As they stepped out of the hall, the cold wind greeted them once more — sharper now, carrying the scent of snow and distance. The valley stretched pale and endless beneath a gray sky.
Midday would come soon enough.
And beyond it — the mountain waited.
The elders gave quiet orders nearby, voices low as a few villagers gathered simple supplies — wrapped bread, dried herbs, and filled flasks. There was no ceremony, no farewell, only quiet hands passing what they could spare.
Kairis accepted the small bundles and tucked them into her satchel. "It'll do," she murmured.
Lyra wandered a short distance away, her steps slow, the frost crunching under her boots. Near the edge of the ridge, she found Azel standing alone, his gaze fixed on the distant peaks.
Lyra found him standing near the ridge, where the snow met stone and the wind came down from the peaks like a whisper of something older.
"You could've let us go alone," she said softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach him. "You didn't have to come this far."
She stopped beside him, following his gaze. "You still watch over it… after all these years."
A faint smile touched his lips — weary, small. "Habit, I suppose. Old soldiers don't forget where their wars ended."
Lyra looked at him then, really looked — the tired lines around his eyes, the scar that hadn't been there before, the frost caught in his hair.
"You kept them safe," she said softly. "That's more than most could've done."
Azel exhaled slowly, mist curling in front of him. "Safe?" He gave a quiet laugh — not bitter, but hollow. "I did what I could. But it wasn't enough. Half of what stood is gone, and the rest barely holds together."
"But they're still here," Lyra said, her voice steadier now. "You're still here."
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, he turned to her — his eyes softer than his words.
"You always had a way of making loss sound like hope."
Lyra's lips curved faintly. "Maybe it's the only thing left to hold on to."
He looked away again, back toward the mountains, the wind pulling at his cloak. "You should know," he said after a pause, "I am… glad you're here. Both of you. It's been too long walking alone."
Her chest tightened at that. "You don't sound glad."
His smile deepened, faint but real. "I've forgotten how."
The silence lingered — thin, fragile, but not cold. Lyra hesitated, then asked quietly, "Why take our side again, Azel? After everything that happened… after all these years?"
Azel's eyes remained fixed on the horizon. For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer.
Then, in a voice low and rough, he said, "Because you walked alone. And I walked alone. I don't want to walk alone anymore."
The wind caught his words, carrying them out across the snow — soft, fleeting, but true.
Lyra's gaze softened. "Then don't."
He didn't look at her, but a faint breath left him — lighter somehow.
"Then don't let me," he murmured.
They stood there a while longer, watching the distant peaks as the gray sky stirred. The silence between them no longer felt empty — it felt like the beginning of something mending.
By the time Lyra returned to the village square, the air had grown heavier — the kind of cold that bit through even layered cloaks. Smoke still curled from a few chimneys, thin and gray, fading quickly into the sky that never changed.
Kairis was already waiting near the steps, her cloak drawn tight, a faint trail of frost clinging to her boots. The satchel that usually hung at her side was gone — dismissed, its weight folded back into nothing.
"Took you long enough," Kairis said, tightening her gloves. "You were with him?"
Lyra nodded. "He's… coming with us."
Kairis gave a short, dry snort. "Figures. He doesn't seem like the type to sit still while ghosts walk the north."
Lyra's gaze flicked toward her, a faint smile playing at her lips. "And you do?"
"I'm not the one who attracts lost men and ancient trouble," Kairis muttered, though there was no real bite behind it. She dusted snow off her sleeve. "Everything's ready. The elders sent food for the road — dried meat, root stew, and something that might've been bread once."
Lyra's brow lifted. "You packed already?"
Kairis smirked, flicking a strand of hair from her face. "You think I'd let Kael do it? He'd forget the food and bring only his smugness."
As if summoned by name, Kael emerged from one of the side paths, cloak already fastened, bow slung across his back. "Talking about me again?"
"Only when I'm bored," Kairis shot back.
Kael grinned, unfazed. "Then you must've missed me terribly."
Lyra shook her head with quiet amusement, the corners of her mouth softening. "If you're both done, we should go before the wind worsens."
Kairis nodded and took a step forward, her breath misting in the air. "Satchel's sealed and stored. We can move anytime."
A small group of villagers waited near the gate — men and women wrapped in worn cloaks, their faces pale under the dim light. When they saw the travelers approach, they lifted their packs and fell in step beside them without a word.
No one spoke as they walked. The wind did the talking — carrying the soft hum of prayer songs, the low creak of boots through ice. The village slowly disappeared behind them, swallowed by fog and frost.
When they reached the edge of the ridge, one of the older villagers halted. His breath came out in thin white ribbons as he looked toward the mountain ahead.
"This is as far as we go," he said quietly. "Beyond this… no path is safe. You'll be on your own now."
Lyra dipped her head in gratitude. "Thank you — for everything."
The man smiled faintly, eyes tired but kind. "If she's still out there… tell Illythra her people never forgot."
The words lingered as they turned to leave — a farewell carried by the wind.
Kairis summoned her satchel back with a flick of her wrist, the air rippling faintly as it formed at her side. "Guess this is it then," she murmured.
Lyra looked ahead, to where the mountain loomed pale against the horizon. "No turning back now."
Azel's voice came low behind them. "Good. I'm done turning away."
And together, they stepped past the ridge into the white beyond.