Outside, the cold bit deeper as Asher stepped back into the mountain air. The sky had dimmed to a steel-gray dusk, the horizon bruised with the last hints of sunlight. He exhaled, the faint mist of his breath trailing behind him as he started down the snow-packed road.
For once, there was no rush. No alarms, no enemies waiting beyond the next ridge. Just silence—and the whisper of wind curling through the peaks.
He stopped near the edge of the valley overlook. Below, the world stretched out in layers of white and shadow, dotted with faint lights from distant towns. He stood there for a while, saying nothing. His mind drifted back—to the abyss, to the beast's screams, to the moment his blood had nearly boiled him alive. The memory clung to him, heavy and vivid.
Then a low, distant hum rippled through his chest.
Not the system's usual tone—this was older. Wilder.
A pulse that didn't come from his mind, but from his blood.
