The dawn was a hesitant watercolor wash of grey and lilac, bleeding across a sky still bruised with night. Below, Elias and Thorne trudged down a road that was more memory than path, its stones swallowed by grasping vines and stubborn weeds. Behind them, the stone walls of Velthra's city shrank, its spires like the teeth of a closing jaw. The morning air, thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves, felt unnervingly quiet after the chaos of their escape.
The silence was a void Elias felt compelled to fill. He hummed a low, meandering tune, a half-remembered tavern song about a ship that sailed on clouds. The notes were a soft thread stitching the fragile peace of the morning together, pushing back against the phantom echo of shouting guards.
Beside him, Thorne moved with a predator's purpose. His gaze wasn't on the road ahead but constantly sweeping behind them, his shoulders a bulwark of coiled tension. Every rustle in the undergrowth, every birdcall that sounded too sharp, caused his hand to drift toward the hilt of the rough-forged sword at his hip. He was a creature of the dungeon transplanted into the wild, his senses honed to the expectation of violence.
An hour later, the overgrown road opened into a sun-drenched meadow, a tapestry of wildflowers nodding in the breeze. "A respite," Elias declared, his voice a little too loud in the stillness. He slid the worn leather strap of his lute from his shoulder and settled onto a moss-covered rock. "Even fugitives deserve a moment to appreciate the scenery. And my shoulders are complaining most eloquently."
Thorne grunted, a sound somewhere between agreement and dismissal, and took up a position on a slight rise, granting him a clear view of their backtrail. He watched as Elias began to tune the instrument, the gentle plink-plonk of the strings a stark contrast to the grim set of his own jaw.
As the first coherent chord shimmered in the air, a patch of light beside Elias began to swerve and brighten. Motes of dust and pollen danced within it, coalescing into a shimmering, vaguely man-shaped form. Olaf, the spirit of whimsy and forgotten songs, had reappeared. He settled onto the grass beside the bard with the quiet solidity of a sigh, looking as if he'd been there all along.
Elias glanced over at Thorne, a roguish grin spreading across his face. "Still brooding, Sir Knight? You've been silent as a stone for miles. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were composing a very serious poem in your head about the tragedy of scuffed boots."
Thorne's scowl deepened, but it lacked its usual granite intensity. "I was ensuring we weren't followed by the small army we so gracefully infuriated. Someone has to be practical when traveling with a reckless musician." He paused, his gaze dropping to the lute. A flicker of something—grudging respect, perhaps—crossed his features. "Though I'll admit… your 'tricks' bought us the time we needed."
"A master's symphony of escape," Elias said with a theatrical bow from his seated position. He pulled a small, cloth-wrapped parcel from his satchel. Hard bread, a wedge of cheese, and a strip of dried meat. Thorne produced a similar bundle, sitting heavily on the turf.
As Thorne took his first bite of jerky, Olaf's shimmering form darted forward. A faint, translucent hand snatched the piece of meat from between the knight's fingers, and it vanished into the spirit's ethereal form with a faint, satisfied hum.
Thorne stared at his empty fingers, then glared at the spirit. "By the gods, Elias…"
Elias chuckled, breaking off a piece of his own cheese and offering it to the air where Olaf hovered. It, too, disappeared. "Oh, leave him be. He's earned it. How else would we have gotten the keys? Olaf worked hard last night."
"Spirits have appalling table manners," Thorne muttered, grabbing another, better-guarded piece of his rations. He chewed with a renewed sense of vigilance, eyeing the shimmering spirit as if it might steal the thoughts from his head next.
The lighthearted mood settled as they ate. When the last crumbs were gone, Elias's expression grew more serious. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a delicate, folded piece of parchment—his best attempt at drawing what he saw with a stick of coal.
"I've pieced together what I can," he said, his voice lowering. He smoothed the page on his knee. "Most of it is arcane cartography, star charts linked to ley lines. But there's a phrase, repeated in the margins like an incantation." He traced the elegant, spidery script with a fingertip. "It speaks of a 'winged relic sleeping in ice.'"
Thorne went still. The name was formless, yet it struck a chord of ancient lore deep within him, a story his own tutor had dismissed as peasant superstition. "A winged relic… sleeping in ice," he repeated slowly, the words feeling heavy and strange on his tongue. "The tribes of the north… they have legends. They don't speak of them to outsiders." He looked up, his eyes meeting Elias's, a new and troubled light in their depths. "They speak of the Vultarian Mountains. Of a feathered god that fell from the sky in an age of fire and was entombed by a glacier. They worship it in secret."
The pieces clicked into place, forming a picture both fantastic and terrifying.
"Then that's where we're going," Elias said, a spark of certainty igniting in his voice.
"Absolutely not," Thorne countered, his tone flat and final. "Elias, you're talking about disturbing a god. Or something that ancient tribes believe is a god. There is no good that can come from meddling in such affairs. It's folly of the highest order."
"It's the only lead we have to finding the Dragon Heart!" Elias shot back, his easy charm falling away to reveal the steel resolve beneath. "Velthra was studying this. Whatever this relic is, it's connected. I can feel it. It's a note in the same grand song. Are you suggesting we just wander aimlessly until her soldiers catch up to us?"
