2.4 KiB
The steps ended not in a chamber, but in a narrow stone corridor lined with bracing timbers and sealed supports. Ancient beams groaned beneath the weight of centuries, and the air turned damp, touched by moss and earth. Someone ahead cursed under their breath—the passage had half-collapsed near its end, requiring them to crawl or squeeze through splintered cracks.
The wounded were carried in silence now. No one spoke of Lord Devard. No one dared.
Telaryn ducked beneath a sagging lintel, her hand pressed to the cold wall for balance. It felt warm beneath her touch—strangely warm. The stone pulsed, just faintly, as if it remembered her blood.
She pulled her hand back.
Ahead, Halven’s torchlight danced over a wall that broke from the regular stonework—older, darker, carved with sweeping arcs and curving runes. It resembled no known script, but the shape was familiar: a crowned woman, arms outstretched, a long black sword resting across her palms like a burden and a promise.
Alisha stopped beside her. “That’s her, isn’t it?” she whispered.
Telaryn didn’t answer.
Because she knew. Not by name—names had been lost—but by blood. This was the queen erased from their line, the one whispered about in parables meant to frighten children and dissuade pride. The sword had many titles in those stories. The Devouring Blade. The Night’s Mouth. But always, it returned in the same hand.
And in some versions, the hand looked very much like hers.
Halven called from ahead. “The gate’s intact!”
The corridor ended in a smooth stone slab mounted with an iron lever, old but recently oiled. With a groan, the mechanism unlocked, and the slab shuddered outward on sunken hinges. Snow flurried in as the hidden gate cracked open to reveal a narrow ledge on the cliffside, overlooking the southern reaches of the city.
Below, Talpis smoked like a dying pyre. The Palace Keep still stood, for now, silhouetted in orange haze. The city’s spires were ash-darkened, and the sounds of battle filtered through the mist like fading music.
“We’re past the walls,” one of the guards said.
A hawk’s cry cut through the wind.
Telaryn stepped out onto the ledge, blinking into the cold. She could see the Mourning Peaks in the distance—jagged, snow-wreathed, waiting.
Waiting for her.
Behind her, the gate ground shut once more. Stone meeting stone. Final. Permanent.
No one looked back.
No one needed to.