"You should turn back."
Lethan's voice was quiet, almost conversational, though it rang clear in the dead air of the ruined dome. He paused. "I don't know why you want Kael dead," he said, voice lowering, "but you should give up on it. For now."
Silence fell, stretching between them like a tightrope.
Tarl, his chest rising and falling with effort, his skin cracked but still glistening with the power of his Echo. "Who are you?" His voice was rough, strained. "What do you have to do with what's between us and that man?"
Lethan's gaze shifted. There was no warmth there. No recognition. He sighed, softly, then took a slow step forward.
"Does it matter?"
The words fell heavy, almost anticlimactic in their simplicity. But the air itself seemed to react. The faint glow of crimson along the floor thickened. From the sprawled corpse of the Ravenspike, blood twisted and coiled like snakes roused from slumber. Three sharp, condensed needles of crimson formed, hovering in the still air beside him.
The temperature in the chamber dropped, the tension thickening.
Veyna, her breath shallow, darted a glance toward Tarl. Her voice was low but urgent. "Sergeant... it's too risky."
Arken, standing at the back, stepped forward with the slow deliberation of someone who had seen too many battles and learned how to read the tides of survival. He raised a hand, palm out, a subtle signal for Tarl to hold back.
"She's right. Let's not make this worse. That man… he's dangerous."
Lethan's expression didn't change. His gaze passed over them like a shadow, indifferent to their whispered counsel. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but the quiet menace in the way the blood hovered at his side was impossible to ignore.
Tarl stood stiff for a long moment, fists clenched. His gauntlets sparked faintly, the geometric veins flickering once, then fading. With a breath like a curse he let his fists relax.
"This isn't over," he muttered. His voice was low, as though the words were more for himself than anyone else. His shoulders dropped slightly. "We'll ascend to the surface first. Regroup with the captain."
The others exchanged tense glances, and with a collective, silent understanding, they began to withdraw. Their movements were slow, deliberate, as if any sudden motion might trigger something worse.
Lethan stood perfectly still, watching them go. The crimson needles remained, poised like waiting daggers, until the last footstep faded into the gloom.
Only then did he move, letting the blood unravel and dissipate into the dust. His eyes flickered once, not with malice, but with a quiet, bone-deep weariness.
He took slow steps towards the wall that he was sprawled against not long ago and stopped a step away from Kael.
Kneeling, he extended a hand, and with a subtle motion, commanded the coiled blood to thread itself through the arrow wound. The arrow slid free, slick and clean, as if guided by unseen fingers.
He tore a strip from Kael's bloodstained shirt and, with a mechanical precision, wrapped it around the wound to staunch the bleeding.
"We owe eachother a little survival... thats all." he murmured.
Lethan stood, his shadow stretching long against the fractured walls of the chamber. He glanced once more at Kael's still form, then without a word, bent and hoisted him over his shoulder with ease that belied the heaviness of the man's wounds.
He turned away from the ruinous battlefield where the Ravenspike had fallen, its shattered body now silent and forgotten. Instead of retracing the path the Iron Ledger had used, Lethan moved toward the far edge of the dome, where a narrow passageway slanted downward and curved into darkness.
He didn't know how, but he had to reach the surface.
* * * * *
The camp sat like a scar on the bleak landscape, tents stretched taut against the cold wind, their canvas sides snapping softly, while scattered torches sputtered with pale orange light. The ground was cracked and uneven, pitted by years of forgotten battles. Beyond the camp's perimeter, twisted trees leaned like silent witnesses, their branches bare and clawing against the dim sky.
Tarl and the others trudged into camp, their steps uneven and tired, their armor dulled by blood and dust. Veyna's cloak was torn, more akin to a dusty rug. None of them spoke. Their faces were pale, drawn tight with the weight of what they'd seen and failed to do.
A tall figure stood waiting near the central tent, arms folded across his chest. His short, blond hair was mussed slightly by the wind, but his posture was rigid. A scar ran from his right temple down past his ear, faintly puckered in the fading light. His gaze pinned them the moment they approached.
