Page 27

It won’t be the last.

Behind me, footsteps sound. Quick at first. Then slower, more hesitant. I don’t need to look to know it’s the guard and the caravan leader. They stop at the edge of the clearing and wait, almost as if approaching too directly might summon the magic back into motion.

The caravan leader speaks first. “By all the gods …”

The guard makes a choked sound.

I turn to face them. They both recoil, a single involuntary step. The guard’s hand goes to the hilt at his hip and stays there. He doesn’t draw though. The leader holds his ground, barely. His mouth opens, then shuts again, his face draining of color.

Their gazes move over the bodies. The blood. The ruptured limbs, shattered bone and erased features. Then to me.

“You kept the caravan from burning tonight.” The words are quiet, shaky.

I say nothing.

His eyes won’t meet mine. They skitter across the clearing. Over the wreckage. Around the edges of what I’ve done. He exhales, and then gives the smallest nod.

“We will clean this before first light. No one will ask questions.”

He turns. The guard hesitates for one heartbeat longer, still staring, then follows him.

I remain where I am until their footsteps fade. Until silence retakes the forest.

The bodies are already beginning to cool. Blood darkens the leaves beneath them, sinking into root and soil.

Nothing in me regrets what I’ve done. But something in me resists what it costs. Exhaustion pulls at my lips. Sweat drips down my spine. Drawing on the void shouldn’t be this draining. But I know why, and until I reclaim the last remaining parts of my power, the weakness will remain.

I walk back to the camp in darkness, silent as the shadow I command.

The raven returns ahead of me, circling once before dissolving into my skin.

No one else stirs. The caravan leader and guard didn’t raise any alarms. The world sleeps on, unaware of how near it came to waking in fire, or not waking at all.

The shelter is as I left it.

I don’t enter immediately. Instead, I stand outside, letting the night wash over me. The hunger that has followed me since my release has dulled, but it hasn’t vanished. I fed it something ancient tonight. Something I once believed would feel like victory.

It doesn’t.

Ellie stirs, and I turn to watch her. Her eyes open briefly before closing again, lashes dark against her cheeks.

She clutches the cloak tighter against her, a small sound escaping her throat as she settles deeper into sleep.

The wariness that tightens her features in waking hours has softened, revealing a vulnerability she tries to hide from me when she’s conscious.

I find myself unable to look away. There’s something disquieting in the stillness of her expression. In sleep, her face appears younger. Unburdened.

A strand of hair falls across her face, and my hand lifts of its own accord.

An arc of brownish-red streaks the back of it.

My gaze catches on the shape. Blood. Not just a splash, but an arterial spray—thick, fresh enough to glisten in the moonlight.

It runs between my fingers in slow rivulets, mapping the lines of my palm like some macabre fortune-telling.

Beneath it, shadows move, turning the blood nearly black where they mix.

I freeze, hand suspended inches from her cheek.

The contrast is stark—her unmarked skin against mine, painted in death. For a moment, I see it. What I am. A creature of void and violence, reaching toward something untouched by either. The blood seems to pulse against my skin, a reminder of the lives I’ve just unmade with these same fingers.

I let my hand fall, curling it into a fist that sends a drop of crimson spattering to the dirt between us.

Stepping back, I return to the entrance of the shelter, and draw shadows tighter around me, my thoughts still with the woman sleeping nearby.

How strange her experience must be—torn from her world, thrust into a realm of unfamiliar dangers, dependent on a stranger with abilities she doesn’t understand.

Yet she hasn’t broken. She adapts. She learns.

She survives. These are not insignificant qualities.

They speak of a strength that resonates within me, a recognition I find increasingly difficult to dismiss as mere tactical appreciation.

My familiar responds to my thoughts, its consciousness brushing against mine. It's curious about this woman from another world. It combs through my memories of her arrival, and in return offers its own. The years I was sealed, and the figures who passed the tower without ever knowing it was there.

What quality allowed her to succeed where hundreds failed? The question won’t leave me.

With dawn, the caravan begins to stir. Traders rise, kindling small fires and preparing morning meals. Their routines speak of lives spent on these mountain routes, moving goods between settlements according to seasonal patterns.

