Chapter Twenty-Six
Erindor
The further we walked, the more the cold crept in.
The heat from the mountain was behind us now, and with it, the smoke-warmed winds.
In its place came the sharp bite of winter in our bones.
Snow clung to the shadows between the lifeless hills, forming uneven patches along the rocks.
The grass was brittle and low to the ground, more cinders than green, and every gust of wind dragged the charred scent of old fire across the slope.
The sky had turned the color of wet stone, heavy and low, spitting flurries that melted on contact. Ice rimmed the edges of our cloaks and lashes, delicate and sharp as a breath held for too long.
Even Bran had stopped bounding ahead. He stayed close to Alaric’s heels now, his ears flat against the wind.
The sun hovered behind thick clouds, pale, distant, and cold. A silver coin buried in wool. It gave no warmth, only the sense that something above was observing.
We were two days out from Caerthaine now.
And the land felt like it knew.
I walked ahead, scanning the horizon as the path dipped. Behind me, the others followed, quieter than usual. Gideon’s jokes had faded by midmorning, and even Alaric had barked orders in the last hour.
The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was pressure.
Wyn moved beside me. She hadn’t spoken for some time, her shoulders pulled in against the wind. Snow clung to her hair, and her steps had slowed.
She was exhausted.
The weariness wasn't from the long journey, but a crushing burden built over weeks of tension, haunting visions, dark magic, and inescapable deaths. It was the weight of every unvoiced truth, every shared silence.
“Crevices ahead,” I stated firmly. “Stone’s splitting from past burn lines. Don’t trust the edges.”
No one answered, but I saw Jasira adjust her footing. Bran gave a low chuff and nudged Gideon, who was still scanning the slope for movement.
A patch of blackened thorns stretched like claws across the ridge to our left. Beyond them, tucked into the rock, the top of a structure jutted from the hillside, cracked and leaning, half-buried in ice. A collapsed watchtower or what remained of one?
Something had burned through the stone.
I slowed as we approached, narrowing my eyes. Clearly, someone had abandoned the tower decades ago. Rusted spikes still lined the fractured perimeter, although many had fallen. Vines, or the remnants of them, clung to the south-facing wall, their texture brittle like old paper.
Alaric came up beside me. “We push forward. We can make the next ridge by dusk.”
“No,” I said.
His eyes snapped open. “We’re close enough to see the coastline. If we make a push tomorrow—”
“And we’ll get there faster if we don’t stumble into a crevasse or an ambush by traveling tired,” I said, keeping my voice even.
His jaw twitched, but he didn’t argue further.
I looked back at Wyn. She had stopped beside a patch of sleet-covered logs, breathing quietly, one hand pressed to her side. Fatigue rimmed her eyes, and her skin was pale beneath the dirt.
That sealed it.
“We stop here,” I said, louder now.
Gideon sighed in relief. “Thank every known god.”
Jasira gave him a look. “You don’t even pray.”
“I do now,” he grumbled.
We moved into what was left of the tower’s yard. The outer wall had mostly collapsed, but the central chamber still had enough of a roof to serve as shelter. I ducked through the broken archway first, sword in hand, checking corners, gaps in the stone, and dark hollows.
No movement or bodies. Only dust, stone, and silence.
I could hear the others enter behind me.
“Oh well, this is charming, isn’t it?” I heard Alaric remark.
“This place looks like it caught fire,” Wyn murmured behind me, her voice soft but clear.
I glanced at her.
Her fingers traced the scarred mortar of the wall, a faint contact that spoke of weary resignation. Her gaze drifted, lost in thought, shadowed by an exhaustion that settled deep within her bones.
She didn’t know I’d stopped the march because of her. A profound ache twisted in my chest at the sight of her so drained, so quiet, aching to grant her respite.
Even if it was in a cursed ruin.
“Let’s not light a fire,” I said. “Smoke travels too far in flat land.”
Gideon groaned. “So much for hot tea.”
“Boil it low. Keep the steam covered.”
Bran sniffed the cracked stairway and sneezed.
Alaric dropped his pack with more force than necessary and muttered something about weak stomachs. I let it pass.
As the others settled, I walked the perimeter again, scanning the horizon from the collapsed balcony. The hills rolled on, gray and silent. The tower stood like a broken tooth, one more relic from a war no one remembered, waiting to crumble for good.
But something about this place…
The stone didn’t feel old.
It felt deep.
As if something had passed through it and left a wound that the world never healed.
Night fell like a weight.
The sun disappeared behind the hills, leaving the sky dim and the wind sharper.
