The land grew harsher the closer they got to home.
The broken hills of the Eastern Teeth rose around them like ancient, jagged bones, their gray faces streaked with old scars of landslides and black moss. The wind howled constantly through the narrow passes, carrying dust and the distant cries of hunting beasts.
Cael walked at the head of their little band, his cloak whipped tight against his body, his boots worn near to splitting. Every step sent a dull ache through the bruises beneath his skin, but he welcomed the pain.It reminded him that he was still alive. Still walking. Still moving forward.
Fen trudged behind him, grumbling about the cold and the rocks and the fact that they hadn't seen anything remotely edible for a full day. Iris walked quietly, her head low, her hands buried deep into the folds of her cloak.
They didn't talk much anymore. Words seemed heavy these days, something to be spent carefully.
And so they moved in silence, toward the place they had once called refuge.
Toward the Enclave.
It was midday when they finally crested the last ridge.
The valley opened before them, a shallow bowl surrounded by crooked cliffs. At the center, the remains of the Enclave clung to life — a scattering of worn tents, broken stone huts, and a single large longhouse built against the cliff wall.
Smoke rose from the chimney of the longhouse, thin and gray against the sky.A sign of life.
Fen let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "Well," he muttered, "looks about the same."
Iris said nothing. Her eyes were distant, taking in the rough settlement with the wary caution of someone who had never really had a home.
Cael simply stared for a long moment.The Enclave had always been a rough place, half-forgotten by the world.Now, after everything... it felt even smaller. Even quieter.
But it was still standing.
And that was enough.
Without a word, he started down the slope.
They approached carefully, weapons close at hand, just in case.But as they neared, a figure stepped out of the longhouse.
Korr.
The old man looked even more hunched than Cael remembered, his broad shoulders stooped under a heavy fur cloak. His hair was white, his beard longer and more tangled than before. But his eyes — sharp, keen, and impossibly blue — hadn't dulled a bit.
He stared at them for a long moment.
Then, without any ceremony, he barked out a laugh.
"About time you showed your sorry faces," he said, voice rough with age and smoke.
Fen grinned wide. "Told you we'd make it, old man."
"You?" Korr snorted. "I expected the boy. You I figured would trip over your own feet halfway through and break your neck."
Fen clutched his chest dramatically. "You wound me."
Korr ignored him, his gaze settling on Cael.
For a long moment, master and student just looked at each other.
Then Korr gave a small, satisfied nod.
"You did it."
It wasn't a question.
Cael stepped forward, the movement stiff, and clasped the older man's forearm in greeting.
"I did."
Korr's grip was strong despite his age. His expression shifted, softening by the barest fraction.
"I'm proud of you, lad."
The words hit harder than Cael expected.He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and just nodded.
Korr turned his gaze to Iris next, sizing her up with a veteran's eye.
"And you?"
"I survived," Iris said simply.
Korr gave a grunt of approval. "Good enough."
He stepped back, gesturing toward the longhouse.
"Come. Get warm. Tell me everything."
The longhouse smelled of smoke, old wood, and the faint tang of herbs.It was warmer inside, the fire in the hearth throwing golden light across the battered floorboards.
They shed their cloaks and weapons, setting them carefully near the door.A pot of stew — thin, but better than nothing — bubbled over the fire.Fen's grandpa, a wiry old man named Harrow, sat in a corner sharpening a knife, his eyes crinkling with amusement when he saw Fen stumble inside.
"Still alive, you little rat," Harrow said.
Fen barked a laugh and hurried over to him, and for a few minutes, the room was filled with the low murmur of reunion.
Cael sat heavily near the fire, Iris beside him.
Korr poured each of them a battered tin cup of something hot and sharp-smelling.
"Drink," he commanded.
They obeyed without argument. The liquid burned down Cael's throat and into his chest, chasing away some of the lingering chill.
When they were settled, Korr leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"Tell me."
So they did.
Piece by piece, they recounted the Trials — the impossible challenges, the powers awakened, the pain and triumph and blood left behind.
Korr listened in silence, his face unreadable.
Only when they finished did he speak.
"You three... are not the same as when you left."
It wasn't criticism. Just a statement of fact.
Cael nodded. "We can't be."
Korr gave a small, approving grunt.
"Good. You'll need that strength."
His gaze lingered on Cael a moment longer, sharp and knowing.
"You still mean to go back."
It wasn't a question.
Cael met his eyes steadily. "I do."
Korr leaned back with a sigh, looking older than before.
"Then you'd better hurry," he muttered. "The world won't wait for you to be ready."
Fen spoke up then, a mischievous gleam in his eye.
"Besides," he said, elbowing Cael lightly, "you'll need to get a hell of a lot stronger if you plan on getting revenge."
Cael raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Fen grinned. "The Head of the Church isn't just some fat priest in a temple somewhere, Cael. He's the strongest man alive on this continent. Maybe in the whole world."
Iris looked between them, frowning slightly. "How do you know that?"
"Stories," Fen said with a shrug. "Whispers. And a few things my grandpa told me."
Harrow, still sharpening his knife, chuckled dryly from the corner."Stories, sure. But true enough. The Head of the Church doesn't answer to kings or lords. He bends the Light like it's his plaything. You cross him, boy... you'd better be ready to die."
The words settled heavy into the room.
Cael didn't flinch.
"I'll be ready," he said simply.
No bravado. No arrogance.
Just a quiet certainty.
Later, as they finished eating and the fire burned low, Iris spoke again.
"I still don't know where I'm supposed to be," she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the crackle of the flames.
Fen looked at her sidelong. "You're with us, aren't you?"
She hesitated... then nodded.
"Good," Fen said, leaning back with a contented sigh. "Means I don't have to listen to Cael mumble to himself all day."
"Charming," Cael muttered, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The three of them sat together in the warmth of the fire, the night pressing cold and dark against the walls outside.
And for the first time in a long while, Cael allowed himself to feel something dangerously close to peace.
But peace, like all things, was fragile.
It was Harrow who first heard it — the faint, distant echo of hooves on stone.
He stiffened, rising slowly to his feet, his old knife forgotten on the floor.
Korr was up in an instant, moving to the door with the silent grace of a seasoned fighter.
Cael followed, heart thudding in his chest.
They stepped out into the cold night.
The valley was bathed in silver moonlight, every rock and twisted tree casting long, sharp shadows.
Down the slope, near the outer edge of the Enclave, a figure was approaching.
A rider.
Alone.
Wrapped in a dark cloak, their horse moving at an easy, unhurried pace.
Cael narrowed his eyes, trying to make out more details — but distance and darkness masked them.
Friend?
Or foe?
Behind him, he heard Fen mutter under his breath.
"Never simple, is it?"
No. It never was.
Cael tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and stepped forward, the others falling in beside him.
The night held its breath.
The rider kept coming.
And whatever awaited them — it was almost here.