The land beyond the Gorge of Echoes was different. Colder, yes—but not in temperature. The cold here felt deeper, older. It settled not on skin, but on soul.
Ghostclaw moved warily, fur rising often without cause. The woman—Cregan had begun calling her "Ash" in his mind—walked without pause, her steps leaving steaming prints in the snow.
They passed broken statues half-buried in drifts. Not of men, but beasts—serpents with too many eyes, wolves with wings. Guardians, Ash said. Of the first flame.
"They died in silence," she murmured. "But not in vain. Their bones mark the path."
By midday, they reached the first true ruin. Not a village, not a keep—something older, carved into the mountainside, its gate sealed with ice that shimmered black beneath sunlight.
Ash stopped. "We make camp here. The gate opens only under oath."
Cregan nodded, setting up near a broken arch. That night, the wind carried voices.
Not speech. Memories. Screams trapped in stone. Laughter warped by time.
He dreamed of giants shackled in flame, of shadows moving beneath a frozen sea. And of a door, always ajar, but never opened.