69 lines
No EOL
3.4 KiB
Markdown
69 lines
No EOL
3.4 KiB
Markdown
They did not speak for a long time.
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The path ahead was narrow again, and treacherous—yet it felt wider than before. No longer hunted, only hollowed, the survivors climbed in silence until dusk began to settle over the shattered slopes. A sheltered pocket beneath a shelf of stone gave them brief refuge. There, they lit a cautious fire and huddled against the rising wind.
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Telaryn sat apart, her face unreadable. She hadn’t spoken since the avalanche. Her hands were still caked in snow.
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Halven poured hot water over dried root and herbs, handing the crude tea to Sari with a nod. The steam curled between them as the last light faded from the peaks.
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“I didn’t think he’d do it,” Halven said finally, quietly.
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Sari accepted the tin cup, fingers trembling despite her stillness. “Nor did I. Not yet. Not that way.”
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Halven’s brow furrowed. “What way, then?”
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“The old way,” she said, and there was a deep weariness in her voice. “The binding of soul and stone. The pact to give breath to the mountain’s bones. He had been marked for that since before I was born. All mountainbinders know their price. He simply chose when to pay it.”
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She sipped the tea. Her eyes were distant, rimmed with salt from dried sweat and snow.
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“He spoke to the roots,” she continued. “Said they stirred for the first time in generations. That her blood had woken them.” She glanced toward Telaryn. “I didn’t believe him at first. I do now.”
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Halven’s gaze followed hers. “Do you think he died for her?”
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“No,” Sari said. “He died for the Queen.”
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A beat of silence.
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Then, softer: “He died for us.”
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They fell quiet again. The fire popped once, sparks leaping toward the stone canopy above. Alisha dozed lightly, wrapped in Ryn’s cloak, while Weylan kept watch at the edge of the hollow, eyes fixed on the darkening trail.
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And Telaryn—she did not move.
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She sat cross-legged, hands on her knees, eyes closed. Her breathing had slowed.
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Halven rose to check on her, but paused. Something in the air had shifted.
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A sudden stillness pressed into the hollow. The wind held its breath.
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Then Telaryn exhaled sharply—and fell backward into the snow.
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Darkness closed over her like a shroud.
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She stood not on snow, but on black glass—cracked, rimmed with frost. Above, the sky spun with stormlight and strange constellations, none of them her own.
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Before her: a throne of bone. Carved not by hands, but by centuries of pressure and pain. Its arms were antlers. Its legs, femurs. Atop it sat a woman crowned in twisted gold, eyes closed, mouth sewn with threads of shadow.
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Her face was Ryn’s.
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Around her, chains coiled like serpents—anchoring sword, throne, and soul in one cruel knot. The blade lay across the queen’s lap: long, cruel, flame-barren, humming with hunger.
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And still it breathed.
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Ashmire.
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The name struck her chest like a blade drawn too quickly from its sheath.
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Then the woman on the throne opened her eyes. Black, and endless.
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"You will not return as you are," she said. Her voice was the sound of falling ice, of promises whispered in a dead tongue.
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"You will come to me hollowed, or not at all."
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The vision split. Shattered like brittle frost. Telaryn cried out—and the world returned.
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Ryn jolted awake, gasping, her breath clouding in the cold. Snow had gathered in her lashes. Alisha leaned toward her in alarm, but she raised a hand.
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“I saw her,” she whispered. “I saw myself.”
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No one answered. |