"I'm suggesting we don't seek out a power that could unmake us with a thought!" Thorne stood up, pacing like a caged wolf. "There are other paths, other ways."
"There aren't!" Elias insisted, standing to face him. "Not for this. This is the way."
The argument hung in the air, a tense, unresolved chord. Thorne stared at Elias, at the fierce, unwavering conviction in his eyes. He saw not recklessness, but a desperate, focused hope. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his years in the dungeon, Thorne gave a curt nod. The argument was over, for now.
They packed their meager camp and returned to the road. The tension lingered, a third, unwelcome traveler. To break it, Elias slung his lute over his shoulder and began to play, not a soft hum this time, but a jaunty, defiant marching tune. He sang of open roads and mischievous rogues, of escaping grim-faced tyrants to chase the horizon.
The music, vibrant and alive, poured into the woods. And the woods responded.
First, it was a subtle shift. A few wisps of green and gold, like animated pollen, drifted from the leaves of an ancient oak. They twirled around Elias's head, chiming like tiny glass bells in time with the music. Then, from the mossy banks of a stream, small, shy creatures of woven roots and river stones poked their heads out, their glowing eyes blinking curiously. A trio of sprites, their wings a blur of dragonfly iridescence, joined the procession, their high-pitched giggles adding a chaotic harmony. Soon, Elias was surrounded by an impromptu, spectral band, a conductor leading an orchestra of the forest's low-ranking spirits, all drawn to the sheer, unbridled joy in his song.
Thorne watched the spectacle from a few paces behind, his lips pressed into a firm line. He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head at the sheer absurdity of it all. A bard charming the very soul of the forest while they were being hunted. And yet, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he couldn't completely suppress the ghost of a smile. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, a softening in his granite gaze. There was a magic in Elias that had nothing to do with grimoires and everything to do with the life he poured into his music.
Mid-verse, as Elias took a particularly boastful step, Olaf shimmered in front of him. Elias, caught completely by surprise, yelped and tumbled sideways, landing with a comical splash in a muddy puddle by the roadside.
The song cut off. The spirits blinked, confused. A moment of shocked silence hung in the air, broken only by the drip of muddy water from Elias's hair. Then, Thorne let out a short, rusty bark of a laugh. It was a rough, unused sound, but it was genuine. Elias looked up from his puddle-throne, saw the rare sight of Thorne's amusement, and grinned, his own laughter joining the knight's. The spirits, catching the mood, began to dance and chime again, celebrating the wonderful silliness of it all.
That night, by the flickering warmth of their campfire, the easy camaraderie lingered. The flames painted dancing shadows on their faces, and the vast, star-dusted sky felt like a promise.
"You never really told me, only the bare bones," Elias began quietly, idly strumming a soft chord. "Why you were in that dungeon to begin with. You wear your honor like armor, Thorne. It doesn't seem the sort to get you branded a traitor."
Thorne stared into the fire, his face a mask of old pains. For a long moment, he said nothing, and Elias thought he had pushed too far. But then, the knight spoke, his voice low and gravelly, as if dredging the words from a deep, bitter well.
"I was the Lord's personal guard. I saw Velthra's influence grow. It was like a slow, sweet poison. She didn't use threats; she used whispers, suggestions, twisting his grief over his late wife and daughter into paranoia and suspicion. She manipulated him, turned him against his most loyal counselors." He picked up a stick and jabbed at the embers. "I accused her. To his face. I told him she was practicing dark arts, that she was weaving a web around his mind. He didn't believe me. He called me a traitor, blinded by jealousy of her station. He had me thrown in the dungeon to rot." He tossed the stick into the flames, where it sparked and vanished. "My loyalty cost me everything."
Elias listened, his usual witty retorts absent. He watched the flicker of betrayal and pain in the knight's eyes. He didn't offer empty platitudes or vows of revenge. Instead, he simply let the silence sit for a moment before his fingers found a playful, bluesy riff on his lute. He met Thorne's gaze across the fire, a wry, understanding smile touching his lips.
"Guess that makes us both criminals with taste in bad company."
The tension in Thorne's shoulders visibly eased. A slow, genuine chuckle rumbled in his chest, deeper and more real than the one by the road. The simple, shared acknowledgment of their outcast status, offered not with pity but with a strange sort of kinship, was more comforting than any vow of sympathy could ever be. The mood softened further, settling into a quiet, mutual respect.
They fell silent, gazing northward. The fire had burned down to glowing coals, and in the far distance, the moonlight etched a jagged silhouette against the star-flecked sky. The peaks rose like broken teeth, impossibly high and remote. The Vultarian Mountains.
Elias's voice was barely a whisper, a promise made to the wind and the stars.
"God or not… I'll find the song locked in that ice."
Thorne grunted. It was not a sound of argument or protest, but of acceptance. He didn't understand the bard's obsession with songs and relics, but he understood the look of determination on his face. He understood having a single, driving purpose. The road to ice and feathers had begun.