The Ruins did not welcome him. They watched.
Draven could feel it in every step — the weight of eyes without faces, pressing from the cracks in stone. The spires loomed taller as he moved deeper, broken teeth jutting from black earth, their surfaces etched with glyphs that flickered faint as dying embers. No wind stirred. No bird called. Even the smell of ash seemed held back, caught in the throat of the air.
He guided Feyra and Stonehide into a cracked alcove at the base of a leaning tower. The stones groaned faintly when he touched them, like wood bending under strain.
"We'll rest here," he murmured, voice rough in the silence.
Feyra whined but settled close, curling against his leg. Stonehide crouched low, scales scraping as it shifted, nostrils flaring uneasily. The beast's yellow eyes scanned the gloom, as if it expected claws to slide from shadow at any moment.
Draven set down his pack, pulled a strip of dried meat, chewed slowly. The taste was flat, ash clinging to every bite. He lit a small flame with flint — the spark sputtered, then caught. But the fire burned wrong. Its glow was greenish, its heat uneven, like it fought the air.
Even the Ruins rejected ordinary flame.
Night thickened, if such a thing could be measured here. The sky above was veiled in smoke, stars swallowed. Draven leaned back against the cold stone, eyelids heavy. He meant only to rest a moment.
Then the whispers came.
Not voices, not truly. But impressions pressed against his mind — men hunched over stone, hands bleeding as they etched marks with crude tools. A beast's scream, iron seared into flesh. The stink of burning ink. Chains rattling, pulled tight until skin tore.
Draven gasped awake, chest heaving. Sweat clung to his brow though the night was cold. Feyra stirred at once, tail flicking. Stonehide rumbled low, scales rising like hackles.
"This place remembers," he whispered. His voice shook. "And it wants me to see."
The growl came next. Low, broken. Feyra was on her feet before he rose, ears sharp, teeth bared. Stonehide flattened, tail lashing.
From the dark archway ahead, something limped. A Servitor — but warped.
It had once been a wolf-cub, small and lean. Now its body was cracked with black lines, glyphs crawling faintly across fur as if burned into its skin. One eye glowed green, the other bled. Its paws dragged as though each step cost it agony.
It whined. A sound not of rage, but of pain.
Draven's knife was in his hand before he realized it. One thrust could end it.
He froze.
The whispers pressed harder, showing him flashes: this was what men had first made, when they etched slave marks here. Power stolen, beasts twisted, suffering forged into tools.
The cub staggered closer, eyes wide, confused, afraid. Feyra barked once, a warning, but did not strike. Stonehide shifted, claws scraping stone, but held its ground. Both beasts waited — not for his order, but for his choice.
Draven lowered the knife. He knelt.
"Easy," he whispered, reaching out slowly. "You're free now. Just… rest."
The cub's breath rattled. It pressed its muzzle against his hand, trembling. He stroked its head gently, ignoring the heat searing from the marks burned into its skin. Its chest rose once, twice. Then it went still.
The alcove trembled. Glyphs etched in the walls pulsed faint emerald, faint light spilling like veins in rock.
Feyra yelped — not in fear, but as if something surged through her. Her fur rippled, tips glowing faint green before fading. She pressed against Draven's leg, warmth blooming wider than ever before, easing the ache in his tired muscles.
Stonehide groaned, scales rattling. Faint veins of light crawled along its plates, cracks knitting closed where wounds had lingered since battle. The beast braced itself and gave a deep rumble — steadier, firmer than before.
Draven stared, breath caught. The Ruins had not punished compassion. They had answered it.
He pressed a trembling hand to Feyra's fur, then to Stonehide's plated back. Both beasts looked at him — not as tools, not as chained things, but as companions, standing with him in this place of chains.
Draven lifted his gaze to the deeper spires, their silhouettes glowing faint green against smoke.
"If chains were born here," he whispered, voice hardening, "then freedom will be reborn here too."
The ground pulsed again, stronger this time, echoing with his heartbeat.
And somewhere deep in the Ruins, something stirred.