2.7 KiB
They descended the mountain as dawn broke pale across the Mourning Peaks.
Snow crunched beneath their steps, soft and slow. The wind curled around Telaryn like a living thing—blood-scented, restless. At her heels, the earth no longer trembled in defiance but in deference. The trail behind them was streaked with melted ice and ash.
Sari walked just behind her, lips parted as if to speak but saying nothing. Her eyes never left Telaryn's back.
At the village's edge, the Veyari had gathered. Cloaked in furs, silent, they watched as the pair emerged from the mist—one cloaked in stormlight and power, the other marked with frostbite and strain. All eyes fell upon Ashmire, which trailed dark mist from its edge, red and silver runes faintly aglow.
No words were spoken.
Until Yorai stepped forward.
The elder's staff struck the stone with a sound too loud, too sharp. “You return, blade-bearer,” he said, “but do not mistake storm for sanctity.”
The wind faltered.
“You claim the spirits,” he growled. “But I feel them now. Twisted. Bleeding. Wrong.”
He turned to the crowd, arms outstretched. “She has not tamed them. She has corrupted them. What walked that peak was not a Queen, but a blight. Look at her!”
He gestured at her eyes—dark now, nearly black with threads of red at the edges. Her skin shone faintly with something beneath it, veins mapped in silver like ancient roots.
“Would you let the blood of our ancestors bend to that?”
The crowd wavered—fearful, uncertain.
Telaryn did not speak.
She stepped forward.
The wind hissed. Yorai raised his staff in warning.
“Do not—!”
Ashmire whispered.
A flash of silver and shadow. A single breathless lunge.
The elder’s words caught in his throat—because his throat was no longer whole. Blood burst like steam from his neck, red mist curling into the blade before his body even struck the stone.
He didn’t scream.
There was no time.
Ashmire drank.
Telaryn exhaled, the sound low—pleasure, perhaps, or something darker. Her shoulders relaxed. Her wounds, minor and buried beneath furs, sealed. Her breath steadied. Color flushed into her cheeks.
She tilted her head, eyes closed, savoring it.
The vitality. The price.
When her eyes opened again, they gleamed like garnets set in obsidian.
“I made no vow to spare liars,” she said. Her voice was calm. Measured. “He challenged the Queen. Let the mountain judge if he was right.”
No one moved.
Not Halven. Not Eris. Not Weylan, whose eyes shone like those of a boy who had seen a goddess descend.
The Veyari knelt—first in silence, then all at once. A low chant started. Not loud. Not fervent.
Just inevitable.
Sari stood still, heart pounding. Watching.
Not afraid.
Entranced.