Chapter 32
MORGAN
The next five days blurred together in a haze of motion and ache, each step forward bleeding into the last until I lost track of where one ended and the next began, the world around us shifting like a dream I couldn't quite wake from. Exhaustion wrapped around me like a second skin, not the sharp crash of collapse but a slow, grinding wear that settled into my bones, making every movement feel like pushing through water. We’d left the ruins behind a few hours after Xavian's story, slipping out under cover of that strange violet dusk, and since then it had been endless walking, stopping only when the light faded or my body demanded it, the landscape unfolding in ways that defied any map I'd ever known.
The ground underfoot changed without warning, from moss that pulsed faintly with each step, as if alive and testing my weight, to stretches of cracked stone that hummed like distant thunder, vibrations traveling up my legs and into my chest. Trees loomed in clusters, leaves shimmering with colors that shifted when I blinked, from deep emerald to a bruised purple that made my eyes ache if I stared too long.
Ruins dotted the horizon sometimes, half-buried structures of dark stone etched with symbols that glowed softly as we passed, pulling at my attention like whispers I couldn't quite hear.
It all reinforced the strangeness, this world pressing in on me with its density, the air thick enough that breathing felt like an effort, scents of earth and metal lingering in every inhale, but I adapted in fragments, my body learning to move through it even as my mind reeled.
My missing hand was there in every moment, not always screaming but constant, a void that frustrated and haunted in equal measure.
The stump throbbed with the rhythm of our steps, wrapped tight in those rune-infused bandages that Xavian checked obsessively whenever we paused, his fingers careful as he adjusted the wrappings, applying more of that herbal paste that burned before it numbed.
I'd catch myself reaching for things with fingers that weren't there—a branch to steady myself, the strap of the small pack he carried—only to falter, the absence hitting like a fresh wound each time.
Eating was the worst at first, fumbling with my left hand to hold the dried fruits or tough strips of meat he'd scavenged from hidden caches along the way, the motions awkward and slow, frustration building until I'd snap at him without meaning to.
My warmth towards him from our night pressed together had grown colder the longer we trekked on with no clear destination.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, dropping a piece into the dirt during one of our brief stops, the ground beneath us a carpet of glowing moss that lit up faintly under pressure.
He handed me another without comment, his eyes meeting mine with a patience that grated because it felt too understanding, too close to pity.
But as the days bled on, I adapted in small ways, learning to brace things against my thigh or use my elbow for leverage, the frustration dulling into a grim acceptance that this was my new normal, at least until we reached wherever he was taking us.
He didn’t say much about that, no matter how I pushed, his answers always partial, doled out like rations to keep me moving without giving away the full shape.
"Somewhere safe," he'd say the first time I asked, as we trudged through a stretch of forest where the trees whispered in voices that sounded almost like words, the air heavy with that sweet decay.
I'd press, my voice edged with sarcasm to mask the unease.
"Safe like actually safe? Or safe like 'we won't die immediately'? "
He'd glance at me, his expression closed but not hostile, the tension between us softening at the edges with each exchange. "Safe enough to heal you properly. There are people there who can help."
I'd roll my eyes, but the questions kept coming, woven into the rhythm of our walks, as natural as the steps themselves. "So you keep saying. People? Like friends?"
He'd grunt, a sound that had started to carry a hint of amusement rather than irritation. "Allies. Ones I can trust." It was never enough, always leaving me chasing more, but the pushing felt less like combat and more like conversation, our voices filling the strange silences of the landscape.
Those moments of rest blurred together too, stopping when the light dimmed to a deeper violet, the sky streaking with those silver threads that pulsed like distant lightning without the storm.
We found shelter in whatever the world offered—hollows under massive roots that curved like arches, or shallow caves where the stone walls hummed softly, responding to our presence with faint glows.
Eating was simple, shared from his pack, and I watched him across the small fires he kindled with a flick of his fingers, flames that burned blue and steady without wood, another glimpse of his power returning in full.
"Show me how you do that," I asked one night, the fire's light playing across his face as he sat close enough that our knees nearly touched.
He nodded, extending his hand, and traced a small rune in the air, the lines igniting into flame that hovered between us.
"Try it," he said, his voice low, patient in a way that surprised me still.
I raised my good hand and mimicked the shape above the ground.
