✧ Chapter Six ✧The Blackening Sky
from Have You Someone to Protect?By ©Amer
The wind whispered old warnings as Silas crossed the high pass of Mount Isilveth, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow made flesh. His eyes, sharp and unrelenting, scanned the jagged terrain. Each step brought him closer to Solara—closer to her.
He told himself this journey was a tactical one. A warlord's instinct to survey, to ensure that what once was sacred had not been swallowed whole by time or threat. And yet, beneath the steel of his reasoning, something softer stirred.
He had walked here once, long ago, when life had been less complicated and her laughter still echoed in his ears. He could see her again: Lhady, with ink-stained fingers and a spirit too wide for any room. She had always seen the world as something to love and fight for.
And beside her had stood Thorne Amer.
The memory of the man came unbidden—tall, solemn, and steady. A guardian whose silence spoke more than words ever could. Thorne had been her shield, her quiet protector, and in some distant way, the reason Silas had kept his distance. There had been no place for another sword at her side. Not then.
For a moment, Silas allowed himself the warmth of those recollections. The world, for that heartbeat, was not blood and war, but a trail of laughter winding through a garden. He had even forgotten that his young comrade rode behind him, silent and alert. They had traveled together for days, yet at this stretch of the road, Silas had become singular—lost in the past.
The path here twisted like the one Thorne had led them through on their first riding lesson. Silas almost smiled at the memory.
"Lean in when the horse takes the hill," Thorne had instructed, voice low and even, riding beside Lhady who clutched her reins with more determination than skill.
"I am leaning!" Lhady had barked, indignant and bouncing slightly in her saddle. "It's the horse who isn't listening!"
Silas had been riding behind, biting back laughter.
"You're yelling at the wrong half of the situation," he had called, effortlessly passing her with that usual grin that irritated her more than it should have.
"Keep your heels down, Silas," Thorne had called, his voice calm, unbothered even when Silas's pony jerked sideways into a patch of brush. "The horse listens through your legs, not your voice."
"I think he listens only to his own hunger," Silas had muttered, tugging ineffectively at the reins. "He wants to eat every bush we pass."
Thorne's rare smile had flickered. "Then you must learn to make your will stronger than his instinct. The same lesson applies off the saddle."
From behind them, Lhady had barely held onto her own horse, her arms flailing as she swayed in the saddle with laughter. "You look like a bundled scarecrow!" she cried to Silas, tears in her eyes. "He doesn't know if you're the rider or the cloak!"
"I am the rider," Silas had snapped, cheeks burning, "I'm just... letting him explore!"
Lhady's mare trotted past them with grace, and she tossed her braid over her shoulder like a challenge. "Explore faster, Scarecrow."
He had meant to be angry with her, but the joy in her voice made it impossible. She had always had that effect—turning frustration into light.
He hadn't known then that happiness could feel like armor. Or how deeply the memory of that ordinary afternoon would echo in times like this.
Then it happened—a flash of movement in the grass, the hiss of a snake.
Lhady's pony shrieked and bolted sideways. She lost the reins. Panic flared across her face.
Before Thorne could turn, Silas had already moved. He pushed his horse hard, leapt off in a swift, reckless dismount, and grabbed the reins of her wild pony just in time. It had taken all his strength to steady the animal and shield her from the fall.
They ended up on the ground—Silas bruised and scraped, a welt rising on his jaw where he'd hit a rock, and Lhady trembling with small, bleeding cuts on her palms.
"I had it," she whispered breathlessly, even as her hands clung to his sleeve.
He had chuckled, lying flat on the earth beside her, eyes squinting at the sun. "Sure you did. Next time, just ask the snake to reschedule."
Her laughter then had been light, shaky, real. It was a good sound.
Now, riding that same bend years later, Silas touched the place where that bruise had once been. His mouth curved, faint and sad.
"She was never made for stillness," he murmured.
His comrade looked over. "Sir?"
Silas shook his head. "Nothing. Just thinking too loud."
