Chapter 28 – Echoes Beyond the Veil
The ridge shuddered beneath Sorin's boots as loose stones clattered down the slope. Shadows surged from the ruins below—not mere smoke or mist, but writhing forms with intent, twisting like rivers of ink that sought to drown the light. The Path within him thrummed against his chest, each pulse a warning, each vibration a thread pulling him toward what lay ahead.
Dren braced himself, dragging a hand across his bloodied brow yet refusing to falter. Lys moved with quiet precision, her blade catching what little light the Bone Flame shed, eyes sharp and unyielding.
Kaelen, pale but resolute, stood at Sorin's side with bow drawn, though his fingers trembled. They had been beaten, broken, and burned—but not undone.
"Hold your ground!" Sorin's voice cut through the chaos, steadier than the storm inside him. The Bone Flame surged along his arm, its blue-white fire rising in defiance, as though it too refused to bow before the encroaching dark.
From the shattered earth, a hum rose—low, guttural, and resonant enough to shake the marrow. The veil between worlds thinned, warping light, muffling sound, bending reality. Something vast pressed against it, straining to break through. Sorin's Silence Path recognized it, not as enemy or ally, but as an echo—a hunger clothed in power.
He felt Lys at his shoulder, her presence steady, grounding him. For an instant their eyes met, the bond forged in fire and blood deepening—wordless yet unbreakable. Dren caught the exchange and smirked faintly through his pain. But then his gaze shifted—not to Sorin, but to the woman who had fought tirelessly at his side through every trial. She pressed a hand briefly to his arm, steadying him. Despite the ruin and the blood, her touch lingered, and something softer stirred in Dren's hardened features. He leaned closer, murmuring words Sorin could not hear, but the look in her eyes was answer enough. Even amidst the storm, there was warmth, a tether refusing to be severed.
Sorin saw it all. Their fleeting exchange mirrored his own bond with Lys, and for a heartbeat the battlefield seemed to hold more than shadows—it held life that refused to be extinguished.
As the fissures blazed and light painted the sky crimson and gold, Lys's fingers brushed the back of Sorin's hand—quick, almost lost in the storm, yet enough to anchor him further.
His flame flared in answer, the Bone Flame itself seeming to acknowledge her touch. For the briefest breath, amidst terror, there was connection—quiet, human, and necessary.
From the heart of the fissures, a shape began to rise—humanoid yet not, armored in molten shadow, its eyes twin orbs of dying suns. Each step it took bled dread into the air.
The world held its breath. Sorin lifted his flame higher, his voice barely more than a whisper yet carrying to every ear:
"Then let it come. We will not break."