Chapter 10 Kylan
KYLAN
Wind scythes across the high pass with an edge keen enough to peel bark from larches.
Moonlight has long fled; morning has not yet bruised the horizon.
Between those two silences stretches the Frostmaw Causeway, a spine of layered ice bridging one mountain flank to the next.
No walls guard its sides. One mis-step, and the traveler plummets into a gorge so deep rumor says daylight never finds its floor.
I breathe the air—cold enough to sting lung linings—then set boot to the first translucent slab.
Embedded bubbles glitter under my foot like trapped starlight.
Behind me Carmilla follows, smaller steps landing precisely inside my prints.
Her cloak swirls around her ankles, crystalline threads along her throat flashing whenever stray auroral ghosts flicker overhead.
She paces carefully, conserving energy after yesterday’s hours beneath the shrine.
“The bridge hasn’t groaned in decades,” I assure, voice soft to avoid echo. “Frost dwarfs compressed the ice with runic harmonics.”
Her reply arrives on warm breath clouds. “Ice sings its own warnings. I listen.”
We continue, rope connecting us loose but ready. My senses roam. Somewhere beyond the next ridge, Rowan oversees pack den and ashes of a pupil. Farther east, realms bleed into each other like watercolor ruin. And down in the pouch at my hip, the obsidian shard holds the cold of all those distances.
A caw slices the hush. I halt, gaze snapping upward.
A raven circles overhead, wings charcoal slate.
No ordinary carrion bird travels this altitude in winter—not unless coaxed by magic or message instinct.
The creature dives, leveling at eye height, talons clicking against a bone cylinder tied to its leg.
Carmilla lifts a gloved hand. “Safe perch.” She utters a quartet of soft consonants; the bird’s wings stall, and it lands on her wrist, feathers ruffling in brief show of dignity.
The thin crystal lattice across her cheek pulses in command rhythm, coaxing the raven calm. I unlatch the tube. Seal bears Rowan’s sigil: stylized paw print nested in tree ring. Heartbeat jumps. I crack wax, slide parchment free. Ink still wet; Rowan wrote with hasty quill. Under my breath I read:
Alpha,
Tarry not. Third patrol returns coughing black sand. Eyes veined midnight. Signs match cub infiltration. We confine infected beyond pine ward, but numbers rise. Two border stones dark. Await counsel.
―R.
I grip the edge so hard frost spider-webs beneath thumb. Wolves dying slow under shard poison. And I walk the opposite direction chasing council discourse.
Carmilla reads tension on my face. “What news?”
“The sickness spreads.” My voice sounds like cracked granite. “Black dust in lungs.”
Her gaze drops to pouch. “Shard resonance.”
As if hearing, the stone flares warmth that is not comforting. Stitching smokes. Pain knifes hip, radiating upward. I hiss, pulling pouch free. Through the leather, ember veins pulse like magma searching fissure.
Carmilla kneels, uses dagger tip to draw quick rune in frost. She sets pouch within sigil circle, begins low chant.
Air thickens, needles pricking exposed skin.
Blue light threads runic lines, coiling around pouch like vines of ice.
The warmth subsides to glow, then dull red.
Pain eases, though ache remains vivid reminder.
She exhales, sweat beading at temple despite frigid air. “I can damp surge, not sever connection. For that we need council’s combined lore—and perhaps root cause buried deeper than shard.”
“You just said we need to hurry there, yet my pack coughs death.” I pace three strides, stop, fists trembling. “A leader protects firstborn. I should be on a ridge above them, not halfway to a debate ring.”
Carmilla rises, stepping inside rope slack. Her eyes—storm grey, rimmed in frost lashes—hold mine. “If Convergence rips seam wide, not just your den dies. Every pack becomes shadow fodder. We must rope allies before the tear devours strategy.”
Reason battles instinct. Visions of Rowan dragging wheezing wolves from kennels pound mind’s eye. Yet image of the tablet line—seer and fang bleeding together—lurks behind, whispering bigger stakes. My jaw clenches.
A memory surfaces: Everest on citadel rooftop weeks ago, moonlight on his silver knife as he passed me a river-stone charm. One man’s border means little if world floods. I had scoffed then. I no longer scoff.
“Council,” I murmur, voice flat. “We continue.”
Carmilla gives slight nod, shoulders sagging from relieved anxiety she hid. She steps back, scoops pouch; I notice bandage around her palm where shrine sigil bit. Breath escapes between my teeth. “You’re running thin.”
“Thinner than preferred,” she allows. “But thicker than necessary.” Humor flickers across her mouth.
I adjust rope, motion forward. We resume crossing.
Wind picks up, wailing like distant organ through chasm.
My mind rehearses conversations ahead: convince nine leaders to pool resources, open secret ley-gates, share forbidden sciences.
Wolves have reputation for territorial pride; many will bristle at my pleas. Yet pleading may be price.
Midway across bridge, causeway widens into frozen lake—a pause sculpted by nature’s whim and dwarf craft.
Here, ice turns milky, capturing shadows of sky serpents rumored to glide beneath.
I slow, compelled by quick memory of Yarrow chasing noctilucent fish under similar sheen back in den valley. The ache returns fierce.
Carmilla senses dip; she touches my elbow. “Share grief, not just burden.”
Her words brush bond spark. I focus on breath, release tension enough to speak. “They call it ghost cough. Begins as hoarse wheeze. Within a day, victims exhale dust laced with obsidian grit. Healer salves fail. Removing lungs mid-shift helps none.”
