Dawn arrived like a blade drawn wet from the forge cold, pale, and sharp enough to cut,
Lira woke to the rhythmic scrape of whetstone on steel.
Kazeal sat a few paces away, legs folded neatly beneath him, his movements precise and meditative. The rising light gilded his silver hair, turning the loose strands into threads of frost. Each stroke of the whetstone sang, soft as the tolling of a distant bell,
She pushed herself upright.
Her blanket had stayed wrapped around her shoulders all night. She didn't remember covering herself.
Kazeal didn't look over. "Sleep at all?"
"Some," she lied. Every time she blinked, she saw Emberhollow burning again. "You?"
"Enough." He tested the dagger's edge with his thumb, nodded once in satisfaction, and slid the blade into his boot. "We leave in ten minutes. Eat."
He tossed her a cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside lay dried venison, a dark crust of bread, and three pale berries that burst like wintergreen and honey on her tongue. The simplicity of it grounded her.
By the time the sun cleared the ridge, Kazeal was already standing, bow in hand, ready to move.
"North-west," he said. "There's a ranger cache two days from here. Fresh arrows, medicine, information. After that…" His eyes flicked to her. "After that, we follow where the Flame draws you."
"The Flame," she echoed. The word felt too big for her mouth, too heavy for her chest.
Kazeal's expression softened—barely, but enough to notice. "You shone last night, Lira. Something old felt it, Something that doesn't tire, We don't linger."
He offered his hand ,She took it without hesitation—and let go almost immediately, embarrassed by how steadying his grip had felt;
They walked.
Daylight shifted the forest into something harsher, more alert. Sunbeams stabbed between branches. Birdsong carried warnings. Shadows pooled in unexpected places. Every so often Kazeal paused, listening, nostrils flaring like a predator catching scent,
Once he raised a fist,
They froze.
A shadow-warg padded across the trail ahead—huge, skeletal, its fur rippling like smoke. Its nose hovered inches above the dirt, searching for them.
The thing moved on. Only when its footsteps faded did Kazeal breathe again.
"Malthors hounds," he muttered. "They're closer than I hoped."
Lira's stomach tightened. "How close?"
"Half a day. Less, if they catch a fresh scent."
Hours passed. Forest shifted into rising hills; pines thinned, replaced by birch and rowan turning gold far too early in the season,
At the crest of a ridge,Kazeal stopped abruptly, his breath catching with a quiet curse.
Lira stepped beside him and froze.
Below them, a shallow valley lay in ruin.
What had once been a small hamlet three cottages and a mill—was now little more than char and splintered timber. Thin smoke curled from the wreckage. Crows circled like black warnings.
Lira tasted ash again.
"Shadow-beasts?" she whispered.
Kazeal's jaw tightened into iron. "Same hand. Same hunger."
They descended without speaking.
Up close, the carnage was worse. Doors torn from hinges. Blood staining the dirt in dried rivulets. A slaughtered goat lay sprawled across the lane, ribs cracked open. A woman's body slumped half out of her doorway, eyes wide and glassy.
Lira knelt, hands trembling, and closed the woman's eyes.
It was a small thing—so unbearably small.
Kazeal moved with grim purpose through the ruins, searching for survivors. He found none,
Inside the collapsed mill he pried up a loose stone and extracted a small oilskin-wrapped bundle: a map, a pouch of silver, and a vial of faintly glowing blue liquid.
"Ranger cache," he murmured. "They knew something was coming. They just didn't know how soon."
He handed her the map.
It was drawn on dragon-hide, old and soft-edged. A red circle had been marked recently around a distant mountain range labeled in delicate, curling elvish script.
The Cradle of First Light
"The first Shard sleeps there,"Kazeal said. "If legends aren't lying."
Lira stared at the mark, the weight of her grief turning into something sharper, clearer.
"Then that's where we go."
Kazeal studied her face—not as a warrior judging a comrade, but as someone trying to decide whether the girl before him was becoming something new.
"It's months away," he warned softly. "Winter will break over those mountains. And the Empire will not let you near it."
"I'm not asking you to come."
A slow, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. "Too late. I chose my road the moment I stepped between you and shadow."
Something warm—unexpected, fierce flared in her chest. She turned before he could see it.
They left the ruined hamlet behind, She did not look back after the ridge swallowed it.
By dusk they reached the river broad, steel-grey, fast enough to drag a horse under.Kazeal knelt at the bank, murmuring in elvish as silver motes spiraled from his fingertips and vanished downstream.
"Wards to scatter our scent," he said. "They won't hold long, but long enough."
The crossing was brutal.
Ice-cold water slammed against their legs. Halfway through, the river tried to tear lira off her feet.Kazeal arm wrapped around her waist, hard and sure, pulling her into his side.
They stumbled out soaked and shaking,
He built no fire—only arranged their blankets beneath a thick overhang of roots, hidden from any watching eyes. They ate cold rations again, listening to the forest breathe around them.
Finally lira whispered into the dark
"Do you think anyone's left who remembers the world before this war?"
For a long moment Kazeal was silent.
Then: "I remember."
His voice was quiet, but edged with a grief so old it had turned to something like longing.
"Forests that glowed at twilight," he murmured. "Cities grown from living stone. Children who never learned to fear shadows. The world was… gentler."
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He shook his head. "Don't be sorry, Be angry. Anger keeps you warm."
She let his words settle into her bones.
Then, without overthinking it, she shifted closer until her shoulder brushed his.
Kazeal didn't move away, The stars burned cold overhead.
The river whispered downstream, carrying away the scent of death and ruin.
And beneath the weight of everything she had lost,lira felt something new tiny, stubborn, alive glowing like an ember in her chest.
Not hope , Not yet, But purpose And it refused to die.