The wind shifted. The shadows moved. And far ahead—movement.
Smoke-like figures emerged from the tree line, black cloaks sweeping over the ridge like ink spilled on stone. They were drifting toward Solara. Toward her.
Silas's jaw tightened. "They're not making it down that slope."
He drew his sword, its cold hum slicing through the silence.
"Stay sharp," he said. "We end this quickly."
And then—he ran.
And as peace broke swiftly.
Across the horizon, the sky began to change. Darkness—unmoving and wrong—unfurled across the clouds like ink spilled in water. The birds scattered. A silence descended. Not the hush of twilight, but something heavier. Ominous. Ancient.
And then he saw them.
Figures, indistinct and shifting, cloaked in the black of moonless nights. They moved like mist but bore the weight of intent. Their path was not random.
It was directed.
Toward the town. Toward her.
Silas's eyes narrowed. His fists clenched.
There was no room for hesitation.
He moved.
Down the slope he leapt, drawing the blade from his back in one fluid motion. The steel sang through the wind, and the first of the shadows fell before it even noticed his presence. It crumbled into dust and dark vapor, soundless.
Another figure turned, conjuring symbols of ancient power—glyphs that distorted the very air. But Silas had known magic like this once. He darted forward, using the curve of the terrain to dodge the spell's burst, and slammed his sword's hilt into the figure's jaw. It collapsed with a hiss, folding inward like dying flame.
Then they came—three, five, more. He did not count. He moved through them like storm through wheat. His sword sang of purpose, each strike precise, final. These were not idle phantoms—they fought with ancient forms, but he knew their rhythm. He had danced with worse.
Steel clashed with spellwork. Ash fell with every step.
"He's breaching the line!" one of them cried. "He sees too much!"
"He's just a man!" another snarled, summoning a wall of flame that Silas darted beneath. He rose with a blade to the throat, and the fire-wielder vanished into a wail of smoke.
"Then why does he remember?" the first hissed.
Silas's voice was low, thunder rolled in iron:"I don't need to remember what I was born to end."
They tried to flank him—blades on one side, sigils from the other. He disarmed one with his elbow, shattered a staff with his heel, and drove the flat of his blade into a masked figure's ribs. Their illusions cracked like glass under pressure.
Then came the shift.
A change in their formation.
"One must reach the bookshop. Leave the man to us."
His heart stopped.
The bookshop.
Lhady.
He turned, eyes locking on a figure sprinting away—faster than the rest, cloaked in dark that trailed like smoke.
Without thought, Silas gave chase. His wounds—both old and new—protested, but he was faster still. He crossed rock and earth, vaulting narrow ridges with desperate speed. His blade caught the runner's cloak just as they neared the trees. He wrenched back—but the figure burst into black fog before striking the ground.
Too late.
And then the pain struck.
A blow like thunder crashed against his back. He staggered.
Another—a slicing thrust—cut into his side, warm blood blooming beneath his coat. But still he turned, slicing down the one behind him.
The others began to scatter, their mission complete. One turned only long enough to deliver a final hiss:
"It is too late. The chest has been opened. Now… we must prepare for what follows."
His knees gave way. The ground met him hard.
Blood pulsed beneath him. Each breath came harder, shallower. The world tilted and dimmed.
"Lha...dy..." he rasped, reaching for something that wasn't there.
Then, the sound of hooves thundered through the trees. A voice—young, worried—called out:
"Sir Silas! Where are you?!"
The rider dismounted quickly, skidding to his knees at Silas's side.
"Saints," the young man whispered. "We must take you to Solara! There's a bookshop—run by a kind woman. She's tended many wounded before."
But Silas groaned, forcing his hand up to grip the boy's arm.
"No."
"But—"
"No," he said again, hoarse but firm. "She must not see me like this... not now. Not again. She's endured enough."
"But you—"
His jaw clenched against another wave of pain. "Take me to the southern quarter. Next town. There's a safehouse."
