The road that wound out of the Hollow Spire was no true road at all—only a trail of broken stone and grass long since claimed by weeds. Yet the rebels moved along it as though chased by fire. They were weary, hollow-eyed, but fear drove them faster than strength ever could.
Kael walked at their center. His steps were careful, guided by Kaela's steadying hand or Liora's arm beneath his own. He hated the frailty that clung to him—his body still battered from battle, fever lingering like coals under his skin—but he forced himself forward. Every stumble earned him whispers, but every time he rose again, the whispers faltered.
The forests loomed close around them, thick with shadows. Dawn filtered weakly through the canopy, painting the world in pale gray. Somewhere beyond the treeline, a raven's cry cut sharp against the silence.
"They're too quiet," Rylan muttered from the front, scanning the underbrush. "No birds. No deer. Nothing."
"Something hunts here," Kaela agreed grimly, her blade resting ready at her side.
Liora tightened her grip on Kael's arm. "Could it be the King's riders already?"
Kael closed his eyes, letting the air wash over him. Beneath the wind, he felt it—a pressure, faint but growing. Like thunder waiting beyond the horizon.
"They're coming," he said softly. "Closer with each breath."
The words spread through the rebels like frost, chilling shoulders and stiffening jaws. Scarred Leader growled low, shoving men into faster pace.
---
By nightfall, exhaustion dragged at every step. They found shelter in the ruins of an old watchtower, its stones crumbled, its roof long gone. The rebels collapsed into wary clusters, some tending wounds, others chewing at stale crusts of bread.
Kael sank down against the wall, every muscle burning. Liora knelt beside him, opening the satchel she had carried since Dravenfall. From it she drew a small clay jar of herbs, crushed and bound with oil.
"This will help the fever," she murmured, dipping a cloth and pressing it to his brow.
Kael flinched at the coolness, then let the tension bleed from his shoulders. "You shouldn't waste it on me. Others need it more."
Her eyes flashed. "Don't tell me where to spend my strength."
He turned his head toward her, though his clouded eyes saw nothing. "Then why?"
Her hand stilled. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of rebel fires. "Because if you fall, Kael," she whispered, "they'll fall too. You don't see it, but they're already looking to you."
He felt the weight of her words like chains and wings both—burden and purpose entwined. His lips curved faintly, almost bitter. "A blind prince leading the lost. It sounds like folly."
"It sounds like hope," she said firmly.
For a moment, her fingers lingered against his cheek, the firelight gilding the edges of her face. Kael's breath caught, the warmth of her touch a balm sharper than any blade. He wanted to reach for her hand, to anchor himself in it—but footsteps scraped across the stones, shattering the moment.
Kaela stood at the edge of shadow, arms folded. "Rylan saw smoke to the south. Villages burned. The riders are closing."
Liora withdrew her hand quickly, cheeks flushed. Kael only nodded, pushing himself upright. "Then we cannot linger."
---
Far away, in the black heart of Calderis, the Black Sigil riders moved like a storm loosed from its cage.
Their steeds were monstrous, manes braided with chains that clinked like bone. Each hoofstep left scorched earth in its wake, and their armor shone dark as obsidian beneath the moonlight. At their head rode the horn-helmed captain, his gaze locked northward, where the rebels fled.
Behind him, villages smoldered. Walls cracked, doors broken, corpses left unburied in the road. Where the Black Sigil passed, silence followed—no birds, no voices, only ash drifting like snow.
The captain raised a hand, halting his riders. He dismounted slowly, kneeling in the dust. His gauntlet touched a single mark pressed faintly into the earth: a boot print, fresh.
"They are close," he murmured, his voice a growl of iron. "Run them until they break."
The riders spurred forward, and the night itself seemed to gallop with them.
---
The rebels pushed north through the forest. Days blurred—march, rest, march again. Hunger gnawed. Water grew scarce.
Each night, Kael dreamed of chains and fire, of shadows breaking against light. Each morning, he woke drenched in sweat, Liora's worried face hovering above him. She never left his side, though she said little of it, her silence louder than words.
On the fourth night, rain fell, heavy and relentless. The rebels huddled beneath the trees, soaked and shivering. Lightning split the sky, and Kael's blind eyes flared silver in its reflection.
"I see them," he whispered suddenly.
Liora turned, startled. "What?"
He raised a trembling hand, pointing east though his gaze was clouded. "The riders. Black fire in their wake. They'll reach us before dawn."
Panic rippled through the camp. Scarred Leader cursed, barking orders for packs to be lifted.
Rylan's voice rose over the storm. "We can't outrun them! We need to stand and fight."
"Fight and die," Kaela snapped. "They'll cut us down before we draw steel."
Kael forced himself to his feet, leaning on the wall of a half-collapsed hut. "No," he said. "Not here. We draw them further. Into the canyons west of here. Narrow paths—they won't be able to swarm us."
Scarred Leader narrowed his eyes, but after a moment's thought, he nodded. "He's right. If we must bleed, let it be ground of our choosing."
The rebels moved again, their shadows stretched thin by lightning.
---
Dawn broke gray as they reached the edge of the canyon. The land dropped away into a labyrinth of stone, jagged cliffs plunging into mist-choked depths.
They descended carefully, rebels slipping along narrow ledges. Liora clutched Kael's arm tightly, guiding him step by step.
Halfway down, a horn split the air. Deep, mournful, echoing across the cliffs.
The rebels froze.
From the ridges above, black shapes appeared—riders crowned with horns, their steeds' hooves striking sparks against the stone. The Black Sigil had found them.
Rylan swore under his breath, drawing his bow. Kaela raised her blade, firelight glinting along its edge. Scarred Leader planted his feet, ready for war.
Kael turned his face toward the sound, his blind eyes alight with silver fire. "Then let it be here," he murmured. "If they want our ashes, they'll have to burn for them."
And as the riders thundered down the ridge, shadows flooding the canyon like a tide, the rebels braced themselves on the knife's edge of survival.