Day 1
The forest thinned as the sun rose higher.
Their boots left dark impressions in the softening snow, breaking old crust and shallow drifts along a worn trail. The road itself was little more than a thread — packed dirt and patches of slush, wagon ruts frozen shallow beneath their steps.
No one spoke.
Not because there was nothing to say — but because none of them could carry more than what they already bore.
Moore walked near the back. He kept glancing over his shoulder — not with panic, but with something older. Something ingrained. Since their departure from the city gates, he hadn't stopped checking for shadows. His hand rested lightly on the dagger at his side, fingers drumming against the leather grip in a steady, unconscious rhythm.
Ronell walked ahead of him, but her focus wasn't forward.
Her gaze drifted. Sideways. Backward. Toward May, who led them quietly. Toward Moore. Toward the forest slowly falling behind them. Her arms were folded. Her hood tugged low. Snow melted soundlessly across her sleeve.
She didn't know what she was holding back — only that it was heavy.
The air had shifted by the time they crested the first low hill — but not into warmth.
It remained sharp, biting. A brittle kind of cold that clung to the lungs. Snow still veiled the underbrush and blanketed the trees, though thinner now, patchy in places. The scent of winter lingered, mingled with distant ice and the hush of open sky.
Ahead, the trees began to peel away.
Then, without fanfare, they saw it.
Lake Virelle.
A wide expanse of stillness stretched before them — frozen over, but not solid. Cracks ran like veins across its surface, and dark water glinted through the fractures. Along the banks, snow-laced reeds poked up through layers of frost. The far shore was lost to fog, blurred by pale sunlight filtering through wintry haze.
They stopped.
Not from weariness. Not for beauty.
But because the lake was a threshold.
This was it — the line. The unspoken point where Thessalyn stopped being home and became behind.
Ronell stood quietly, breath clouding in front of her. The stillness of the lake pressed against her chest. It didn't feel peaceful. It felt inevitable.
Moore let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes narrowing against the wind. His fingers flexed once near his belt. It was a habit now, not thought — just instinct.
May didn't speak.
She stood at the edge of the ridge, half-shadowed beneath her hood, cloak brushing her boots. The snow hadn't settled on her shoulders. She gazed out across the ice, unreadable as ever. Not reverent. Not shaken. Simply… still.
No one asked what came next.
They already knew.
And the lake, frozen and vast, said nothing.
---
Day 2
They passed a string of abandoned docks, half-buried in snow.
The wood groaned faintly beneath shifting ice, old planks warped and weather-stained. Ropes dangled from broken posts, snapping softly in the breeze where salt and frost had chewed through the fibers. Nearby, a boat sat half-sunken in the shallows, its hull split clean down the middle — as if it had given up mid-journey.
One cabin door hung askew, creaking lazily as it rocked on a rusted hinge. Inside: darkness. Dust. The long-dead scent of smoke and brine.
They slowed without needing to speak.
Moore lingered near the edge of the largest dock, boot crunching against the brittle ice. His brow furrowed, breath rising in white curls.
"Abandoned…" he muttered, voice half-swallowed by the wind. He crouched down, trailing gloved fingers along a coil of frozen netting.Then, quieter: "I wonder how the fishermen cope during winter. When the lake freezes over like this."
Ronell didn't answer at first. She was standing just off the path, arms crossed, watching the cracked water where sheets of ice drifted lazily apart.
"Maybe they leave," she said eventually. "Go south. Wait it out somewhere warmer."
Moore stood, brushing snow from his hands."Or stay and hope it thaws." He kicked a loose drift of snow into the water — it scattered like dust across the surface. "Hard to live off hope."
They both turned, almost unconsciously, toward May.
She hadn't moved.
She stood a short distance from them on the dock, hood drawn low, her cloak rippling gently in the breeze. From behind, she looked like part of the lake — still, distant, unknowable.
The silence stretched.
Then her voice — soft, muffled beneath the scarf — broke it.
"They don't cope."
Moore blinked."What?"
May didn't turn. "They endure."
It wasn't a correction. Not exactly. More like a memory spoken aloud — something she'd seen, or lived through, in another time.
A gull cried overhead — distant and hoarse — then was gone.
The three of them stood there a moment longer, the cold biting at their sleeves, the lake whispering back in low, frozen murmurs.
Then May stepped forward again, and the moment passed like breath on glass.
---
Day 3
By nightfall, the mist had thickened again.
