The night air in Briar's Hollow was colder than it should have been for late autumn. The moon was only a sliver, its light drowned by thick clouds rolling in from the east. The streets, narrow and winding, seemed to close in on Elara as she moved, her boots making barely a sound on the cobbled stones. In the silence, the smallest noises became sharp — the creak of a shutter, the distant crack of wood in a hearth, the faint echo of dripping water somewhere far away.
But tonight, there was something else.
A sound — low, constant — like the slow rustle of burning paper. It wove through the night air, so faint she almost thought it a trick of the wind.
She crouched in the alley behind the abandoned tannery, her back pressed against the rough, damp wall. Her right hand gripped the hilt of her shortblade, the leather wrapping warm from her palm. Her left brushed against the pouch tied securely at her belt. Inside it, the crystal shard from Orrath's border pulsed faintly, its heartbeat out of sync with her own. The pulse was slow, deliberate, as though the shard was aware — as though it was waiting.
"You followed me."
The voice slid from the shadows like oil.
Her head snapped toward the sound, and there he was — Kastor — stepping into the thin torchlight that spilled from a street corner behind him. His eyes caught the light in a way that reminded her of polished amber — bright, hard, and holding secrets. His travel leathers were layered and worn, dust clinging to every seam. The scent of the road clung to him: dry earth, pine smoke, and something faintly metallic.
"I didn't," she lied, though she could hear how brittle her voice sounded. "You just happened to walk into my trap."
His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. "You think small, Elara. This isn't about traps or alleys. The Crown… it's moving."
The words hit her like a stone dropped in still water.
Her brow furrowed. "The Ash Crown is gone. Burned with the last king of Valmyr."
He stepped closer, his shadow folding over her like a second cloak. "That's what they told you. A lie, wrapped in ceremony, fed to the people so they'd stop looking. But I've seen it — or what's left of it. And so have others. You're not the only one hunting."
Before she could respond, the burning-paper sound grew louder, curling around them like smoke. They both turned toward the far end of the alley. A faint grey mist was seeping from between the cobblestones, too thick to be fog, too unnatural to be anything else. It curled upward in slow tendrils, forming shapes that almost — almost — resembled hands.
The air stank of old fire. Ash and bone.
Kastor's voice sharpened. "Not here. They can hear us."
"Who?" she asked, her grip tightening on the blade.
He didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed her wrist — his touch was warm, almost feverish — and pulled her toward the tannery's rotting doorway. The wood sagged under their weight, and the hinges let out a low groan that echoed into the black interior.
Inside, the darkness was wrong. It wasn't the natural dark of a room without light; it was heavy, almost physical, as though the air itself pressed down on them. The smell of mold and chemicals from years past lingered in the warped beams. Beneath it all, there was a low vibration in the air — not sound exactly, but a hum that made her teeth ache.
"You're going to Valmyr's ruins," Kastor said, his voice low but steady.
Elara's eyes narrowed. "We'll be dead before we reach the gates."
"Not if we move fast," he replied. He stepped closer, and she noticed the faint ash smudges under his eyes, like someone had brushed burnt fingers across his skin. "And not if we find the Whisperer first."
The mist had followed them inside, coiling like liquid shadow along the floor. It crept between their boots, cold enough to sting through the leather.
Then it began to whisper — actual words this time, faint and broken, like they had to push through layers of time just to reach them.
"…the… crown… wakes…"
Elara froze, every hair on her arms rising. The voice was neither male nor female — it was both and neither, a strange hollow tone that carried weight far beyond its volume.
Her hand went to the pouch again. The crystal shard inside was warm now, its pulse quickened. Heat spread up her arm, crawling into her chest like a second heartbeat. She had felt this once before — on the night her village burned.
The mist thickened, and the whisper came again, clearer now:
"…rise… and… claim…"
She didn't know why she spoke, only that the shard demanded it.
Her mouth moved, and in a voice that was not hers, she whispered back:
"Then let it come."
The shard flared — not with light, but with a deep, internal heat that made her vision sharpen and her breath catch. Somewhere outside, something screamed — high, shrill, and inhuman. The mist recoiled, pulling back toward the alley as though fleeing.
Kastor's hand tightened on her arm. "Now you see why there's no time."
"What was that?" she demanded, though part of her feared the answer.
"An echo," he said grimly. "Of the thing that sleeps beneath Valmyr."
Outside, the burning-paper sound had stopped, replaced by the sound of rain beginning to fall. Fat drops pattered against the broken roof of the tannery, hissing where they touched the last wisps of smoke-mist.
And for the first time, Elara realized — the rain smelled faintly of ash.