She listens, no interruption. “Shard synergy replicates inside alveoli,” she muses. “We saw molten veins in lynx—same principle. If I inspect early stage patient, maybe I craft counter chant.”
“The infected are quarantined. Could collapse and kill them faster.”
“I would risk it. They’re your blood.”
The wind drops for a heartbeat, leaving vacuum in which only those words exist: They’re your blood. She gets it, perhaps more than some wolves ever could. My shoulders lighten a fraction.
We exit lake span to second narrow stretch hugging cliff, ice clear as glass now, void visible far below.
Carmilla’s breathing quickens from altitude or strain; I smell copper—her blood singing behind lattice.
She suppresses discomfort but I catalogue every hitch.
Normally, I’d lift her across; pride and rope keep me from offering.
Yet when she wobbles near small fissure, I clamp hand to her belt and steady. She gives nod of thanks, face pale.
Just ahead, trail forks—a steep descent leading east toward den via two-day trek; another path sweeps south downward into silver fir forest, where an old ley-gate built by starwatchers rests beneath alder roots. Our earlier plan: forest gate to Twilight council.
I pause at fork. Snow ghosts swirl between choices. The shard thumps louder—as if sniffing nearest pack hearts.
Carmilla studies me. “Which road, Alpha?”
My gaze lingers toward east descent, imagining pack yard, smoke, Rowan’s weary eyes. Then I recall name list etched in star-metal: Vaerra Greyspell, Durik Grimvale, each rune glowing dead. Those forerunners spilled blood for world, not clan. I clench rope.
“South,” I decide, throat gravel. “We save many or save none.”
Relief and fear mingle in her sigh. She leads with cautious pace; I fall in, scanning horizons for ravens—bad tidings fly in pairs.
We break under fir canopy by noon. Sunlight filters through snow-laden branches, throwing pale coins on forest floor. Carmilla slumps against trunk, working balm into crystal bloom; it flares, then calms. I scout perimeter, catch hint of ash. A campfire maybe miles off—hunters or cult.
Returning, I find Carmilla whispering to small clay bowl filled with meltwater. Symbols ripple across surface—wolf eyes, obsidian vein diagrams, lung silhouettes. She manipulates them with fingertip, constructing possible cure matrix. She glances up. “I will need lung dust sample.”
“We’ll get one,” I promise.
Before we set out again, raven messenger flaps overhead—another? It circles but carries no tube, only caws thrice and veers north. Alarm call? Carmilla watches sky. “They sense rift static on horizon.”
“Bad?”
She debates. “Not immediate. But growing.” We quicken pace.
By late afternoon we approach alder ring, roots twisting over half-buried stone dais flecked sapphire. Rune-arch half collapsed, yet power hum remains. Carmilla and I kneel opposite sides, chiseling snow away until full glyph circle emerges—twelve starbursts around dragon eye.
I slice palm, drip blood onto central eye. Carmilla traces lattice with finger, letting small crystal chip flake into channel. Rune lines ignite milky teal. Air in center vibrates, forming portal skin shimmering with mirrored forest.
Before stepping through, I glance back north—toward mountains, den, ghosts. The urge to turn aside almost snaps spine. Carmilla slips hand into mine, gentle yet decisive.
“Rowan needs an answer, not an apology,” she whispers.
I tighten grip, then lead us into gate.
On the far side, we exit into twilight silence under towering silverwood trees. Frost-glow mushrooms illuminate root paths. Portal snaps shut; circle dims. No turning back this night.
We start south-east toward council valley—two-day march if currents stay stable, less if we catch ley-draft ride.
Walking, Carmilla hums low. “Tell me a memory not soaked in sorrow. Something to steady heartbeat.”
I think, surprised by request. “The year first snow melted early. Pups raced meadows chasing glasswing butterflies that hatched out of ice crystals. Yarrow captured one, brimstone yellow. Freed it only after it brushed his nose.”
She smiles. Lattice warms soft peach. “Hold that memory when shadow surges.”
“You?” I ask.
“Once, a dragon whelp landed on sanctuary roof. Too young for flame, scales softer than pearls. I fed it moon-fruit slices until mother retrieved it with grateful rumble.”
“Dragons and wolves share moments like that?”
“Rarely. Peace can flicker even in warfronts.” She squeezes my arm. “Let’s make more flickers.”
We trek until stars flower overhead. The shard, though muted, still pulses faint. Each throb sparks vow inside me: lean on others. Den cannot survive alone. Pride yields to pack of packs.
When campfire prompts appear along trail—scouts from ridge tribes—they greet us with wary respect. They offer tea laced with pine honey. I trade direwolf fang pendant for passage token, guaranteeing them audience rights later. Cooperation taste sits oddly sweet on tongue; maybe healing begins here.
Carmilla nestles beneath cloak, rewriting lines in her memory to share with council.
I keep watch, gum still torn from slug fight.
Under branched shadows, I finger river-stone token Everest handed me.
I finally grasp its wisdom: rivers widen because tributaries feed them; try to stay narrow and you run dry.
I turn stone until smooth surface warms. Then eyes lift to sky. A constellation shaped like guardian serpent coils above; its tail crosses north star line, pointing back to mountains. My pack still breathes; if nothing else, this council must secure salvation before their breath becomes dust.
Tomorrow we meet crossroads with leaders and, hopefully, cures. Tonight, I watch over an oracle who numbs my shard, and I let the river inside widen.