It came crawling in off the water, pale and slow, blurring the edges of the world until even the trees looked ghostlike — just hunched shadows swaying behind a veil of fog. Every sound was dampened. Footsteps. Breath. The crack of wet branches underfoot.
They made camp beneath a crooked alder tree whose roots jutted from the soil like gnarled fingers clawing their way up from the earth. The bark was black with lichen, its limbs bare but strangely knotted, reaching sideways as if trying to escape the lake.
Their fire was small — no more than a few smoldering sticks and a flicker of warmth barely enough to thaw the edge of the cold. It hissed softly when the mist reached it, steam curling from damp logs.
They didn't speak for a long time.
Just sat — quiet shapes wrapped in cloaks and tension.
Moore had taken off his gloves to dry them by the flame, fingers pale and nicked with half-healed scrapes. He flexed them once. Then twice. The weariness in his shoulders had started to show — not just the physical kind. The kind that sets into the bones when the days blur together and trust wears thin.
He broke the silence first, voice low.
"I've never heard of a lake this big," he muttered, tugging his coat tighter. "It feels like we've been walking beside it for days."
A pause.
Then: "Is this even still a lake?"
He didn't look at either of them when he said it. Just stared out into the mist, where the silver surface bled into sky. There was no horizon. No end. Just water and fog and silence.
May didn't answer.
She was sitting just outside the circle of firelight, her cloak half-wrapped around her legs, mask still drawn over her face. Only her eyes were visible — faintly backlit by the dying flame. They were fixed on the lake, unreadable, rimmed with frost.
Ronell followed Moore's gaze to her.
Watched May for a moment.
Her stillness. Her silence. The way the mist coiled around her shoulders like it belonged there.
Then Ronell looked away again — toward the fire, toward anything else.
None of them spoke after that.
The flames crackled. The lake murmured.
And the mist crept a little closer.
---
Day 4
The fourth morning brought a break in the fog — thin streaks of sunlight stretched across the lake's cracked surface, shimmering faintly where ice had begun to melt.
They came upon the shack around midday.
It sat just off the trail, nestled in a crook of pine and snow-worn rock — a sagging wooden structure, patched with driftwood and iron nails, the roof bowed beneath decades of winters. Smoke curled lazily from its crooked chimney. The scent of peat and pine lingered in the air.
Moore raised a hand, signaling pause.
But May stepped forward first.
She didn't knock.
A moment later, the door creaked open from the inside, revealing a man with silvered hair, weather-tough skin, and deep smile lines carved into his cheeks like old riverbeds. His eyes, pale and sharp, flicked over the three of them — lingered just a moment longer on May.
He said nothing at first.
Then stepped aside.
They entered quietly.
Inside, the shack was warm — cluttered with old fishing gear, braided nets, wooden figures, dried herbs strung from beams. A kettle hung over the hearth, and beside it, a bundle of smoked fish.
He didn't ask their names. Just gestured to the bench near the fire and said, "Trade me a story."
Moore raised an eyebrow. "You want coin or tales?"
The man chuckled, low and gravelly. "Tales are worth more in winter. Especially when the fish run thin."
They sat. May remained standing, hood drawn, silent. Ronell was the first to speak — her voice a little hesitant at first, then steadier as she found the rhythm of the memory.
She told him about a day in the city — the Sunfire Festival, when lanterns lit the streets and music chased the shadows off the rooftops. How children danced barefoot in chalk-dusted plazas. How bread smelled like fire and spice and how even the guards smiled that day.
She didn't say it outright, but the warmth in her voice betrayed the memory's closeness. The way she described the heat on stone. The way she glanced sideways at May when recalling the dancing.
The old man leaned in, listening — not smiling, but softer somehow, as if the image lit something dim behind his eyes.
Moore added his footnote, voice dry:
"Kids swarmed the melon contest. One of them spat juice at me and won."
The man chuckled. "He deserved to win, then."
Ronell laughed quietly. The moment settled.
But May remained silent.
She hadn't moved since they entered, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window — the lake, perhaps, or something deeper.
The fisherman's eyes flicked toward her. He didn't ask who she was. Didn't press.
Just watched her with something close to curiosity. Or recognition.
When they stood to leave, he wrapped three portions of smoked fish in oiled cloth, handed them over wordlessly.
Moore accepted one, sniffed it, then took a bite without hesitation. His shoulders eased just slightly.