The first attempts fizzled, sparks that died before they caught, but then it happened—a small flame blooming under my touch, steady and warm, surprise flooding me as I looked up at him, our eyes meeting over the glow.
"Not bad," he said, a faint curve to his mouth that wasn't quite a smile but close, the moment stretching with a tension that felt charged, intimate in the quiet.
I snuffed it out quickly, muttering something sarcastic to break it, but the awareness lingered, the way his presence filled the space, solid and close.
Sleep came in fits, the nights blending into one another with the same restless pattern.
We'd still lie near each other for warmth, the air cooling sharply when the light faded, his coat sometimes draped over me when the chill bit deeper.
Proximity was unavoidable, our bodies inches apart on the hard ground, and I'd catch myself noticing him in those quiet hours—the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his hand rested near mine, fingers occasionally brushing in sleep.
It stirred things I didn't want, that unwanted pull surfacing in the dark, making me hyperaware of his warmth, the scent of him like smoke and earth clinging to his skin.
Once, as we settled in a narrow alcove where the walls glowed softly, his arm ended up around my waist to steady me against a sudden wave of dizziness, the contact lingering longer than necessary, his breath warm against my hair.
"You alright?" he asked, voice rough with fatigue, and I nodded, pulling away. I shut it down, reminding myself of the warehouse, the blade, the hand I'd lost, but the moments accumulated, turning familiarity into something heavier, tense with unspoken edges.
Practicing runes wove through it all, not in structured lessons but in stolen moments that overlapped with everything else.
While walking, I traced shapes on my palm with the tool, feeling the hum build without igniting, Xavian glancing over and correcting with a word or two.
"Smoother on the curve—it's about flow, not force. "
I'd adjust, and sometimes it worked, a small barrier shimmering in the air before fading, surprise lighting his face as much as mine.
"You're getting much better," he said, looking where I etched a ward into the dirt around our camp, the lines glowing stronger than the day before.
It felt instinctive now, the tool an extension of my hand, pulling at something inside me that responded quicker each time, unpredictable bursts where the power surged and held, leaving us both staring at the result.
"I don't know how," I'd admit once, as a rune I'd drawn to light our path burned steadily ahead, illuminating twisted vines that seemed to recoil from the glow.
"It just... happens." He'd nod, his eyes thoughtful, close enough that I could feel the heat from his shoulder brushing mine.
"That's how it starts. Instinct over knowledge.
You're tapping deeper than I expected." The praise was rare, but it landed, building a quiet confidence amid the frustration of my limitations, the missing hand that made every grip awkward, every balance a challenge.
Questions peppered our talks, mine persistent, his answers opening slowly, like cracks in a dam.
"Can you please tell me more about where we’re going?
" I'd ask during a stretch of walking through mist-shrouded fields where flowers bloomed in impossible colors, petals unfurling with soft sighs.
"Somewhere with answers," he'd reply, clipped but less evasive than before.
"A place where old knowledge is kept, away from the Houses.
" I'd push, sarcasm slipping in to mask the fear.
"Vague as ever. What, a library? A hermit in a cave?
" He'd glance at me, a hint of tolerance in his eyes.
"Something like that. Trust me a little longer.
" It wasn't enough, but the pushing felt like habit now, our voices filling the strange silences, turning tension into a rhythm that almost felt normal.
We'd eat together, sharing sparse meals by rune-light, his stories emerging in fragments—tales of Velrith's fringes, creatures that lurked in the mists, Houses locked in endless rivalries.
"Your sister sounds like a nightmare," I'd say once, after he mentioned her in passing, and he'd nod, the bitterness softening into something shared.
"She is. But we're beyond her reach for now. "
As the days blurred on, I felt myself strengthening, the rune on my arm a constant ally, its hum steadying me through the walks and rests.
The missing hand adapted too, in frustrating increments—learning to balance without it, to gesture with my left, the phantom sensations fading from sharp pangs to dull echoes.
Xavian noticed, his protectiveness easing into something more equal, our steps syncing without him always leading.
We were getting close, I could sense it in the way the landscape changed, ruins giving way to denser forests where the trees whispered clearer, structures looming larger on the horizon.
Whatever waited ahead, I was stepping deeper into it, stronger than I'd been but bound to this path, the pull toward answers—and toward him—growing with every blurred day.