The Ghost-Bane Mountains were suffocating. Lucian felt it in his chest, a heaviness that weighed down every breath. It wasn't the rain that soaked through his threadbare cloak or the mud that clung to his boots, though both were unwelcome. It wasn't the oppressive silence that stretched between every footstep, nor the way the trees loomed like silent sentinels, their branches twisted like fingers clawing at the sky. It was the land itself. The mountains. They were waiting. Watching. The rain had softened into a fine mist, like the mountain itself exhaled a constant, damp breath. It hung low and close, clinging to the world as if it too wanted to be trapped by the mountains' cold embrace. The air tasted faintly of decay, the scent of rot seeping up from the earth below and mingling with the heavy, wet scent of pine and moss. Lucian's senses were sharpened, each drop of rain, each rustle of wind, each shift of weight in the air, coming to him as clearly as the path underfoot. Though his eyes were concealed by the tattered blindfold, his other senses were keen. His hearing, in particular, had grown more acute with every year of solitude, of living in a world that could no longer rely on sight. The faint crunch of gravel beneath boots, the way the earth seemed to whisper underfoot, the far-off growl of an ashfang in the distance. It all painted a picture in his mind that even the fog couldn't obscure. And yet, even with the steady rhythm of the convoy ahead of him, the silence gnawed at his nerves. It was too quiet. The mercenaries, all loud and brash in the beginning, had begun to fall silent, their conversation tapering off as they realized just how exposed they were. Even the Ironbrand Crew, known for their swagger and bravado, moved with an air of unease now. They couldn't see what he could hear. Couldn't sense what he could feel. The air was heavy with something more than rain. It wasn't just the mountains pressing down on them. It was something in the stillness. Something that whispered of ghosts and things better left forgotten. The soft, dull roar of wind through the trees was almost drowned out by the distant rumble of thunder, but that too felt muted, muffled, like the sky itself was trying to keep them from hearing something they weren't meant to. Lucian clenched his fist around the rod in his hand, the familiar pressure grounding him. It wasn't superstition that troubled him, though the mercs certainly had their fill of that. It was the unsettling weight of being watched, hunted almost, that made his heart beat a little faster. He had learned long ago to trust his instincts, and right now, every fiber of his being screamed that something was wrong. More than the ashfangs. More than the wreckage behind them. Something in the mountains had stirred. 'They're circling,' he muttered to no one in particular. His words barely carried over the soft drumming of the rain.
Kaela, ever sharp, shot him a look, her rifle still slung tightly across her chest. "What are you talking about?" Lucian tilted his head slightly, just enough to sense her proximity. His blindfold dampened everything, but his hearing told him what he needed to know. Her footsteps were even, cautious but not on edge. "The ashfangs," Lucian said quietly. "They're not just hunting. They're herding us somewhere." There was a slight shift in the air, a subtle stillness. Kaela didn't respond immediately, though the tension in her posture said everything. She knew. She had to. The beasts weren't acting like wild animals, they were playing a part, pushing them into the mountains. Deeper. The mercenaries, still grumbling under their breath, hadn't picked up on the shift in the atmosphere. They were too wrapped up in their own fears and bravado, talking about superstition and old wives' tales. But Lucian knew better. There was a story hidden in these mountains, one that had been passed down through generations. A story about ghosts. Prisoners of the earth. And old debts. He had heard it in whispers, old folk tales from a lifetime ago. The kind of stories the old men told to scare children into staying inside after dark. But here, in the mountain's suffocating silence, the tale felt more like a warning. He cleared his throat and spoke, not to anyone in particular, but because the words had a weight to them, a call that needed to be heard. "The Ghost-Bane Mountains were once a prison. Not for beasts, not for men. For spirits. Spirits of the old world." Kaela looked over at him. She was still the picture of calm, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. "Spirits?"
