The cave wasn't much of a shelter, but it blocked the wind.
That was enough.
Lucas dropped the last of the dry branches into a shallow pit they'd cleared between two flat stones. It wasn't much—half-decayed wood from a withered patch of roots near the ridge—but it would burn.
Eventually.
He stepped back and glanced at Lyss. She was already kneeling across from him, sword in hand, resting the flat of the blade against her knee.
Without a word, Lucas summoned the Abyssal Reaper, its shadow-black form crackling with faint energy. He lowered the edge until it lightly touched the rim of her blade.
They didn't speak.
Just sparked.
Metal against metal.
Once. Twice. Again.
On the fourth strike, a spark caught the edge of a dried root, flickering orange. The flame licked higher, biting into the branch. Lyss leaned forward, blowing steadily until it spread.
Soon, a small fire was crackling between them.
The warmth was faint. The light dim.
But it felt like a miracle.
Lucas let the scythe vanish into shadow again, rubbing the back of his hand across his cheek. Ash already clung to his skin.
Lyss unwrapped a bundle of raw meat they had wrapped in cloth—tough, dark, and reeking faintly of iron. She speared a strip with a thin branch and held it over the fire.
Lucas followed suit.
They sat in silence, the fire popping softly, the heat brushing against their faces.
'God, I missed this. Warmth. Flame. Something that isn't fog and stone and death.'
The smell wasn't pleasant. The taste probably wouldn't be either.
But it was food.
And food was survival.
The meat tasted like smoke and blood.
Lucas tore into a piece with his teeth, chewing slowly as the flavor hit him—bitter, chewy, with the faint metallic tang of something that probably wasn't meant to be eaten.
But he didn't care.
He was starving.
Across the fire, Lyss ate in silence, her eyes fixed on the flames. She moved with the same elegance she fought with—controlled, efficient. Even now, as she chewed through dried, barely-cooked monster meat, she looked composed.
Lucas caught himself watching her for a moment too long.
He looked away.
'Don't get used to it. This isn't normal. None of this is.'
His stomach gurgled in protest, but the warmth spreading through his chest dulled the ache in his limbs. The Soul Cores he'd absorbed earlier were still working their way through him, pushing his body further, harder.
He could feel it.
A slow burn.
Muscles a little tighter. Breaths a little deeper.
But he was still weak.
Still behind.
He glanced at Lyss again. She had finished eating and was cleaning her blade with a scrap of cloth, every stroke methodical.
'She hasn't said a word since she patched me up. Not even a smug comment.'
He shifted his weight, staring at the remains of the fire.
The silence wasn't awkward.
It was… heavy.
But not hostile.
They were just two people who had survived.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
For now.
They didn't speak when it was time to move again.
Lyss stood first, gathering the last of her supplies with practiced ease. Lucas kicked dirt over the fire until the last ember died, then slung the bundle of meat over his shoulder.
The climb resumed.
The path was no less brutal than before—narrow, jagged, and slick with ancient moss that grew even in the cold. Their boots scraped and slipped, each step a cautious negotiation between momentum and gravity.
Lucas's body ached in new places, but he moved better than the day before.
A little faster.
A little surer.
'Maybe those Soul Cores really are doing their job.'
Above them, the peak remained shrouded in fog. The moon still hung motionless in the violet sky, casting its eerie light across the black stone.
It was beautiful.
And maddening.
"Still can't see the top," Lucas muttered.
Lyss didn't answer.
She just kept climbing.
Hours passed. Maybe more.
Their breaths fogged the air, the only sound breaking the silence aside from the occasional clatter of stone dislodging beneath their feet.
And then—
A single drop of water splashed against Lucas's cheek.
He stopped.
Looked up.
Another.
And then, the sky opened.
Rain.
Cold, steady, and relentless.
It came down in sheets, sudden and full, soaking through their cloaks in seconds. The mist swirled with the droplets, turning the entire path into a curtain of blurred light and shadows.
Lucas tilted his head back and let the rain hit his face.
He opened his mouth, drinking straight from the sky.
It was the cleanest thing he'd tasted in days.
'Finally.'
With a thought, he released the Deathfang Carapace, letting the armor dissolve into shadow. For the first time in hours, he felt the water touch his bare skin—raw, cold, and real.
The rain hit harder without the armor's barrier, but it was worth it.
He splashed water across his face, rubbing away the layers of blood, dirt, and grime. His wound, now only a tender line of scarred flesh, stung slightly under the rain. But it felt… good.
Like breathing again.
Behind him, Lyss stood quietly, her hair plastered to her face, clothes soaked. She looked up into the sky with a calm expression.
Then she spoke, her voice low but direct. "I need a moment."
Lucas blinked, water dripping from his chin.
She met his eyes. Calm. Steady.
"Privacy."
He sighed, nodding. "Fine. I'll go enjoy the rain somewhere else."
Turning, he walked a short distance up the path and found a jagged rock to lean against, arms crossed.
He didn't look back.
Lucas leaned against the rock, arms folded over his chest, eyes watching the rainfall as it danced across the slick, dark stones.
His clothes clung to his body. The cold had settled into his bones, but he didn't mind. The rain was a gift—cleansing, calming, and for the first time since arriving in this gods-forsaken place, it made him feel human again.
He tilted his head back and let the water run through his hair, closing his eyes.
'Didn't think I'd miss this. Rain. Wind. Just… normal things.'
Behind him, the sound of movement in the wet gravel faded as Lyss stepped further away into the mist. She didn't say anything else. No snark. No threats.
Just space.
Lucas didn't try to peek.
Didn't care.
'She asked. That's rare enough.'
Minutes passed in silence, save for the steady beat of rain and the occasional rumble of distant thunder—low, but far away.
He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the sharp scent of rain and cold stone.
When Lyss finally returned, she didn't speak.
She carried something in her hands—two small, round containers fashioned crudely out of materials he didn't immediately recognize. Bones, maybe. Or thick shell. The tops were sealed with folded cloth, tightly bound with thin strips of leather.
She handed one to him.
He took it without a word.
It was half full of water.
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You made bottles?"
Lyss gave a small nod. "We need to carry what we can."
'Smart.'
He clipped it to his side, still watching her carefully.
"Nice work," he muttered.
She didn't answer.
Just turned toward the path ahead.
And walked.
The rain slowed as they walked.
Not enough to stop entirely—just enough to make each step quieter, the world around them softer. The stone beneath their boots remained slick, and the mist still clung to everything, thick as ever. But there was something different now.
A quiet sense of momentum.
Lucas adjusted the makeshift flask at his hip, the cool weight of it grounding him.
Lyss walked ahead, her stride steady, her expression unreadable as always. The second container hung from her side, tied with the same leather cord. She didn't look back.
They didn't speak.
There was nothing to say.
They were clean—for now. Hydrated—for now. Fed—for now.
And the climb continued.
Lucas looked up once more, but the peak was still lost in the clouds.
'Figures. Wouldn't want things to get easy now.'
The air had a new bite to it—thinner, colder. The kind of cold that crept in and lingered under your skin. He pulled his cloak tighter, the damp fabric sticking to his neck and collarbone.
Ahead, Lyss stopped suddenly.
Lucas paused beside her.
They stood at the edge of a narrow ridge. Below them, the mountain dipped slightly into a shallow basin, then continued upward in jagged, winding paths.
It looked harder than before.
Longer. Steeper.
Neither said a word.
Then, slowly, they started walking again.
One step at a time.