The boy hesitated, voice thick with worry. But this wasn't just a soldier. He was a friend. One who had marched beside Silas in silence, had shared fire and blood and grief. And he knew better than to disobey when Silas spoke with this edge.
Silas pulled him closer. His breath trembled as he whispered:
"I won't die yet," with the ghost of a smirk. Then, quieter still, as if to the mountains themselves—"I'll be coming back to this town…"A beat."To her."
And then his eyes slid closed.
The horseman caught him before he collapsed. He looked down at the man he respected more than any commander, cradling his weight like a brother.
"As you command, sir," he whispered. "Always."
He hoisted Silas onto the saddle, turned south, and rode—beneath a sky that now carried the scent of coming change.
Back in Solara, under the quiet hush of a half-lit room, Lhady stood at the window.
The chest lay open behind her. Its contents had stirred more than just curiosity. Since its unlocking, something deep within her had shifted—like a tether pulled tight from across time.
She couldn't explain why her eyes kept drifting to the mountains in the distance. There was nothing to see. And yet… something called to her. A whisper not of sound, but of knowing. And in her mind, the illusion played again.
Her fingers touched the windowpane, cold and trembling.
As she stood there, the moonlight caught the pale mark on her hand—a faint scar she often forgot. Small, delicate, but stubbornly permanent. She traced it without thinking, and memory rose like mist from old ground.
That ride.
The path had been rough, overgrown, and full of early summer wildness. Her pony had spooked at a snake coiled in the grass, bolting before she could rein it in. For one breathless moment, everything blurred—branches scraping her arms, wind roaring in her ears.
Then Silas had caught her.
He yanked her from the saddle mid-fall, the two of them tumbling hard into the dirt. She hit the ground with a yelp, breath knocked from her lungs, eyes stinging.
"Can't leave you alone for one second, can I?" Silas had muttered, brushing a leaf out of her hair, his cheek already bruising.
She'd winced, palms scraped raw. "You're bleeding."
"You're not dead. That's what matters."
Thorne Amer had appeared soon after, guiding the pony back with that unshakable calm of his. Silas, meanwhile, had remained crouched by her side, his voice softer once Thorne turned away.
"I told you to lean forward when it gets nervous… Lhady, look at me. You're alright, yeah?"
She'd nodded, still dazed. He had given her a long look then—half irritation, half relief—and helped her to her feet.
Later that afternoon, they sat on a cloth beneath the trees, Lhady's knees bandaged, Silas sulking in silence beside her, dried blood at the edge of his brow.
"You'll have to practice falling better," he said dryly as she nibbled at her sweet roll.
She giggled despite herself. "You didn't fall that gracefully either."
He glanced at her, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips. "Says the girl who tried to fly off a pony."
That day had ended with scraped knees, sore muscles, and a picnic Thorne packed himself: cold apples, soft bread, and a wedge of smoked cheese. They'd eaten beneath an ash tree, the horses grazing nearby, while the sun sank low and golden through the boughs.
They had laughed. So much. The kind of laughter that had no defense, no caution.
Simple days. Bright days.
Now everything felt like shadows by comparison.
Behind her, Caelum stood with arms folded, watching her in silence.
He had never been one to speak what he did not have to. But as the moonlight haloed her profile, something inside him stirred—unease, not from the opened chest, but from something far more treacherous.
He was her protector.
But in that moment, watching her eyes search the mountains for someone she didn't know was there, Caelum felt a fissure in his certainty.
And for the first time, he wondered:
Was his duty enough to silence his heart?
Outside, the wind shifted.
Far from Solara, blood still damp on his side, Silas dreamed fitfully under another moon. In the darkness of the southern quarter, his hand curled slightly as if reaching for something—someone.
And back at the window, Lhady closed her eyes.
Three lives. Three fates. Bound not just by vow or circumstance, but by echoes—of laughter, of loss, of things unspoken.
Even apart, they moved through the same memory.
Even divided, they remained caught in the same pull.
And somewhere, beyond the reach of sight, the mountain sky blackened just a little more.