Lucian nodded, his voice low. "They say the mountains themselves are cursed. That when the world was younger, the ancient founders locked away the most dangerous souls—banished them here. Trapped them in chains forged from stone and mist." Tavian, a little further ahead, glanced back. "You don't believe that nonsense, do you?" Lucian gave a half-smile, a faint curve of his lips that spoke of a world of pain, a world that couldn't rely on sight but learned to read other signs. "I don't know," he said. 'But I know what it's like to be trapped. To be bound by something bigger than yourself. Something that doesn't care if you're alive or dead.' He said the last part internally.
The sound of an engine rumbled in the distance, pulling Lucian's attention briefly away from the murmurs of his companions. He didn't need to see to sense the vibrations of the armored vehicle grinding its way along the road, struggling to keep pace with the rest of them. The ground beneath them was uneven, jagged, and each footstep felt like a small tremor, as though the mountain itself was grumbling. They had only just begun the real ascent, and already the mountain was beginning to show its teeth. The rocks on either side were jagged, broken as if a great force had splintered them ages ago, and the path between them was narrow, twisted, dangerous. The rain had soaked into the earth, creating puddles that made footing treacherous, and the trees were thinning, leaving the travelers exposed to the unrelenting sky. Lucian's boots squelched in the wet earth, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the persistent rain. The faint scent of moss and earth clung to the air, mixing with the colder, sharper tang of metal from the armored vehicle. It was a heady smell, heavy and damp, the kind that filled the lungs and made them burn. And all the while, the mountains towered over them like silent giants, looming, waiting. The silence returned, thick and suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Lucian could feel it, in his bones, in the air, in the way the earth hummed beneath his feet. It was waiting. Watching. And something had changed. The Ashfangs, once again, were gone. But there was something else now. Something older. His thoughts drifted briefly to Tavian. Lucian hadn't missed the inconsistencies, the too-curious questions, the occasional hesitations that didn't quite fit a noble scion simply along for a ride. He didn't trust the timing of Tavian's arrival, nor the purpose of this so-called expedition. Why now? Why here? He didn't have answers, but suspicion was already planted. He had learned long ago never to ignore the itch at the base of his spine. Tavian might not be the enemy, but Lucian knew better than to assume he was just a clueless rich boy trying to play adventurer. Not in these cursed mountains. Not with ghosts watching from the mist.
...☘️
The path narrowed again, flanked by jagged outcroppings that jutted from the stone like broken teeth. The higher they climbed, the more the mountain seemed to press in. Less like terrain and more like a thing that watched.
Lucian's tattered boots scraped across slick granite, the sharp end of his rod tapping with rhythmic precision, ears scanning the dark like sonar. Beneath his blindfold, his expression was unreadable. But inside, his mind was anything but still.
Something about this place... it wasn't just dangerous. It was wrong. It felt twisted.
The air was colder than it should've been, the mist thicker than weather allowed. Even the sounds of boots and murmurs of the others came muffled, like the mountain was swallowing them.
Tavian's laughter pierced the fog. Light, boyish, casual. Too casual.
Lucian didn't turn, but his back tensed. Still joking? Now?
He focused on the rhythm of Tavian's steps. Measured. Not just a noble fop. Lucian had been listening since they left the valley. The heir walked too quietly when he thought no one was paying attention. Too practiced.
This isn't just some training expedition. You didn't come out here to collect scars for storytime back at your family estate. So what are you after, Tavian Rhys?
Kaela passed beside him, speaking softly to Joran about elevation and wind shifts. Lucian barely registered the words. He was listening to the mountain and to the lies people told when they thought the silence covered them.
The ashfangs stopped chasing us too easily... and the detour through the ravine? Coincidence? Or someone's idea of guiding us off the mapped trail?
He tapped his rod again. Stone. Loose gravel. Faint vibration. Not a landslide, but something moving nearby. Big. Watching.
Still, he said nothing. Just memorized the sound, the shift in air pressure. Catalogued it.
That night, they set up camp beneath a half-collapsed stone archway that appeared like some ancient mining landmark long swallowed by moss and time. A small fire crackled at the center of their circle, its orange glow flickering across hard faces and harder thoughts.
Joran kept his men posted at four angles, each rotated like clockwork. Garrick's Ironbrand Crew huddled further out, whispering over drinks and playing cards, their earlier bravado dulled to thin shadows.