Pack animals are fed. Cookware clinks. The scent of frying bread filters through the early morning chill.

None of them know what the night held. They pass within yards of where blood still darkens the forest floor, unaware that death moved so close to their dreams. The leader has kept his word. There is no sign of the bandits remains anywhere.

Ellie wakes when a nearby family stokes their fire, the soft crackle of flame catching in the air. Her eyes find mine immediately, that ever-present wariness returning with her consciousness.

“Good morning.” She sits up and tucks her borrowed cloak around her shoulders.

I incline my head. “We should reach Ravencross by high sun. The path follows the valley alongside the river.”

We’re invited to sit with others for a simple breakfast—flatbreads cooked on hot stones, dried fruit, and tea—then move among them as they pack for departure.

As I mount my sandstrider, the caravan leader approaches, and stops beside the beast’s head.

“The path to Ravencross passes through a narrow gorge.” He points northeast. “Authority patrols have increased there in the last few days. Those traveling without proper documentation often face questioning.”

The warning is clear.

“I appreciate the information. Perhaps there are alternate routes for travelers who prefer discretion?” There were three the last time I passed through here, but I can’t assume they’re still safe.

He studies me for a long moment, then nods toward a trail branching northward. “The ridge path takes longer, but offers privacy. It rejoins the main road near the western gate.”

“Thank you.” I offer him a small bow. “Your guidance is appreciated.”

He returns the bow, then hesitates.

“The men from last night are gone.” His voice is quiet. “Nothing left. Not enough for even the crows.”

I remain silent.

“Strange winds blow from the mountains these days,” he continues. “Old stories resurface. Names we were told to forget.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Even the Authority seems unsettled.”

He pauses, and draws in a deep breath. “You won’t find your answers in Ravencross if you walk like a ghost. But if you do what you did last night … people will start to remember. Some with fear. Most with hope.”

His gaze holds mine. I offer nothing in return, and whatever name he suspects me of wearing, he keeps it to himself.

Ellie watches our exchange with clear frustration at not understanding the conversation.

“What was that about?” she asks, once he’s moved beyond hearing range.

“He warned of increased Authority patrols on the main path to Ravencross. He suggested an alternate route.”

“What else?” Apparently she sensed the undercurrents of the conversation. “What else was he telling you?”

“He mentioned unusual activity in the mountains. The Authority increasing their presence without clear reason is cause for concern. It means the caravans will be stopped more often, which delays their journeys.”

“You’ve been gone for a long time,” she says, mounting her sandstrider, and settling into the saddle. “How do you expect to find information that’s still relevant?”

A fair question. “Information in Ravencross flows through established channels—merchants, innkeepers, traders. The faces change, but the system will persist.” I guide my sandstrider toward the northern path.

“If any of my former … associates survived the purges, I hope that they or their successors have kept up certain rituals.”

“And if they didn’t?”

“Then we adapt. Freedom requires flexibility.”

We take the ridge path as suggested, climbing higher into the foothills through increasingly dense forest. The trail narrows in places, forcing us to proceed single file.

I search through the shadows between trees, monitoring our surroundings for signs of danger or pursuit.

These mountains once carried magic. I remember it—subtle, living, threaded through root and rock.

But it’s gone now. Burned out by the Authority during the purges, leaving nothing but memory.

We’ve been riding for almost an hour when Ellie speaks.

“There’s something I don’t understand. How are we communicating? I obviously don’t speak the language everyone we’ve met speaks. Is that how you usually talk? How do we understand each other?”

It’s a question I’ve been waiting for, and expected her to ask sooner.

“Whatever brought you here has created a connection between us.” I choose my words carefully. “Magic sometimes bridges gaps that would otherwise exist. In this case, language.”

“So, it’s not that I’m speaking your language or you’re speaking mine,” she says slowly. “It’s that we understand each other, regardless of the words we’re both using?”

“In simplistic terms, yes.” The truth is far more complex than I’m willing to explain. “It’s limited to our direct communication. You won’t understand others speaking to you, nor they you, unless I translate.”