"Finally," he muttered through a mouthful. "Real food. I was starting to forget what that tasted like."
Ronell raised an eyebrow. "We had almonds."
"And bark. Don't forget the bark," Moore said. "Delicately seasoned with regret."
She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her mouth.
As they stepped back into the wind, the old man called after them:
"Be careful. There's more than just water out there."
"Some things sink and don't stop moving."
They paused.
But he didn't elaborate.
The door closed behind them, and the trail carried on — narrow, cold, winding past reeds that rattled in the breeze.
And the lake, always beside them, stretched on.
---
Day 5
Spring began to breathe.
The air still bit at the edges of their sleeves, but the frost no longer clung as fiercely. Along the hillside, a thin stream of meltwater trickled between stones, catching the morning light like glass. Birdsong — faint, scattered — filtered in from the trees, as though nature itself were just beginning to remember how to wake.
Buds clung to bramble vines, curled tight like sleeping fists. The path remained muddy in parts, snow slushed to gravel beneath their boots.
They didn't speak much.
Moore walked a few paces ahead, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, head slightly downturned — as though tracking something invisible, or simply lost in thought. The lake stretched beside them still, quieter now, its edge softening where ice had thinned.
He paused.
Just off the trail, nestled in a patch of moss still damp with thaw, a single red flower bloomed. Small. Early. Unassuming.
He crouched slowly, fingers brushing away grit and debris before he plucked it — careful, as if afraid it might vanish in his palm.
Then, without ceremony, he turned and walked back toward Ronell.
She looked up when he stopped beside her.
He held the flower out.
No smirk. No snide remark. No clever twist at the end. Just a simple offering, placed into the moment like a breath between sentences.
Ronell blinked — once, slow — and took it.
She didn't speak either. Just tucked it gently into the fold of her belt, where it stood out like a spark of defiance against the drab winter cloth.
May said nothing.
But she glanced at them briefly — a flicker of acknowledgment — before continuing along the trail.
The group resumed walking.
Still quiet. Still separate in thought.
But their footsteps began to find a rhythm again — not perfect, not synchronized, but steady.
Not united.
Not whole.
But no longer disjointed.
And above them, somewhere in the trees, a bird called twice — as if to mark the change.Not a song, exactly.But a beginning.
---
Day 6
The fire had long since gone out. Only a faint curl of smoke remained — rising lazily into the chilled air like a fading breath.
Their camp was quiet.
Moore slept soundly, one arm over his eyes, the other curled loosely around his pack. Ronell stirred now and then, but did not fully wake.
And May was gone.
Not far — just higher.
She had climbed a narrow ridge just above their campsite, boots leaving shallow prints in the damp soil, her dark cloak catching on thorned bramble and tugging loose strands of her hair.
She stood now at its peak, silhouetted by the sky — still, unmoving.
Above her, the stars swam.
They shimmered faintly, strangely, as if softened by some unseen current. The night was clear, but the constellations bled at the edges — not blotted by cloud, but blurred, like a dream already half-forgotten.
May didn't blink. Didn't shift.
Her eyes searched the sky like someone trying to read a language no longer spoken.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
And still she stood.
Below, Ronell stirred again. Her eyes blinked open, groggy at first — but something had woken her. A shift in the air, or perhaps just the absence of warmth nearby. She sat up slowly, brushing stray leaves from her shoulder, and glanced toward the ridge.
There — outlined against the deep blue, the faintest touch of dawn creeping behind her — stood May.
Still as stone. Still watching.
A sentinel.
Or maybe a monument.
Ronell didn't call out.
Didn't ask.
She just sat for a while, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, watching that lone shape at the horizon — framed in the fading night, haunted by something she couldn't name.
May returned just before first light.
She didn't speak.
She didn't explain.
She simply stepped back into the shadows of the trees, shoulders brushing frost-damp leaves as if nothing had passed.
The others were still asleep.
And by the time the sun cracked over the lake's edge, staining it gold, May was already tending the fire again — hands steady, eyes unreadable, the weight of the sky left somewhere behind her.
But not forgotten.
Never forgotten.
---
Day 7
By midmorning, the fog had thinned to ribbons — trailing low through the trees like unraveling thread.
They were close now. The lake, once endless, had begun to curl southward, the shore narrowing, the trees growing sparse. The ground underfoot had changed too — snow giving way to damp moss and dark, rooted earth. Each step felt heavier now, not from exhaustion, but from something else.
