The morning had risen without a sun.
Only that pale, subdued light, clinging to the clouds like old dust, thick in the sky and hesitant. Not quite dawn. Not night, either. Just a stretched moment — as if the world had forgotten how to turn.
The convoy moved out in silence. No talk. No calls. Just the same quiet choreography: canvas folded, beasts saddled, wheels checked, bags cinched tight. No command was needed. Everyone knew their part, and in less than an hour, the line was back in motion.
Lihuen walked toward the rear, between the second cart and a wall of split stone. Sen was at his side, attentive but calm. Since yesterday, something had shifted. The stares he received weren't distrustful anymore. Just cautious. Curious, even. As if the others were watching not him, but the tension he carried — a question not yet asked aloud.
The terrain stretched outward like fossilized scales. No more grass. No insects. Only layered slabs of stone, broken into terraces by age or something older. The ground itself seemed to lean eastward, as though nudging them deeper into the heart of this wasteland. Bone-colored rock veined with black ran in jagged lines, pulsing faintly in places as they neared the Gray Zone.
They walked for hours without a word. Every sound felt like too much. The silence wasn't oppressive. It was tactical.
Ahead, the figures of the group floated like shadows against the pale light. Sqayr moved near the front, silent as ever. His two-toned tunic—black and white—stood out like a scar. He walked like someone who'd grown up on ledges: always balanced, always loose, always listening.
Lihuen didn't try to speak. He walked.
With every step, he felt something resonate beneath the stone. A weight. A familiarity. Not a memory—deeper than that. Like the land knew he was there. He didn't know if it was the rune under his skin, or just the residue of the Domain. But something watched. Or remembered.
Then, a shift.
Just before midday, as they skirted an eroded ridge, Sen's ears flicked sharply. Her body stiffened, head turning toward the rock slope.
A growl, low and dry, coiled up from her throat.
Lihuen froze. Not fear. Instinct.
This wasn't a creature. It wasn't a sound at all, really. It was the absence of sound — a wrongness in the pressure of the air, a breath held too long, a space that didn't quite belong.
He scanned quickly.
Up the slope, Sqayr had stopped too. One hand rested casually on the hilt at his side, the other hidden in the folds of his cloak. His eyes were narrowed, locked somewhere just beyond the horizon.
Then a whistle.
Short. Sharp. Not panic — warning.
Too late.
The ground beneath the lead cart erupted.
A blast of broken stone and dust shot into the air. The beast at the front bucked, shrieking. The cart tipped, wooden axle splintering, canvas groaning. Inside, the Fragment rolled — still bound, but jostled hard.
Shadows moved.
They came from the heights — fast, agile, controlled. A dozen, maybe more. Pale cloaks, faces half-hidden behind bone masks. They didn't shout. They didn't chant. They descended like a blade falling edge-first.
Not bandits.
Saboteurs.
The chief roared a wordless command.
The group split instantly. The scarred veteran flipped a slab of rock to shield the cart. The woman with the ink-stained hands pulled something from her belt — a small cylinder — and hurled it to the ground. Smoke exploded upward, thick and black, cutting visibility in half.
Lihuen didn't wait.
He stepped forward, between the overturned cart and the chaos. Sen darted left, intercepting one of the attackers. Her body collided with theirs, snarling. The assailant toppled with a grunt. She returned, unscathed.
Then another came — smaller, quicker. Twin blades. Low stance. Closing fast.
Lihuen raised a hand.
The rune pulsed under his skin — a small flicker, not visible but potent. The air rippled in front of him, tightened. The attacker slammed into it at full speed, like a hawk against a cliff.
They dropped.
Another emerged from the smoke, lunging for Sen.
Lihuen twisted, kicked up a stone the size of a fist, and hurled it with more force than intention. It struck the man in the ribs — a clean, sharp impact. He crumpled.
All around, the assault tightened.
The chief stood alone in the open, sabre drawn, feet planted. He didn't advance. He absorbed, redirected. Two fighters had already tried to break his position and failed. He was immovable.
But it was only the beginning.
A final figure appeared above them on the ridge.
Still. Watching.
Taller than the rest, swathed in a coat the color of dry blood and dust. A full-face mask of white bone, smooth and featureless. No visible weapon. No words. He simply stood — and all the others moved around him like satellites.
He lifted one hand.
Palm out. Steady.
And everything stopped.
The attackers froze, mid-step. Like dolls dropped mid-play.
Then, slowly, they stepped back. One by one. No haste. No confusion. Their leader's presence seemed to anchor them, even in retreat.
The silence that followed was unreal. Thicker than smoke.
Then the masked figure spoke.
Not loud. Not theatrical. But the voice cut through everything.
— That fragment does not belong to you. It belongs to no one. And no one should carry it.
He paused. Turned his gaze—if he even had eyes—toward Lihuen.
— But I see you have a bearer. That is enough.
He turned.
And just like that, they vanished.
No rush. No wounded left behind. Just departure, clean and exact.
When the silence returned, it was different.
Heavier. Like something ancient had closed its hand but left its shadow.
The chief lowered his blade and crouched near the tipped cart. He didn't speak. He peeled back the covering slightly to check the cargo.
The Fragment hadn't moved far. But its glow was wrong. Duller. Not dimmer—drained. Like it had been seen. Like it had been recognized.
Sqayr joined Lihuen.
— Vids, he murmured. An active cell. Not madmen. Guardians.
— Guardians of what?
— What they call the Rejected. Things that should've died when the giants fell. To them, that Fragment is an infection. A wound left open too long.
He stooped, picked up a fallen mask. Bone, etched with an inward spiral — the mark of containment.
— They're rare, he added. But when they act… it means something's shifting.
Lihuen didn't answer.
He looked at Sen. Her breath was steady. She had seen. She understood.
He knew now, fully.
This wasn't a delivery. This was a current. A war of meanings, flowing under the world. Will against will. Forces older than cities, older than memory.
And he was now in the middle.
Not chosen. Not summoned.
Just… aligned.
The lines were bending.
And he was bending with them.