Freedom, Kaelen quickly learned, was just another word for being cold, hungry, and utterly exposed. The rolling hills beyond the city were a vast, windswept expanse of coarse grass and gnarled, stunted trees. There were no walls, no hiding places, just the immense, indifferent bowl of the sky. Every distant bird call was a potential scout. Every shift in the wind felt like a pursuer's breath on the back of his neck.
They pushed on through the day, their pace a grueling, ground-eating trot. Morwen, despite her age and the after-effects of the Inquisitor's attack, set a brutal pace, her knowledge of the land their only guide. Bramble was a silent, grim sentinel, his eyes constantly scanning the horizons. Thorn moved with a predator's grace, her senses attuned to dangers seen and unseen. Wisp clung close to Kaelen, his small face pale with exhaustion and lingering fear.
Kaelen's body screamed in protest. His muscles, still soft from a life of poor nutrition and recent trauma, burned with a fire he didn't know they could contain. The void inside him felt heavy, a lead weight dragging at his soul with every step. Using it so forcefully at the gorge had taken something out of him, leaving him feeling hollowed out and brittle.
As the sun began to dip towards the western hills, painting the sky in shades of fire and violet, Morwen pointed a trembling finger towards a distant prominence. "There. The Standing Stone."
It was a single, massive finger of weathered granite, jutting from the crest of a hill like a forgotten monument. As they drew closer, Kaelen saw that it was covered in faint, ancient carvings—spirals and patterns worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. It hummed with a low, deep thrum that was different from the Whispering Woods. This was an older, lonelier song.
They were not the first to arrive.
Two other figures huddled in the lee of the great stone, shrouded in dusty cloaks. As Morwen approached, they stood. One was a hulking man Kaelen recognized vaguely from the cistern, a quiet soul named Rook whose skin could harden to a rough, bark-like texture. The other was a woman with hair the color of straw and eyes that held a permanent, watery sadness. He didn't know her name, but he'd seen her mending nets by the cistern's central pool.
Relief warred with grim reality. Only two. The other groups had either been lost, captured, or had chosen a different path.
"The river route was compromised," Rook said, his voice a low rumble. "Patrols. We were the only ones who made it through." The straw-haired woman just nodded, her eyes darting nervously towards the darkening landscape.
They were seven. Seven out of a community of over thirty. The cost of his freedom was a ledger written in blood and loss. The guilt was a cold stone in his gut, colder than the void.
They made a sparse, fireless camp in the shelter of the stone. The wind moaned around the monolith, a lonely sound that spoke of vast distances and empty spaces. They ate the last of their meager rations—hardtack and dried meat—in silence.
Wisp eventually fell into a fitful sleep, curled against Rook's sturdy bulk. Thorn took the first watch, perching on a ledge of the stone, her form a sharp silhouette against the star-dusted sky. Bramble and Morwen spoke in low tones, planning the next leg of the journey. The straw-haired woman, who introduced herself as Lyra, stared into the middle distance, lost in her own grief.
Kaelen sat with his back against the cold granite, unable to sleep. The carvings pressed against his spine, and he could feel the immense age of the stone. He reached out tentatively with his senses, not to damage, but to listen, as Morwen had taught him.
The song of the stone was slow, deep, and immensely patient. It held the memory of glaciers, of ancient seas, of countless sunrises. And within that immense timeline, he felt its own inevitable end—the microscopic cracks, the slow grind of erosion that would, in a million years, return it to sand. It was a comforting thought, in a strange way. His power wasn't a violation. It was just… hastening a conversation the stone was already having with time.
"It speaks to you, doesn't it?"
Kaelen jumped. Lyra had moved to sit beside him, her voice soft. She wasn't looking at him, but at the stone.
"A little," he admitted. "It's… very old."
"They say the stones were here before the gods," she murmured. "Before the Church, before the elements were given names. They remember when the world was quiet." She pulled her cloak tighter. "My daughter… she could hear them too. The stones. The water. She said everything had a song."
Kaelen remained silent, sensing the pain in her words.
"The Church called it a 'Fey Whisper.' Said it was a corruption, that she was listening to demons." Lyra's voice broke. "They took her during a 'cleansing' in our village. I never saw her again."
The confession hung in the cold air. Another story. Another life shattered by the rigid dogma of the Divine. He wasn't alone in his loss. He was just one note in a chorus of grief.
"I'm sorry," he said, the words inadequate.
Lyra finally looked at him, her sad eyes reflecting the starlight. "Morwen says you are important. That you are a key." She reached out a hesitant hand and touched the Standing Stone. "Perhaps you can unlock the door they slammed shut on my child. On all of us."
Before he could respond, Thorn's sharp whistle cut through the night. A signal. Danger.
Everyone was instantly alert. Bramble was on his feet, hatchet in hand. Morwen's eyes scanned the darkness.
Thorn dropped down from her perch, her face grim. "Lights. To the south. Moving fast. Not torches. Too steady."
Elemental light. The Hounds. They had crossed the gorge faster than anyone thought possible.
"They have a tracker we don't know about," Bramble growled. "Or the Inquisitor can just… sense him." He looked at Kaelen, the unspoken accusation clear.
There was no time for debate. The Standing Stone was no sanctuary; it was a beacon.
"North," Morwen commanded, her voice taut. "Into the deep valleys. We lose them in the broken ground or we die."
The frantic flight began again. As they scrambled down the northern slope of the hill, leaving the ancient monolith behind, Kaelen took one last look back. The Standing Stone stood silent and impassive under the cold stars, a witness to their desperate struggle. Lyra's words echoed in his mind. A key.
He wasn't just running for his life anymore. He was running towards a purpose, however terrifying and unclear. He was running towards the answers that the Church had buried, and the hope that he might, somehow, unlock a future for the broken souls who now shared his exile. The weight of it was immense, but for the first time, it felt like a weight he was meant to carry.