Anticipation. Or gravity.
Somewhere ahead, past the last bend in the trail, the ravine waited.
But something else lingered first.
Moore stopped walking.
It wasn't dramatic — just a subtle shift, a half-step slower than before, his shoulders tensing beneath his coat. He said nothing. Just scanned the trees, head tilting slightly.
Ronell nearly bumped into him. "What is it—"
Then she saw.
Across the trail, just off to the left where the path dipped into morning mist, stood a figure.
Motionless.
Cloaked. Hood drawn low. A silhouette, dark against the frost-silvered underbrush. Blurred slightly by the drifting fog — but not enough to be mistaken.
They were being watched.
Ronell's hand drifted toward her side. May, a few steps ahead, paused mid-step — not turning, but straightening subtly. Her breath caught, visible in the chill. Even without words, the air had changed.
Moore's voice was a murmur. "You see it too?"
Ronell nodded, lips pressed tight.
The figure didn't move. Didn't raise a hand. Didn't flee. Just stood there.
Watching.
Moore took a breath and stepped forward — careful, measured. No sudden movements, but purpose in his stride. His boots made little sound on the mossy stone.
Ten paces.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Still the figure didn't move.
Then — gone.
No flicker. No sound. No rustle of cloak or retreating footfall.
Just gone.
The space it had occupied was now filled with mist again, swirling softly like nothing had ever been there. The silence pressed down around them.
Moore slowed to a stop, eyes scanning the brush, his jaw tight.
Then he saw it.
On the ground, half-sunk in wet moss and dirt, lay a single coin.
He crouched and picked it up.
Blackened bronze. Smooth, slightly curved edges. Its surface bore a seal scorched into the metal — a spiraling flame wrapped around a single eye. Old. Well-worn. But unmistakable.
The mark of the Ember Council.
He turned it in his fingers. It was still faintly warm.
Behind him, Ronell stepped closer, watching his expression. "Was it a threat?"
Moore didn't answer right away.
He just stared out into the trees, where the figure had been. His voice came low.
"No. Not a threat."
"Then what?"
He finally looked at her, eyes unreadable. "A reminder."
She waited, but no explanation followed.
Behind them, May had turned.
She stood a few paces up the trail, unmoving. Her cloak fluttered slightly in the cold breeze, but her posture was taut — not surprised, not scared, but… wary.
Knowing.
She said nothing.
The lake, just behind the trees, whispered against the rocks — steady, lapping, constant.
Ronell's voice broke the silence again, softer now. "They knew we'd come this way."
"Of course they did," Moore said, slipping the coin into his pocket. "This trail only leads one place."
They kept moving. Not faster. Just forward.
The ravine lay ahead — and with it, Velgrath.
But something unseen followed behind them now.
Not in footsteps.
In memory. In warning.
Velgrath knew they were coming.
And it had already opened its eyes.
---
Day 8
The trees gave way to stone.
Not suddenly — but with the slow, inevitable rhythm of a tide drawing back. The underbrush thinned, then vanished. Pine gave way to scraggly shrubs, wind-bent and brittle. Then only lichen. Then only rock.
They crested the last ridge together just past midday.
And then they saw it.
The ravine.
It wasn't a cliff. It wasn't a valley. It was something older. Something larger.
A scar — cut deep through the skin of the continent, stretching wide and endless. Its walls were layers of crumbling red and gold, scored by centuries of wind and water. Far below, the river that fed Lake Virelle churned into a thunderous fall, vanishing into mist and darkness. The sound echoed up in waves — not constant, but living. Breathing.
Moore let out a breath, low and uneven. "You didn't say it was this big."
"I said it was a wall," May replied, her voice soft, almost reverent. "You just imagined the wrong kind."
Ronell stepped closer to the ledge, gripping a smooth stone outcrop for balance. Her breath caught. The height wasn't what stunned her — it was the color, the movement, the way the horizon seemed to break apart and start again on the other side.
It felt like the edge of a world.
---
Pilgrim's Descent
The Long Road carved its way downward like a ribbon — stone pathways etched into the ravine's inner face, switchbacks so sharp they nearly overlapped, narrow staircases hugging the walls. Iron bolts held certain sections together. Elsewhere, pulleys and cables supported rickety carts, used by caravans to lower goods down in measured drops.