Kaela stirred the pot of stew simmering over the flames, her brows furrowed as she whispered something about ration limits. She looked tired, more than she let show.
Tavian, as always, sat cross-legged on a flat rock, cloak draped behind him like he was posing for a statue. But his eyes were sharper tonight. Focused. On Lucian.
Lucian didn't return the look. He sat cross-legged, a little away from the fire, blindfold hiding his unreadable gaze. Instead, he spoke softly into the night.
"You ever hear the story of the Hollowed Ones?" he asked, his voice a quiet rasp.
Joran looked up from where he was adjusting his gloves. "A ghost story?"
Lucian tilted his head. "More of a warning."
Tavian perked up, curiosity evident. "Do tell."
Lucian waited until all eyes were half on him—part interest, part unease. Then he began.
"They say this mountain wasn't always cursed. That it used to be a place of pilgrimage. People came here not to flee death... but to speak with it."
"An order of monks lived here, long ago. They weren't afraid of death. They embraced it. Said the mountain whispered truths only the dead could understand."
"But one day, the monks tried something forbidden. A ritual. Something to open a path through death, not just to it."
The fire cracked.
"The mountain broke. The wind turned bitter. The spirits they called never left. The monks were hollowed out, their bodies still walking, faces frozen, but with voices that weren't their own."
"And the mountain? It remembered. It still remembers."
Silence. Even the mercs stopped playing cards.
Kaela's spoon hovered over the stew, forgotten.
Then Tavian laughed, but too quickly.
"Lovely. Just what I needed. Haunted terrain and ghost monks." But his grin didn't reach his eyes.
Lucian smiled faintly. There it is. That flinch beneath the laugh. You know more than you let on.
Kaela finally stirred again. "My grandfather told a similar tale. Except in his version, the monks sealed themselves away to keep the mountain from corrupting the rest of the world."
Lucian nodded slowly. "Maybe they succeeded. Maybe they didn't."
Imprisoned souls. Greedy monks. Selfless monks. Lucian wondered which one of these stories was true or maybe they were all connected in some way.
Later, as the fire died and everyone settled into makeshift tents or rolls, Lucian stayed awake.
The mist curled around the stones like fingers. The fire's embers whispered secrets too faint to be understood. Lucian leaned against a rock, head tilted, listening.
Someone was walking.
Soft steps. Careful.
Tavian.
Lucian didn't move. Just waited.
The heir stopped a few feet from where Lucian sat. Thought better of it. Then walked away, deeper into the darkness, just past the line of torches.
Not alone, then.
Lucian's hand brushed the hilt of his rod. His ears twitched as he catalogued the sound.
Later.
He would wait. For now, he would file the suspicion where all his truths lived—behind calm, quiet patience.
The Ghost-Bane Mountains weren't done with them yet.
And neither was Lucian.
...
The wind woke them before dawn.
It came in low and steady, curling around the stones like a living thing, whispering through cracks and crevices in a tongue older than speech. It wasn't cold, not exactly—but it felt like it should've been. Lucian stirred in silence, his body still beneath the threadbare blanket, only his head turning slightly as he listened.
Above, clouds loomed heavy with rain that never fell, as if the sky itself was holding its breath.
The camp was subdued, quiet. No one slept deeply here, not after the ashfang attack. Not after the explosion. And certainly not with legends of ghost monks hanging in the air like smoke.
Joran was already awake, checking packs and equipment. His presence was a steady drumbeat—efficient, focused, sharp. He moved like a soldier carved from stone, every motion purposeful.
Kaela stood at the edge of camp, scanning the mists that hung like gauze between trees and cliffs. Her expression was tight, her usual calm starting to fray at the edges. The tension in her shoulders hadn't eased since the ambush.
Lucian approached her quietly, tapping his rod once against the ground.
"You didn't sleep," he said.
Kaela exhaled slowly. "Did you expect me to?"
"No." A pause. "You feel it too, don't you? Like we're walking in someone else's dream."
