Dawn broke late and grudging on the bones of the mountain.
Mist crawled along the gullies, curled in the roots, shrouded every scar and secret that the night kept. He woke to pain nothing glorious, just every joint stiff, tongue thick with thirst, stomach gnawing on its own emptiness. The robe, clammy and cold, weighed double in the gray morning, but he forced himself upright. He always did.
An owl called, far off. No answer.
He strained to listen not just with ears, but with every nerve honed under exile. The world was wide and hungry. Even the relic felt heavy today, silent heat against his skin.
He ran a hand over his face, clearing water from eyelashes. Each movement told its own story: bruises not yet faded, calluses grown from fighting more rocks than men. Breaths rose like threadbare prayers. Still, he got up.
Rain had erased his footprints, but not hers,the girl from the night before. Her marks narrow, clever, light shaped a path down toward the lower slopes, away from him. Maybe she wanted him to follow. Maybe it was just a warning: I knew where you slept.
He gathered his things, such as they were: a broken stick for defense, a strip of moss for the hunger. The relic, as always, went last, pressed close.
He never let it leave his body.
The world was waking: birds shrieking their warnings, clouds lifting to reveal jagged ridges bruised purple and blue. He smelled smoke cooking fire? No. The scent was too thin, carried from deeper within the valley.
Cautious, he skirted the trail, keeping to the hollows and among the oldest trees. His steps left less trace than a fox's, but worry gnawed at him. Last night's encounter gnawed more.
Memory bit:
Her eyes, bright with hunger or hope he could never tell.
The question: "Why do you keep going, curse-boy?"
The answer he didn't give:
Because stopping was dying, and he wasn't ready.
His path cut east, shadows thin and fresh. Here, a splash of crushed rosemary. There, a string of footprints vanishing at the edge of a small, mud-smeared stream. He drank, hands cupping water as cold as a rival's gaze.
Sudden noise branches swept aside. Instinct took over: crouch, vanish, press himself against stone and scrub. Heart hammering, he barely breathed.
Voices.
Not just one.
He counted three two sharp with laughter, one grumbling, deep. Bandits? Sect patrol? He risked a glance.
Two men and a girl not the one from last night clothed in mismatched armor, weapons on hips.
Outcasts, like him. Or worse.
"…Swear she went this way. Tracks are fresh," muttered the tallest man, spear resting on his shoulder.
The girl, face hidden by a scarf, glanced at him. "If she's clever, she already doubled back. If she's lucky, she runs into something hungrier before we do."
He pressed himself low, wishing invisibility was a gift the relic granted. Cold metal thrummed at his collarbone eager, curious, or preparing for pain, he could never guess.
One more bold look the men moved past, scent of old leather and fear clinging to them. After a moment, he slipped from hiding, soft as shadow, and put distance between them. He didn't bother to search for the girl's trail, only moved deeper into the folds of the mountain, following paths that trusted only the desperate.
Hours stretched, hunger riding every step. By midday, his hands shook. The relic flared hot, agitated like it too was starving.
He risked it.
Pressed palm to artifact, shuddered as sensation daggered through his nerves.
Power, raw and unruly, flooded muscle and bone. He tasted blood, but kept moving, vision sharpening until every pebble gleamed sharp, every leaf quivered with purpose. He ran fleeter, lighter, but always waiting for the cost.
He found a wild plum bush near a shattered stone marker. Fruit, small and tart, and he devoured it in handfuls until his belly cramped. The relic quieted, sated for the moment.
He let his head fall back against the cool earth. For a moment, the world was still just the hot light through mist, the weight of loneliness so full it felt like company.
Then footsteps.
Not stealthy. Not hurried.
He was on his feet before his brain decided.
A figure smaller, lighter stepped into the clearing. Her. Rain-wracked robe, a half-smile pulled up at one corner.
"You follow well for a boy who's always running," she said.
He didn't answer right away.
The mist curled between them, thick enough to hide knives, thin enough to carry promises.
"What do you want?" he asked, voice hoarse.
She shrugged. "I want to know what keeps you upright. Most would have traded that relic for a crust of bread."
He tucked it under his collar. "Most would die anyway."
She laughed, sharp, unkind. "Then maybe let's walk the rest of today. I'm tired of arguing with ghosts."
He could have refused. He should have.
But the mountain was wide, the world wider, and for one morning at least, even a cursed boy could forgive a stranger's company.
They walked her, questioning; him, silent. The path was rough, the sky always watching.
Behind them, thunder gathered.
Ahead, trouble waiting its turn.
He didn't know her name.
She never asked for his.
But sometimes, being sectless meant making peace with whichever shadows were willing to walk beside you if only for a little while.
And so, together, they kept moving. Step by step, not yet defeated, not yet home, but at least not alone in the storm-shadowed wilds.