They joined the path around the third switchback, where old prayer flags rippled in the wind — red cloth faded to rust, each one stitched or marked with a name. Some were embroidered. Others scratched in charcoal or dye. Dozens fluttered on rusted poles hammered into the stone.
Ronell paused beside them. She touched one gently.
"People come here often?" she asked.
May nodded. "Some cross. Others just… leave names."
Names of the dead, perhaps. Or of those lost. Or of parts of themselves that never made it back.
May didn't speak further. But she stepped toward one flag, pulled a piece of black thread from her coat, and tied it in a knot through the corner of the cloth. A small, quiet gesture.
She didn't explain. Neither of them asked.
They walked for hours.
The sun moved behind the canyon wall, casting long shadows across their path. The temperature shifted — warmer now, but unpredictable. Wind rushed upward in bursts, dragging dust and whispers from the depths below.
Stone shrines jutted from the rockface at intervals — small alcoves with candle stubs and dried fruit offerings. Tiny bowls with coins. Burned feathers. One had a child's drawing of a goat, carefully inked and folded.
Moore chuckled at that one. "Reminds me of home."
Ronell gave him a look. "You had goats?"
"No. But I had drawings. They just weren't... good."
They stopped at a plateau wide enough to stretch. A few old merchants sat near a cooking fire, boiling lentils in a battered tin pot. One of them — an older woman with a staff and a dozen rings on her fingers — offered a greeting nod.
"Stonehome's a day off if you don't dawdle," she said, eyeing their boots. "Take the wide turn at the sun marker, not the split. The right path's full of loose shale."
"Noted," Moore muttered, brushing dust off his sleeve.
As the afternoon wore on, the group grew quiet again.
They were surrounded by crumbling majesty — stone layers stacked like books, each marking a different age. But it didn't feel triumphant. It felt ancient. Still. As though something here had been waiting a very long time.
At one narrow bend, a rope bridge spanned a gully cut into the wall — not the ravine itself, but a jagged crack veined with iron deposits. They crossed one at a time.
Halfway across, Moore paused and looked down.
"Wouldn't take much to fall," he muttered.
Then a gust hit.
Ronell, a few paces behind, slipped on the next stone ledge. Her foot slid, ankle twisting sharply—
Moore turned fast.
His hand caught her wrist before she went over.
Their boots scraped rock. Her breath hitched — sharp and loud in the quiet — but she didn't fall.
They stood still for a beat.
Then Ronell exhaled. "Thanks."
Moore didn't smile, but his grip tightened briefly before letting go.
"Pay me back when I trip. Odds are decent."
They made camp that night near an old toll-keeper's rest, a hollowed space carved into the stone, long abandoned. Burn marks still charred the hearth — someone had lit a fire here recently. The embers were cold now, but the space was dry.
May relit the brazier with flint and oil.
They sat without speaking.
Wind howled through a crack in the stone above them — not loud, but constant.
Ronell leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.
Moore laid his coat over his knees, eyes on the flickering flame.
And May, facing the entrance, watched the stars emerge one by one.
They were halfway down the wall.
Tomorrow, they'd reach Stonehome.
And after that — the ground.
---
Day 9
Stonehome Crossing
They arrived just after midday — the sun now high above the ravine wall, casting golden light over jagged stone and winding paths. From above, Stonehome looked like little more than cracks in the cliff. But as they descended, it unfolded.
A whole world carved from rock.
Stone steps worn smooth by generations. Ropes and wooden ladders connecting mismatched ledges. Homes hollowed into the canyon face — some neat and polished with paint or etched symbols, others patched with canvas or sheet metal. Cloth banners flapped between doorframes. Dried herbs rustled like wind chimes. Smoke rose in lazy threads from vents cut into stone.
Children laughed overhead, darting between rooftops and rope bridges with impossible ease. One whistled sharply as the group passed below. Another waved, then immediately vanished behind a ladder's edge.
Moore blinked up at them. "Reckless," he muttered.
Ronell smiled faintly. "They live here."
"Still reckless."
May led them without comment. Her pace was steady, but her head stayed low — not in shame, but in subtle deference. She knew these paths. She'd walked them before.
Near the center of the settlement, an old man stood beneath a stone archway, sweeping sand from the threshold of a shrine. His skin was the color of the canyon itself, sun-worn and cracked with age. He wore no shoes. Just beads, wrapped around his wrists and ankles like weights of memory.
He looked up.
Saw May.
Didn't smile. Didn't speak.
