Ethen's Spine loomed in my mind before it ever did in the distance. The name itself sent a shiver down the tongues of old soldiers and scholars alike—an ancient stretch of jagged mountains said to split the world like a broken ribcage. But it was not myth that led me there. It was duty—no, strategy.
The morning I requested an audience with my father, the sky was bruised with frost. I dressed simply: dark leathers, my sword at my hip, no adornments. I needed no reminder of who I was or the battles I had survived. But I had to remind him.
He watched me from the high throne like a hawk watches carrion. The room emptied at a single glance from him, save for his wife, perched silently by his side. I bowed my head but did not kneel.
"I want to go to Ethen's Spine," I said plainly.
His brows rose. A flicker of amusement—or suspicion—passed across his face. "And why would my daughter seek the edge of the world?"
"Because your soldiers are dying there," I replied. "Four squadrons were stationed in the border passes. They've gone silent. You may have dismissed the silence as snowstorms or bandits, but I know the smell of prelude. Someone's watching from the other side."
He narrowed his gaze. "And you presume I didn't consider that?"
"I presume you're playing too many games to address all your fires," I said. "Let me put this one out."
For a long moment, silence curled in the room like smoke.
Then he nodded once. "Take who you need. Go."
I turned without waiting for permission to leave.
---
My White Shadows rode with me—those who remained. Elian, grim and loyal. Nira, stitched and silent. Jaen, a quiet storm with a knife always at hand. We crossed frozen rivers, blood-red plains, and forests so dead they creaked like bones.
Ethen's Spine rose on the sixth day, jagged and pale, like ribs bursting through the skin of the earth.
I had sent men ahead three weeks prior, old companions from my early campaigns. Trusted. Unquestioning. The goal was to scout the forgotten passes, track movements of interest, and uncover whatever foreign presence had begun to creep through our lands.
But there had been no word from them.
The last message we received was a blood-streaked missive carried by a half-dead hawk.
"The bones wake. We are not alone. We are not prepared."
We made camp by the edge of the cliffs, where the wind howled like the dead. That night, as I stared into the fire, I traced my fingers over the letter again. The ink had frozen into the parchment.
Elian broke the silence. "You think they're dead?"
"No," I said. "Not yet. But I think someone wants us to believe they are."
"A trap, then."
"Perhaps. But we walk into it knowing that. That makes it ours to control."
Jaen shifted, eyes narrowed. "You've been colder since the Ember Ring."
I didn't respond. I simply looked up at the mountain and said, "Let's remind the Spine who walks its path now."
---
The first sign of struggle came at dawn. A crimson smear across snow. Broken shields, half-buried beneath drifts. And a Delyrian soldier's fingerless glove, torn and burned at the cuff.
Nira knelt beside it. "Spellfire."
I nodded grimly. That meant we weren't dealing with bandits.
The path narrowed into what they called the Widow's Vein—twisting, narrow, and flanked by cliffs that sang when the wind passed. Each step echoed too loudly.
My heart beat slowly, measured. I wasn't afraid, not exactly.
But I missed the feel of open sky.
I missed... home. Strange, that I would ever call that cursed palace home. Yet the stillness of its halls, the weight of the ceiling above my bed—it had grown familiar. Predictable, even.
Out here, the wind could gut you without a sound.
We came upon the first body two hours later.
He was strung from a pine like an offering. Skin peeled in lines. Eyes gone. A Delyrian scout. One of mine.
Jaen reached for his knife, jaw tight. "This wasn't a message. This was a ritual."
"Which means there's a belief behind it," I said. "Something deeper than politics."
The second body was left in prayer. Kneeling, arms upturned, mouth sewn shut with frost thread.
And from then, I knew—we weren't hunting men.
We were hunting something old.
---
That night, I stayed awake while the others slept. I sharpened my blade slowly, running the whetstone in even strokes. The fire cracked and shifted, but gave no warmth.
Keal's name flitted through my mind again. Not like a wound this time. More like a thread that hadn't snapped.
Was he watching me still? Regretting? Or simply waiting to finish the job?
I hated that I still thought of him.
I stood from the fire and stepped toward the edge of camp, where the trees leaned in like eavesdroppers.
Then I felt it.
A tremor in the earth.
My hand went to my blade. In the stillness, I heard it clearly.
Footsteps.
But not like ours. Not like any living thing.
I turned—and shadows erupted from the trees.
Steel flashed. Screams tore through the dark.
My men surged to their feet, half-armored, half-asleep.
And I—
—I was too late.
Something struck me across the back. I fell hard. Blood in my mouth. My vision doubled.
Above me, a figure loomed. Not masked. Not mortal.
It whispered in a voice like shale.
"You shouldn't have come."
The night consumed me.