fury, and Xin, quiet, resolute, his presence a calm that belied the storm beneath. Behind them, a golden dome shimmered faintly, encircling the soldiers in a protective miasma. Xin's barrier pulsed with quiet power, its light clinging to the air like sacred fire, humming low, just beneath the howl of the mountain's wind. It was a spell woven from will and grief, a shield against the dangers that awaited them higher up.
The lower slopes of the mountain offered little resistance. Loose scree shifted under their boots, sending pebbles skittering down the path. Wind whispered through ancient stone arches carved by time, their surfaces worn smooth as bone. small monsters perched on narrow ledges, their black eyes glinting as they watched the procession pass. The soldiers moved in silence, their armor clinking softly, their faces shadowed by the weight of what they'd left behind. The sun hung low, caught on the edge of the world, bleeding golden-orange light that spilled across the rocks like molten flame. Night was creeping in, slow and inevitable, its chill already settling into their bones.
Belial's jaw was tight, his fingers twitching near the hilt of the blade strapped to his hip. He could feel the eyes of the soldiers on him—some curious, some wary, all heavy with judgment. They had overheard the argument, of course. In a unit like this, gossip spread faster than orders, carried on whispers and sidelong glances. He didn't need to hear their words to know what they were saying.
What a heartless monster.
It was about the girl, after all. The one they'd buried just hours ago, her body laid to rest in a shallow grave at the mountain's base.
Her name—Arys— still lingered in their minds, unspoken but inescapable.
Turns out She'd been young, fierce, ambitious. She'd planned to form her own guild, to carve her name into the annals of the Five Realms. A mission like this, perilous and grand, would have made her a legend.
Fame.
Recognition.
Power.
Now her name would be etched into a stone somewhere no one would ever visit, lost to the wind and the crows.
Belial pressed forward, his boots grinding against the loose stone. The sky above was changing, the clouds thinning into brittle sheets that shifted with an unnatural grace, as if the heavens themselves were watching. The air began to change, a taut, vibrating note that set his teeth on edge.
He noticed it first—the way the silence pressed in, heavy and oppressive, the way even the stunted trees at this altitude bent as if cowering from something unseen. But more than that, it was the way Xin hadn't looked at him.
Not once. Not since they'd left the burial grounds.
Walking beside Xin felt wrong, like standing too close to a fire that could flare at any moment. The argument from earlier echoed between their steps, each word a splinter driven deeper into the fracture between them.
Belial had thought about apologizing—had even opened his mouth to say something, anything, to bridge the gap. But the words died in his throat. He knew. There was nothing he could say to make it right.
Not when Xin had that look in his eyes, distant and unyielding. Not when trust had already shattered, its pieces scattered like the scree beneath their feet.
Behind them, the army marched in grim silence, their formation tight, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. The younger soldiers whispered behind cupped hands, their voices barely audible over the wind. One of them—josh, maybe?—glanced at Belial too long before turning away, his eyes sharp with something unspoken. Belial felt their gazes like knives in his back. They knew. They'd heard the fight, the accusations, the raw edge of Xin's voice as he'd spoken of ary's death.
Belial's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather grip creaking under his fingers. The sky rippled again, the clouds parting like disturbed water, revealing a expanse of glass-sharp blue. The air felt charged, as if the mountain itself were holding its breath. He scanned the horizon, his instincts screaming that something was coming. Something worse than grief or silence.
A voice crackled over the linkstones, sharp and urgent.
"Flying Hollows inbound," came Shun's warning from the rear. His voice was steady, but Belial could hear the edge in it, the tension of a man who'd seen too much. "No feet, but don't let the lack fool you. Their beaks are like meat hooks."
Before shun could say anything Belial interjected
Belial didn't hesitate. "Drop to the ground," he barked, his voice cutting through the wind. "Play dead. Don't move—no matter what. They only hunt what moves."
A whisper of motion followed, armor clinking, gasps caught in throats. The army obeyed, each soldier flattening themselves against the stone path, their bodies pressed into the cold earth. Belial dropped to one knee, his blade half-drawn, his eyes fixed on the sky. Xin remained standing for a moment, his hands raised to maintain the miasma barrier, the golden dome flickering slightly as he adjusted its strength. Then he, too, lowered himself to the ground, his movements precise, controlled.
The sky screamed .
Dozens of Flying Hollows spilled through the glassy clouds like locusts forged from bone and oil. Their wings didn't flap—they twitched, snapping forward in sudden, stuttering bursts, their movements jagged and unnatural. Their eyes were slits of red flame, burning against the pale sky, and their beaks were jagged obsidian, clicking and grinding with each breathless second. One swooped low, its hook-beak dragging across a rock face, the screech like a blade scraped over stone. The sound burrowed into Belial's skull, setting his nerves alight.
The flock circled, their shadows sliding over the prone soldiers like predators stalking prey. Belial held his breath, his body still, his eyes tracking the Hollows' movements. They were relentless, their gazes sweeping the ground for any sign of life. The soldiers lay frozen, their faces pressed into the dirt, their hands clenched into fists. The miasma barrier pulsed faintly, its golden light dimmed to avoid drawing attention.
Something twitched.
One soldier—a young next to Belial, barely older than twenty three—flinched, his body jerking involuntarily as a Hollow's shadow passed over him. His gasp was barely audible, but it was enough.
Belial wanted to move—to cover the soldier, but the searing pain in his leg made him hesitate to save the man.
The Hollow saw him.
Its body twisted in midair, opened, and it plummeted like a dropped scythe. The man's scream didn't even last. Just a wet crunch, and then the Hollow rose again, blood dripping from its beak, its red eyes gleaming as it melted back into the clouds. The flock followed, their screams fading into the wind as they vanished into the glass sky, as if they had never been there.
Xin's eyes widened in shock.
The army remained still, their breaths shallow, their bodies tense. Belial waited, counting the seconds, until the last echo of the Hollows' cries had faded. Then he stood, his movements slow, deliberate, his gaze turned somber. But no one seemed to notice.
He didn't speak.
Didn't mourn.
Didn't even glance at the broken body now cooling on the path behind them, its blood pooling in the cracks of the stone.
He just started walking.
But the dome didn't follow.
The miasma barrier—their golden protection—remained behind him, its light pulsing faintly in the gathering dusk. Belial slowed, his boots scuffing against the stone. He turned, his eyes narrowing.
Xin hadn't moved.
He stood a few feet back, his hands trembling slightly as he held the spell in place. The golden light cast sharp shadows across his face, illuminating the lines of tension around his mouth, the storm in his eyes. His gaze wasn't on the horizon, wasn't on the path ahead. It was locked on Belial.
Belial met his gaze, his heart thudding in his chest. The air between them felt charged, heavy with everything they hadn't said, everything they couldn't say. In that moment, he knew what he was looking at.
Not confusion.
Not frustration....No.
It was indignation.