Just nodded — once — deeply. As if confirming something long unspoken.
May returned it. Wordless.
Ronell noticed but said nothing.
---
The inn was barely more than a carved alcove with a cloth awning stretched across its mouth and smoke curling from a pipe near the ceiling. Inside, it was warmer than expected — walls etched with curling patterns, floor smoothed by bare feet. A tiny brazier in the corner heated a stewpot that smelled of garlic, root vegetables, and something sharper — like vinegar or fermented spice.
"We don't take coin," said the keeper, a narrow woman with silver hair and sharp elbows. "Trade or help."
Moore tilted his head. "Help?"
She pointed behind her. "Crates. Down two ladders. Up again."
He grunted. "Fine."
Ronell started to follow, but he shook his head.
"Sit. You'll just trip on a goat."
He disappeared down the rope ladder, muttering under his breath.
Ronell sat by the brazier, arms still wrapped around herself. She watched May — who remained near the door, eyes distant, posture quiet. There was a weariness to her that didn't seem physical.
She didn't sit.
Didn't warm her hands.
Just… stayed still.
When Moore returned, he smelled like dust and hay, but his sleeves were rolled up and his mood lighter. "Earned us dinner," he said, and dropped into a crouch beside the pot.
The innkeeper handed out wooden bowls without a word.
They ate in silence at first.
Then Ronell asked, "You ever been here before?"
Moore shrugged. "Passed by. Never stopped."
He glanced toward the open doorway — the sound of wind playing with cloth and rope. "Kinda wish I had."
Ronell tilted her head. "Why?"
He didn't look at her when he answered.
"Feels real."
---
Later, long after the stew was gone and most of the village had quieted, Ronell stepped outside.
The wind was gentler here — not gone, but tamed by the depth of the canyon walls. Lamps hung on taut cables strung across the ravine, swaying softly like stars on thread. Their light shifted as they moved — gold and amber, flickering with each gust.
Ronell leaned against the stone railing of the upper walk.
Below her, silence — except the wind, the occasional goat call, the distant rustle of rope.
She spotted one of the kids again, perched high on a ledge, watching the lights.
They didn't speak. Just shared the moment.
Behind her, May remained inside. Moore was already asleep, one arm thrown over his pack like a shield.
Ronell watched the swaying lights for a long time.
Then whispered, to no one in particular:
"They built homes here… despite the height. Despite the danger."
She didn't finish the thought.
Didn't need to.
The lights kept moving.
And somewhere, far below, the canyon breathed.
---
Day 10
The Riverfall Base
The trail narrowed as they left the last homes of Stonehome behind — the carved doors and rooftops fading into weathered rock. Below them, the world dropped away.
They stood for a moment at the cliff's edge, where the ravine finally gave in.
The waterfall roared below, thundering down into a basin lost in mist. The lake they'd followed for days poured over the lip of the world — a silver torrent flanked by cliffs scorched black by time and wind. The sound was deafening, endless, echoing from wall to wall like the breath of some buried god.
Mist billowed upward in great sheets, sunlight slicing through in pale beams, catching on dust motes and fractured rainbows. The sheer height of it made Ronell instinctively reach for something steady. May didn't move. Moore exhaled low.
"Didn't know the world could drop like that."
May said nothing, only stepped forward — and began the descent.
---
The main routes forked behind them, looping wide around the ravine's interior. But May led them to a narrow trail behind a half-buried shrine — a cut path barely visible unless you knew where to look. Ancient, worn by time, it zigzagged downward across black rock and sun-cracked terraces.
The roar of the falls never left. They passed behind it once — soaked and blinking through a haze of spray. Moore shouted something, but it vanished into the noise.
By midday, the sound became less a sound and more a feeling — a pressure in their bones.
The rocks below steamed faintly in the sun. Pools formed where the waterfall's mist settled, warm to the touch. Their clothes dried quickly as the cold faded. Heat crept in, quiet and strange — the first taste of Velgrath's breath.
At the base, the earth opened.
---
They reached it by afternoon — the place where the great waterfall met the river, carving the land into deep veins. The river surged here, split by broken boulders, whitewater crashing through tight channels and shallow marshes.
Everything was massive. The cliffs rose behind them like the ribcage of the world. The river, wide and strong, shimmered in patches of early spring light, though its edges bore the color of iron and ash. There was no village, no dock. Just raw nature — and the silence between thunderclaps.
They stood in the shadow of it all, breathing mist and dust.
