The sun still reigned in the afternoon sky, its light golden and unrelenting. Even at this hour, the forest's hush pressed against Elcos's mind like a half-remembered dream. Every rustle in the undergrowth hinted at something watching. He felt the weight of expectation in his veins—Mitsuki's laughter still echoing from their last council, Yelena's fierce promise to stand by him "till the end." They had vanished into a destiny he had yet to comprehend.
Elcos guided his midnight-black stallion along a narrow trail, hoofbeats muffled by a carpet of fallen leaves tinged with decay. The air carried the tang of moss and damp stone, and, beneath it, the faintest whisper of something acrid—like old blood. Each breath stung his lungs with cold promise. Behind him, Shank matched pace on his chestnut mare, the animal's flanks slick with sweat and her breath ragged. Shank's eyes darted among the branches, fingers brushing the hilt of his dagger.
The codex, wrapped in oilskin within Elcos's satchel, pulsed gently against his side. He drew it out once more, flipping through the pages as if they were the bones of some ancient titan. Two overlapping crescents, circled by runes unseen by living eyes, glowed with residual enchantment. Elcos closed the book and tucked it back in place, steeling himself for trials yet unknown.
They passed monumental oaks whose bark was scarred by battle long past—fissures filled with silver sap that shimmered in the sunlight. Pale mushrooms clustered at their roots, releasing spores in eddies whenever a breeze stirred the leaves. A distant cry of a hawk pierced the stillness. Elcos halted and looked up, but saw nothing. Shank rode up beside him, jaw clenched. "They say hawks call the spirits to guard the Moons' Threshold," he murmured.
Elcos nodded slowly. "Then these spirits watch for us now." He remounted, heart thumping. They pressed on, the trail climbing toward ragged hills that cut the sky into sharp angles. Clouds gathered overhead, swollen with rain and omen. Flashes of lightning forked in the distance, illuminating the undersides of the leaves in harsh white.
By mid-afternoon, the forest opened onto a heathland of tall grasses, swaying in wave-like motion. The wind here was colder, carrying a metallic tang that he recognized from the battle chamber's floor. Elcos dismounted and crouched to scoop water from a shallow pool, but found it tinted with rust-red hues. He stretched out a hand, watched ripples distort the reflection of the darkening sky, then drank anyway. Shank did the same, lips pressed to his gauntlet as if testing the metal itself for poison.
They rode again, the grasses giving way to rough heather and black-streaked stones. The path carved its way uphill, coiling around outcrops like a serpent seeking higher ground. Underfoot, the soil gave way to grit and dust. Roots snaked across the trail, hollowed by centuries of erosion. In places, the collapsed bones of long-dead creatures lay half-buried—a testament to travelers who never found passage.
At the crest of the next rise, Elcos saw the ravine unfurl before him like a massive wound. Its walls plunged nearly a hundred paces to a mist-choked chasm, veins of obsidian glinting in the sunlight. Shadows swirled among the rocks, and an undercurrent of energy thrummed through the air. Elcos's breath caught. He dismounted without a word.
The gate loomed at the ravine's mouth—a towering arch of obsidian, blacker than a winter's night, streaked with silver runes that spiraled and writhed. The carvings pulsed in a silent cadence, like a heart beating beneath stone. Elcos approached cautiously, fingertips brushing the polished surface. It was colder than he expected—so cold that faint frost bloomed around his glove.
Shank joined him, drawing in a stiff breath. "I've read of gates like this," he said. "Warded by moonlight and song. No mortal knows the key." He ran a hand over his dagger's runic hilt, willing it to hum with power. But the ward held firm.
Elcos retrieved the wyrm-horn from his satchel. Its ivory surface was etched in spirals of bone and root, and it thrummed as though alive. He lifted it to his lips, closing his eyes against the gale that sprang up from the chasm. He pressed his fingers to the horn's rim, feeling its warmth ignite his blood. Then he blew.