She looked at him sidelong, a faint smirk touching her lips. "A dream, huh?"
"A memory, maybe," Lucian murmured. "Or a warning."
She didn't reply. But she didn't disagree either.
They resumed the trek shortly after. The mountain trail became harsher. Roots clawed through the stone, skeletal trees leaning over the path like they wanted to eavesdrop. The terrain felt older here. Like the earth hadn't shifted in centuries, and resented being stepped on.
The surviving vehicle stayed back. Its engine coughed and wheezed on inclines, the wheels chewing up loose rock with a wounded growl. It was more a burden now than a boon.
Lucian walked close to the front again, not speaking. His blindfold, now dry but crusted with dried blood and soot, clung to his face like a second skin. He didn't mind it. It was familiar. Grounding.
Each footstep, each shift in the wind, each creak of armor or breath drawn too sharply. It painted the world in lines and edges. He could hear Joran mutter low commands. Could feel Garrick's irritation like heat in the air. Could hear the slight hitch in Tavian's step.
Watching. Always watching.
By midday, the group crested a broken ridge and paused.
Before them, the mountains opened into a basin. A scarred expanse of black stone veined with white cracks, like lightning frozen in rock. At the center of the basin stood a ruin: ancient pillars half-buried in moss and time, framing the shattered arch of what might once have been a shrine.
Kaela whistled low. "I don't remember this on any map."
Joran's face was impassive. "Because it isn't."
"Wonderful," Garrick muttered. "Ghost mountains and invisible ruins. What's next?"
Lucian stepped forward slowly, tapping his way toward the edge of the trail.
"Do you hear that?" he asked.
The group went still.
Kaela frowned. "Hear what?"
Lucian tilted his head. "Nothing."
Not a birdcall. Not a breeze. Not the crunch of boots or the idle breathing of mercs.
The silence was perfect. Unnaturally so.
Tavian broke it with a strained laugh. "We're in a cursed place, then?"
Lucian's voice was low. "Maybe."
They set up camp again, cautiously, between two leaning rock pillars. The ruin was too exposed, too quiet. Joran posted guards and doubled the watch rotations. No one argued.
That evening, the campfire burned low. The shadows of broken columns danced across their tents like things trying to climb inside.
Lucian sat cross-legged on a stone ledge, arms resting on his knees, blindfold damp again with evening mist. The heat from the fire warmed one side of his face. The cold from the mountain kissed the other.
Tavian approached, cloak draped casually over one shoulder.
"You don't talk much," he said, offering Lucian a chunk of dried meat.
Lucian accepted it with a small nod. "You talk enough for both of us."
Tavian smiled. "Fair."
A beat passed.
Then Lucian asked, "Why are you here?"
The heir blinked. "I... what do you mean?"
"You had no reason to leave your city, your comforts. No reason to bleed in ashfang country. Why this mountain? Why now?"
Tavian hesitated. "Training. Discipline. My father's orders."
Lucian hummed. "Those are excuses. Not answers."
Tavian glanced at the others—Kaela, Joran, Garrick—then sat on the stone beside Lucian.
Then Tavian spoke, his voice distant. "I wanted to see something real. The world that doesn't bend for gold or family names. Out here, there's no one to catch you when you fall. You learn what actually matters."
Lucian turned slightly, head tilted. "And what matters to you?"
Tavian's gaze moved across the ruined chamber, eyes lingering on the statue's bound form. He hesitated.
Then asked, "Let me flip the question. What is power, to you?"
Lucian blinked beneath the blindfold. The question caught him off guard.
He answered slowly. "I don't know. I've never had it. Not really. But I've survived things others wouldn't. Maybe... maybe power is just the difference between staying buried and clawing your way out. When I get more I'll be able to tell you then."
Tavian's brow quirked. "When you get more powerful," he said, repeating Lucian's words.
Lucian frowned. "What? Is there some law that says blind people can't be powerful?"
Tavian held up both hands, chuckling gently. "No law. Just... noticing your certainty. That's all."
Lucian turned away, quiet. "It's not certainty. It's necessity."