Ronell whispered, "It feels wrong to speak here."
Even Moore didn't answer. He just looked at the dark hills beyond, where the red trail bent west — toward Wayfarer's Den.
They didn't linger.
---
They camped in a dry hollow, half-sheltered by overhangs of stone. The land here was dusty and brittle — dark veins running through pale rock, like old scars.
Moore gathered brush and vine-scraps, building not just a fire — but a ring.
"Desert travelers do this," he said, voice lower than usual. "Beasts see flame, they keep their distance. Mostly."
Ronell helped set stones in place. May said nothing, but watched the flame closely as Moore lit the final arc. Her gaze lingered longer than it should have.
Dinner was quiet. The warmth of the fire felt thin out here — as if the night pressed too close.
Later, as they drifted to sleep, Ronell cracked one eye and saw May still seated — not resting, not even blinking — just staring outward into the dark. Listening.
---
By morning, the fire had died — but the wind hadn't scattered the dust.
Ronell stirred, sat up, and saw them first: scratch marks.
Circling their camp in uneven arcs. Dozens of them. Deep, uncertain. Like something had come close but hadn't crossed.
She woke Moore with a hand on his shoulder. He sat up quick — and saw the signs.
"They came close," he said. "Too close."
May was already standing.
She crouched beside a shape near the edge of the ridge. A carcass — no longer fresh, but wrong somehow. All shriveled sinew and bone. Not scavenged. Not hunted.
Just… emptied.
She studied it in silence.
Then said, quietly:"They only eat what runs."
Moore looked down the trail. His voice was almost a growl.
"Let's move."
---
As they climbed the next rise, the view shifted.
The cliffs were behind them now — rising like a wall.
Before them stretched Velgrath's lowlands — red-dusted ridges, wide dry gulches, and far-off spines of black stone. The river cut through it like a scar. No trees. No clouds. Just open land, warm and vast.
It was spring here — but it felt like summer already.
Ronell shielded her eyes.
"It's a different world down here."
Moore just nodded. And for the first time since the falls, May finally spoke:
"Welcome to the hollow flame."
They walked on.
And the cliffs watched them go.
---
Day 11
By late morning, the land shifted again.
Gone were the cracked rocks and sun-warmed fissures of the Stone Veins — replaced by flat dust trails, pale and open. The trail stretched wide, like it had once welcomed small caravans… but now it only carried silence.
Dust curled with each step, clinging to their boots and the folds of their cloaks. The wind had changed — warmer, yes, but dry and laced with grit. It moved in slow breaths, not enough to cool, just enough to whisper.
Moore pulled a cloth over his mouth.
"Feels like we're walking through an old mouth," he muttered. "Like the world chewed on something, then dried out."
Ronell didn't answer. She was watching the sky — a pale white wash, the sun high and expressionless. The roar of the river was gone now. Only wind and the soft crunch of dust beneath their feet remained.
---
They passed stone cairns at irregular intervals — piles of balanced rocks, some weathered flat, others barely standing. Many had charcoal remains of old fires near their base. One still had a rusted cooking hook stuck upright in the dirt.
May only glanced at it. "No one uses this trail anymore," she said.
"Why not?" Ronell asked.
"Too easy to follow."
Moore stopped beside a patch of torn fabric flapping on a thin, scorched branch. A dead tree, twisted against the sky. Bits of old prayer flags clung to it — red, white, gold — now faded to pale thread and dust.
Ronell reached out and touched one. It fluttered against her fingers like silk worn down to memory.
"They blew from Thessalyn…" she whispered."And never stopped."
Nobody replied.
The trail kept stretching. Empty. Watching.
---
By midday, the haze had thickened — fine gray silt carried on the wind, making the distance shimmer.
A low cry echoed across the flatland — not a bird, not entirely. Something distant. Echoing off the rocks.
May's gaze snapped toward the sound. But she didn't speak.
Moore, behind them, crouched.
"Tracks," he said."Not fresh. But… too many to be dogs."
Large pawprints — more than a dozen — led across the trail and vanished into a gully.
Ronell knelt beside one. Pressed her fingers into the indentation.
"Do they come through here often?"
May answered from a distance, her voice barely loud enough to carry:
"Only when they're hungry."
---
They didn't stop for long that day — just a short rest behind a dune where the dust thinned slightly. They drank in silence, rationing carefully.