What little warmth lingered in the air turned brittle, edged with the bite of winter returning.
The tower ruins darkened fast, the broken stone swallowing any remaining light.
We lit no proper fire, a low coal burn in a buried tin pit, with a half-cracked lid to keep the glow from traveling.
Still, the shadows it cast danced across soot-blackened walls like old ghosts learning how to move again.
Bran wouldn’t stop pacing.
He circled the fire three times, then stalked to the wall, ears twitching.
We were all unsettled.
Gideon tried, as usual, to break the tension.
He stabbed a stick into the pot he’d rigged over the low flame and gave it a sniff. “So…we’ve officially reached the part of the journey where everything tastes like sadness and ash.”
“Sounds like your normal cooking,” Jasira murmured, lying on her side beside the fire. She had pulled her cloak up like a blanket, but her eyes remained open. Watchful.
Gideon clutched his chest. “Ouch! Wounded.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Do you ever shut up?”
“Only in my sleep. And even then, I’m told I mutter charming things.”
Wyn sat across from them, knees tucked to her chest, chin resting on folded arms. The hood of her cloak had slipped back, and the coals reflected softly in her eyes. She gazed intently at the low fire.
I sat a little apart, near the tower’s outer rim, where the stones cracked open toward the slope. My hand stayed near my sword, fingers flexing against the grip.
I didn’t like how quiet the hills had become.
No birds, crickets, or distant owls. Just the brittle rush of wind sliding down the hillside like a blade looking for something to cut.
Gideon’s voice cut back in. “Wyn, you’re the palace archivist in disguise. Any idea what this place was?”
She broke her trance and slowly turned toward him. “There were no names in the city records. Maybe they never completed it.”
“Wrong!” he exclaimed with a grin. “This was the Thornridge Outpost. Supposed to be Caerthaine’s first line of defense. Long before the kingdoms signed treaties and kissed rings.”
Jasira raised a brow. “Then why’s it abandoned?”
Gideon twirled his stick through the pot like it was a scepter. “Because they say it burned from the inside. One morning, patrols passed by and found the entire garrison in ashes. No sign of battle. No fire damage on the walls. The only thing left was dust where bodies used to be.”
The flames popped, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Wyn slowly wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “That’s not possible.”
“That’s the thing about cursed places,” Gideon rumbled, his voice dark with a knowing grimness. “They don’t ask for permission.”
Alaric, who had been pacing the outer rim of the wall, scowled and crossed his arms. “Old stories. Campfire rot. You put too much faith in bedtime fears.”
“And you don’t put enough,” Gideon retorted.
Wyn’s gaze had dropped to the coals again. Her fingers twitched in thought. I watched her shoulders tense ever so slightly.
“Double watches tonight,” I said.
Gideon blinked. “Dramatic.”
“Safe.”
Alaric looked at me, his expression blank, but nodded. “Fine. Jasira and Gideon take first. I’ll relieve them. You two can take the final.”
He nodded toward Wyn and me. She didn’t look up, but I saw her give a slight nod in return.
…
I’d meant to let her rest. We’d been walking for days without a proper stop, and tonight, inside the crumbling shell of the old outpost, was the first real roof we’d had in too long.
When our shared shift came, I rose quietly and took my post alone, hoping she wouldn’t stir. She needed the sleep more than I did.
The night pressed cold against the broken ramparts; the wind slipped through cracks in the stone like a whisper you couldn’t quite hear. The others soon fell asleep, their breathing deep and uneven in the shadows.
I stood at the jagged edge where the wall had long since collapsed, scanning the hills below, nothing but black shapes and shifting moonlight.
Footsteps approached, light but certain. I didn’t turn.
Wyn joined me quietly. She moved like the night—soft-footed, calm on the surface, but swirling beneath. Her cloak brushed mine as she came to stand beside me, close enough that I caught the faint scent of herbs and wood smoke.
“You should sleep,” I murmured.
Her mouth curved faintly. “You’d just keep glancing back to check if I was breathing. Might as well save you the trouble.”
I huffed through my nose, almost laughing. She was right.
We stood together while mist curled low in the valleys, silvered by the moon. Far somewhere off, a wolf called, the sound thin and lonely. The sky stretched wide above us, stars sharp against the black, scattered like frost on glass. They were too beautiful for this place.
“I always thought winter skies out here would feel gentler,” she said after a while.
“They’re honest, at least,” I said. “Cold. Clear. Distant.”
She smiled faintly. “Do you always describe the stars like old soldiers?”