The sound began as a whisper beneath his ribs, growing into a deep, resonant roar that shattered the silence. Mist whipped upward in a spiraling torrent. Silver runes along the gate glowed fiercely, washing the ravine in pale, spectral light. With a deafening crack, the arch split apart, slabs of obsidian sliding aside on hidden tracks.
Elcos dismounted once more, awe and trepidation warring in his chest. "By the Old Order," he breathed. Shank offered a tight smile. "We have the key."
Together, they led their horses through the threshold. Beyond lay a narrow gorge, its ceiling an arch of intertwined roots and stone. Faint luminescence seeped from cracks in the walls, painting everything in an otherworldly glow. The ground was littered with bleached bones, hundreds of them, as if pilgrims had died in long-forgotten terror.
No sound accompanied their passage but the echo of their own breaths. The air was denser here, heavy with residual enchantment that tugged at their minds—images flickered at the edge of vision: a child's laughter, the clang of steel on steel, distant singing. Elcos shook his head and pressed on, every step an effort against a rising vertigo.
After what felt like hours, the passage widened and the forest resumed—though here the trees were gaunt and blackened, their branches like skeletal fingers. Thorny vines draped from every limb, their barbs dripping with dark sap. The trail climbed a final slope, spiraling until they emerged onto a plateau cut from the living rock.
Above them, the sky was a roiling tapestry of slate and violet clouds. Sunlight fought through in sporadic shafts, illuminating the ruin at the center: a circular shrine of obsidian pillars crowned with sculpted moons. Vines curled around the stones, their leaves brittle as parchment. The dais in the center was marred by cracks but still bore the twin-moon sigil from the codex.
Elcos felt the hairs rise on his neck. Shank's mare whinnied softly, as if acknowledging the sanctity of the place. Ahead, atop the dais, stood a lone figure draped in robes the color of storm shadows. No breeze stirred its cloak, no breath seemed to escape its lips. Its hood concealed its face, but two points of silver light shimmered from within.
Elcos dismounted for the final time. He descended the last few steps, each one echoing like a drumbeat. "Show yourself," he commanded, sword in hand. The figure neither moved nor spoke. Instead, a hush fell over the plateau, as if the world itself had stilled in deference.
At length, the figure lowered its hood. Beneath, a face as pale as marble and eyes molten with light revealed themselves. Elcos's breath caught. The gaze was neither kind nor cruel, merely inscrutable.
"I am the Custodian of the Moons' Threshold," the figure intoned, voice resonating like two chords struck at once. "You bear the armor of the Old Order and hold the codex penned by their hand. You have come for the Chosen."
Elcos swallowed. "Mitsuki and Yelena. Tell me where they stand."
The Custodian's gaze drifted skyward. "They stand between worlds. The moons have claimed them. The ritual nears." The figure raised one hand, and three stones appeared—obsidian shards laced with silver veins—hovering above the dais. "These relics must be placed upon the altar in the pattern your codex prescribes. Only then will the Veil thin and grant passage to the Moonbound."
Shank stepped forward, voice steady despite his exhaustion. "If we succeed, can we return them safely? Will their minds be intact?"
A soft rumble rippled across the plateau. The Custodian's eyes flickered. "The journey will reshape both them and you. Balance demands sacrifice and unity. Fail, and the Veil will break completely, unleashing forces your world cannot withstand."
Elcos felt the ground tremble beneath him. Clouds swirled overhead in furious spirals. He glanced at Shank, saw determination etched in every line of his friend's face. He inhaled deeply, tasting cold rain on his tongue, and reached out for the first hovering stone.
"Show us the pattern," Elcos said, voice barely above a whisper yet carrying the weight of fate.
The Custodian inclined its head. "Then let the Path of Moons be revealed."
With a final clap of thunder, the stones arranged themselves and the dais glowed with an unearthly light. The twin moons above began their slow convergence, casting a pale and blood-red glow in perfect lockstep. The air thrummed with raw power, and the plateau itself seemed to hum beneath Elcos's boots.
He planted his feet firmly and raised his gaze skyward, ready to claim his destiny. The path had opened—now they would see where it led.