Moore passed Ronell a slice of smoked fish from the riverside trade. She chewed slowly, silently grateful.
"I get why no one lives out here," he said."But I don't get why anyone ever used to."
May looked out toward the ridges, where the trail bent toward darker stone.
"Because not all roads were meant for safety. Some were meant for memory."
That silenced them for a while.
---
As dusk painted the dust with burnt orange light, the world seemed even flatter. No towns. No trees. No signs of life.
Just stone. And sky. And a wind that refused to rest.
When they finally made camp, it was behind a ridge of crumbling shale. Moore set another fire ring — smaller this time. Just in case.
Ronell lay on her back watching the sky, no longer blue but a chalky violet dusted with stars.
She spoke softly.
"It feels like we're walking off the map."
May didn't answer.
But when Ronell turned her head, she saw her — standing alone, again, facing east this time. As if waiting for something to follow.
Something that had been walking behind them since the lake.
---
Day 12
Arrival
By midday, the Dustmarch trail narrowed — the world sloping subtly downward, almost imperceptibly at first. But as they walked, it became harder to ignore.
The sky, once open, now felt heavy.
Stone walls rose slowly on either side, uneven and sharp. The dust darkened underfoot, giving way to something else — blackened shards glinting in the sunlight, buried beneath layers of sand. Obsidian. Glass. A fracture zone.
Moore crouched and picked up a splintered piece, holding it against the light.
"Volcanic," May murmured, stepping past him. "Old. But not dead."
Ronell looked up. The walls now loomed higher — shadows creeping earlier than they should have. It felt like descending into a bowl… or a throat. The air thickened. Warmer. Drier.
"It's like walking into a pit," she whispered.
"No," Moore corrected."A trap."
---
They rounded a bend and found it.
A crumbling toll post, flanked by half-buried stone markers and a rusted signal bell. The structure leaned into the cliff wall like it had been there too long — beaten by storms, looted, forgotten.
May paused beside it.
A weatherworn flagpole still stood, though the banner it once held had been reduced to tangled threads. Charred wood suggested fire. Maybe sabotage. Maybe time.
Moore ran his hand over the scorched doorframe.
"So they used to guard this place?"
May gave the faintest nod. "When the border still mattered."
"And now?"
"Now no one guards what no one wants."
They moved on.
The trail coiled downward, narrower, the walls growing steeper and redder, baked by sun and carved by wind. At one point, they passed a narrow crevice that exhaled hot air — like breath from beneath the earth. No one looked inside.
---
It wasn't until they were nearly on top of it that they saw it.
Wayfarer's Den, if you could call it a town, emerged slowly from the stone like a mirage built from refuse and rock. Half-buried rooftops, flattened chimneys, and crooked metal flags barely peeked above the rim of a lower basin carved into the cliff base. The settlement looked sunken — swallowed halfway by time, halfway by choice.
Low walls wrapped around the edges — metal scraps, scavenged stone, bits of cart wheels, all welded and mortared into barriers. Windcatchers turned lazily in the heat, humming like old machines. From above, it seemed abandoned.
But the scent of smoke and grilled spice said otherwise.
"Looks like it was built to disappear," Moore muttered."Or make you think twice before entering."
May said nothing. But her shoulders eased slightly.
Homecoming, of a sort.
As they descended, the shimmer of heat danced off the cliff edges. Soot-colored birds circled the basin. And here and there, small figures moved between slits in the rock — people, watching. Hidden. Not hostile, but wary. Wrapped in cloth against dust and sun. Faces shaded.
Ronell glanced over her shoulder. The ravine walls behind them now soared upward, impossible to climb. The sky above felt distant. Sealed off.
"We're in now," she whispered."No way but forward."
Moore didn't respond. He was already eyeing the nearest wall of Wayfarer's Den, squinting into the mess of scrap and shadow.
As they passed beneath the final stone arch — a natural curve cut by time and reinforced with rusted metal — the world shifted again. The stillness gave way to subdued activity:
Barter stalls, packed close together beneath makeshift awnings.Children darting between crates, chasing windchimes made of tin.A woman laughing at a mercenary's poor haggling in three languages.Relics. Smoke. Laughter. Tension. Dust.
Wayfarer's Den lived — not loudly, but insistently. A place that didn't want to be found, but once you were inside… offered whatever you needed, for the right price.
The deeper they went, the more it felt like the town watched them back — not with suspicion, but recognition.
Something here had been waiting.