Chapter Forty-Two #2
Therion tightens his cloak against the chill, his keen eyes scanning the ridgeline above.
I’ve watched him enough now to know when he is wielding his Aetherstride magic.
Something preternatural takes over him, his eyes move with animalistic precision and alertness—always tracking, always seeing the unseen.
Aetherstrides are born under The Sapphire Lynx constellation and are imbued with Hunter’s Focus and Swiftstep.
They track targets with unerring accuracy, and their speed and reaction time is uncanny, embodying traits of the lynx they are born under.
There is something here, something watching. I can see it in Therion’s stillness.
I feel it too.
Nyx’s ears flick back, his muscles bunching beneath me as he senses something beyond my comprehension. A presence, silent and vast.
A sudden gust howls through the pass, carrying with it a sound so low, so deep, it takes me a moment to register it.
Not the wind.
A chant.
It is distant at first, a steady hum like the echo of thunder rolling across the peaks. The sound is not human, not entirely, but it carries the weight of voices—layered, ancient, reverberating through the stone like something buried and waiting.
Kael’s hand instinctively shifts to the hilt of his sword. We all feel it.
Ronyn mutters a curse under his breath whilst he nocks an arrow with haste. “I don’t fucking like this.”
Seren stiffens behind him, her book nearly slipping from her grasp. Her pupils dilate as she tilts her head, as if listening to something beyond our world.
Then, they appear.
Emerging from the mist and stone, cloaked figures descend from the cliffs, their movements eerily fluid, as if the mountain itself has released them from its grasp.
They move in perfect silence, except for the chant—a resonance so deep it rattles inside my bones.
Their skin is deep bronze, and on their skin between their furs and brown leathers, they are marked with inked symbols that coil like constellations across their hands, chests, and throats. Their hair is jet black, woven into thick braids interlaced with strips of dark iron.
And their masks—carved from pale bone, smoothed by time, each one marked with the same sigil: a crescent moon pierced by three stars.
They do not raise weapons.
But they do not need to.
They are weapons.
Each one carries a long, blackened wooden staff, the ends wrapped in strips of silver and adorned with carved symbols that match the ink on their skin. Runes. When they move, the staffs barely make a sound, but the air around them hums as if the mountain itself acknowledges their presence.
They stop before us, their masked leader standing at the center.
And then, in one unified motion, they slam the staffs into the ground.
A deep, resonant boom echoes through the valley.
A declaration.
A summons.
We’re in their territory now.
One of them steps forward—a woman, though there is something ageless about her presence. Her mask is different, more intricate, carved with runes that seem to shimmer faintly as she moves.
She does not speak. Instead, she pulls something from beneath her cloak—a small, flat stone tablet, etched with precise markings.
And then, she kneels. Why in the fucking Stars is she kneeling?
The others follow, tapping their staffs against the earth in perfect unison.
The sound thrums through me, deeper than a command—an acknowledgment, a vow.
The air shifts. My breath catches.
I barely register Seren’s sharp inhale as she leans forward, trying to see the markings more clearly.
Before Ronyn can do anything about it, she slides off their mare and approaches the woman.
The woman almost imperceptibly nods and holds out the tablet—an invitation.
Seren’s fingers brush over the symbols. Her breathing hitches, her pupils blown wide.
When she finally speaks, her voice trembles.
“They’ve been waiting for you.”
The leader slowly lifts her head, her dark eyes locking on to mine through the carved bone mask. She speaks in a language of the ancients, her words smooth and deliberate, filled with a weight I do not yet understand.
Seren translates, her voice steady but tinged with something like awe.
“I am Syphra, keeper of Skaedor’s Crest, leader of the Vaythari.”
Another tap of staffs against the earth. A reaffirmation. A name spoken into the air, carrying with it a history older than I can grasp.
Syphra’s voice deepens, her next words firm, unyielding.
Seren listens, swallows, then continues.
“We are the last of Skaedor’s people, those who guard his legacy. We have lived in these mountains, unseen, waiting. We have waited for the one who would bear his mark.”
A shiver rakes down my spine. I do not need to ask who they mean.
Syphra steps closer, gesturing to me to make my way to her.
Kael’s firm hands squeeze around me, and he’s not breathing.
“Trust me,” I whisper before I fully comprehend the weight of my words.
Trust me. As if it’s not the most difficult thing in the world to trust another with your life. Your safety. Your heart.
He releases his hold on me, his breath still lingering on my neck. “I’ll be right here if you need me.” It’s fleeting, but there is weight to his words. As if he meant that he would be here for me, beyond simply wielding his sword, or to protect an asset.
I dismount from Nyx, much to his obvious trepidation, and step tentatively towards Syphra.
She raises the stone tablet in my direction and I reach out my hands. She presses it into my palms, cupping them between her own. She drops her head in a way that feels a lot like a bow of deference.
Seren’s voice barely rises above the wind.
“You bear the mark of Skaedor. His burden is now yours.”
The Vaythari warriors watch silently, their staffs still planted firmly into the ground. I look down at the stone, tracing the carved words with my fingers.
Seren translates, her voice barely above a whisper.
“The fallen are scattered. They must be guided home. That is your task.”
Fallen. Home. Task. Holy Stars. My hands tighten around the stone as the weight of it settles into my bones.
The words linger, heavy with unspoken meaning.
My hands tighten around the stone. It does not say who they are, nor where they have fallen from. Or at least, not to my eyes.
A sharp gust cuts through the pass, lifting the edges of the warriors’ furs. Kael’s jaw tightens, but he remains silent, waiting.
Seren glances at me. Her eyes hold something—concern, maybe fear.
Still, she speaks. “Skaedor sought to unite them. He failed.”
My heart pounds. “What happened?”
Syphra does not answer immediately.
Instead, she lifts her staff and taps it against the frozen ground once.
The warriors do the same.
The sound reverberates through the mountain like an exhale, a sigh from something greater than all of us.
Seren hesitates before translating.
“The cost of unity is always blood.”
I force my voice to remain steady. “Skaedor was betrayed.”
Syphra nods, slow and deliberate.
“And you will face the same test.”
The wind howls through the pass. I feel it curl around me like a whisper, like a warning.
The Vaythari leader pulls something from a pouch at her side—a vial filled with an ink-like substance, thick and gleaming like blackened Lightborne magic.
Syphra rises and stands before me. Her frame is small but muscular. Honed and carved by a lifetime in these mountains.
The others tap their staffs once, twice.
A steady rhythm, a promise.
Seren exhales softly. “She is marking you.”
The woman dips her fingers into the ink, tracing an ancient mark onto my palm.
It burns—not painfully, but with a radiance I cannot describe. Almost akin to a surge of my own power.
The mountains hum with something unseen.
The sky above us shifts, responding to this mark being bestowed upon me.
The leader finally lifts her gaze, and when she speaks, I already know what she will say. Seren gasps, but steadies herself before breathing, “You are Skaedor’s heir.”