Serakha walked, the snow whispering under her boots. She didn't speak. Neither did Kael nor Lucian. The air around them had changed — heavy, humming. The sort of silence that bears upon your skin. The trees thinned ahead. The scorched woods gave way to cold rock, keen wind. A path, once unclear, was now obvious — not because it had been laid, but because something in her knew where to go. She was no longer following footsteps; she was now answering a call.
Kael had a slight limp, still healing from the wound that would've killed him. He had not said much since she had stood up from the snow — since she had said her true name. But he remained close at hand, eyes constantly scanning the shadows, hand never far from his sword.
Lucian, by contrast, moved with a quiet sort of purpose. As though all the questions he'd ever had had been filled with resolve. He'd seen the light — seen what Serakha was become — and hadn't turned away.
They climbed higher and the wind grew sharper, thinner.