"Captain Daren," Hask said, his voice rasping from dry throat and tension.
"What happened?" he asked at last, his voice low, almost swallowed by the wind that scoured the mountaintop.
Tarl exhaled hard, the breath clouding before him. "We made contact. Deep inside the ruins. Kael was there. But…" He hesitated, his eyes darting briefly to the others as though searching for consensus.
"There was someone else," Veyna said quietly. She drew her arms closer around herself, her cloak frayed and lined with frost.
A gust cut across the encampment, rattling the flaps of the tents and sending a sharp spray of fine, powdery snow into the air. The flames of the central fire pit hissed and guttered under the onslaught, their light flickering madly like frantic signals against the growing gloom. Beyond the circle of tents, the world blurred into shades of grey and white, the storm gaining teeth.
Around them, the camp stirred to life in tense, hurried motions. Echo-bearers and support staff moved with brisk efficiency, tightening tent lines, securing supplies against the worsening weather. The crunch of boots in the snow and the muted murmur of voices blended with the constant low howl of the wind.
"Get inside." Daren ordered, his voice cutting through the cold. His breath steamed in the air as he pushed aside the heavy canvas of the command tent and ducked inside.
The interior was blessedly warmer, the heat from the brazier in the center barely keeping the chill at bay. The scent of smoke mingled with the faint tang of sweat and old leather. Daren sank into the high-backed wooden chair, more throne than seat, at the far side of the room, its carved armrests gleaming with the oil of frequent use.
Tarl and the others followed in, the blast of warmth hitting them like a reprieve. The transition from icy wind to the tent's heavy, smoky air sent pinpricks of sensation racing across their skin, making them shiver despite themselves. Snow clung to their cloaks and boots, melting into damp patches that dripped steadily onto the thick rugs beneath their feet.
Each member of the battered party found a place, some sank into the low chairs scattered around, while others leaned against tent poles or the table that dominated the center of the room. Jory wiped a smear of half-frozen blood from his cheek with the back of his glove, while Veyna, her fingers still trembling faintly, drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders and stared into the brazier's coals.
For a moment, the only sounds were the creak of the tent canvas, the crackle of the brazier, and the muted clatter of someone removing their gauntlets.
Finally, Daren broke the silence, his voice low and expectant. "Report."
Tarl stood at the forefront, catching his breath. "We found Kael," he said at last, his voice rough. "Tracked him down into the ruins as we were ordered." He hesitated, glancing toward Arken and Veyna for silent confirmation. "He was quick but we managed to catch up. He was wounded due to stumbling across a Ravenspike."
"A Ravenspike?" Daren's brows pulled together, surprise flickering across his usually impassive face. "I thought those things stayed deep underground. What was it doing on the surface?"
"That's the thing," Veyna cut in. "It was… wrong. It moved too fast, it adapted to our strikes. Its bones didn't behave like they should, it was like something was controlling it, or it was more evolved somehow." She shook her head, her voice lowering. "But we could have handled it. We were worn down, sure, but we've dealt with worse."
A frown shadowed Daren's face. "So what happened?"
A silence settled, brittle as frost. Tarl shifted his weight, his fists clenching and unclenching. Jory glanced away, pretending to inspect the back of his glove. It was Arken who finally spoke, his raspy voice quiet but cutting through the heavy air.
"There was someone else with Kael just as we said. A man. Pale, white hair. Red eyes. We believe he is with Kael."
Daren's frown deepened, a flicker of unease passing through his eyes. "Name?"
"We don't know," Tarl said slowly. "He didn't give us one. He killed the Ravenspike like it was nothing. Then he just… told us to leave."
Daren's gaze darkened, his fingers drumming slowly on the carved armrest.
The brazier crackled, throwing fleeting shadows on the canvas walls. Veyna spoke again, her words hesitant but deliberate. "I don't think this was random. Kael must've gotten himself tangled up in something bigger than what we know. That white hair. What if... what if that man is truly a descendant of a saint?"
A tense silence followed. Snow and ice clawed softly at the outside of the tent, a faint scraping like unseen fingers. The brazier's light flickered, its warmth casting their faces in shifting patterns of light and shadow.
Daren's lips tightened into a thin line. "Did the Teryn household hide something from us?" he asked, more of a question to himself.
The others didn't dare give an answer, seemingly deep in thought.
Finally, Arken broke the silence, his voice low and resolute. "Whatever it is, Kael's no ordinary deserter. The Teryns don't put out bounties this high unless they're covering something up. Betrayal or not, ghostborn or not, we're deep in it now."
Daren's gaze swept across the party, lingering for a moment on each face, tired, bruised, determined. "Rest up," he said at last. "We'll move at first light. The storm's only going to get worse, and we need to be ready."
* * * * *
The snow deepened as Lethan pushed higher, each footstep breaking through a thin crust of ice and sinking into the powder below. The mountain's wind howled past the narrow ravines and broken ridges like the wailing of old ghosts. He moved with purpose but not haste, balancing the limp weight of Kael over his back, one arm hooked under Kael's knees, the other braced across his shoulders.
The snow battered at them, swirling in eddies that snatched at Lethan's tattered cloak, leaving it hanging in frozen tatters. His breath steamed in short, sharp bursts, and his body, though driven by something beyond mortal comprehension.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of climbing, he crested a wind-carved ridge. The mountain seemed to sigh around him, the wind softening as if relenting now that he had reached the summit. A thin patch of flattened snow lay behind a natural outcrop of rock, sheltered from the worst of the wind's bite.
Lethan exhaled, the sound escaping him like a slow release of tension he hadn't realized he was holding. He stepped into the hollow, the crunch of snow muted beneath his boots, and gently lowered Kael onto the ground. The younger man's head lolled to the side, his hair matted with sweat and grime, his breathing shallow but steady.
Lethan crouched, adjusting Kael's limbs into a semblance of comfort. He glanced down at his own frost-crusted fingers, flexing them slowly, feeling the warmth of blood returning. For a long moment, he simply sat there, his pale breath mingling with Kael's.
Then, after a beat of quiet, Lethan's lips twitched.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a murmur, almost fond. "You stubborn little bastard," he muttered. "All this trouble and you're still sleeping?"
With a soft sigh, more irritation than malice, he reached out and gave Kael's cheek a light slap.
Nothing.
Lethan exhaled sharply, casting a glance at the encroaching dark beyond the rock shelter. "Great," he said, tone almost comically resigned. "Now I'm babysitting a half-dead idiot with a bounty on his head."
He gave Kael one more light slap, a little firmer this time, followed by a soft shake of his shoulder. "You're not dying on me here. I didn't climb a damned mountain in the middle of a snowstorm for you to check out now."
Kael groaned softly, his head rolling slightly toward the sound of Lethan's voice. His eyelashes fluttered against his bruised skin.
Lethan's eyebrows lifted faintly, the hint of a relieved smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "There you are," he murmured.
Kael's voice was a cracked whisper, barely audible. "...that's one way to wake a man up."
Lethan gave a snort, leaning back and settling onto the cold ground beside him. His breath escaped in a thin, tired laugh, curling like smoke into the mountain air. "Consider it payment for dragging your sorry ass through half a ruin and up a frozen cliff."
Kael coughed weakly, his lips twitching. "Fair… trade."
Lethan sighed, glancing toward the horizon where the last light of the sun bled into the ice.
"Rest a bit," Lethan muttered, the sharpness in his voice softened. "We're not safe yet. But we're alive. And that's something."
The snow whispered quietly around them, the mountain settling into a silence broken only by the faint rise and fall of two breaths, and the first, fragile cracks of a strange and tenuous alliance.