Night cloaked the land as Dahlia and Damon pressed eastward from the crumbled ruin of the Red Spire, their path lit only by sputtering witch-light lanterns and the faint silver glow bleeding from Dahlia's Moonblood mark. The air reeked of scorched metal and broken spells, the wreckage of forbidden magic clinging to every breath. Their boots cracked over shards of cooling slag, the remnants of a tower that had once touched heaven now reduced to ruin behind them. But ahead, the world darkened into the Black Barrens—a cursed stretch of land where no pack dared settle, poisoned by old wars and older sorcery. Damon's pace was relentless. Dahlia kept up, cloak damp, heart steady. Atop a ridge, she saw the Iron Curtain lightning crawl across distant storm clouds. But Damon's path veered left—to a structure of obsidian rising from ash: a giant arch etched with runes that shimmered like veins beneath basalt skin.
That's Varkis Gate, he said, voice low. Shortcut through the Barrens. The Ash Road starts there—if you can pay the toll. "What toll?" she asked. "Shades," he replied. They want blood or memory. I'll distract them with the Hollow's disc. You cloak us in Moonlight. I'm still learning, she admitted. Then learn faster or bleed. The Gate hummed as they approached. Damon tossed the obsidian disc into the air. It hovered, glyphs spinning. Four Shades materialized—void bodies rimmed in stars, speaking as one: Name the tribute. Forged sigil. False key. Let that suffice. As the Shades reached for the disc, Dahlia spread her fingers. Silver threads unfurled, weaving a cloak of silence and shimmer. The instant Damon moved, she followed, both of them slipping beneath the arch unseen. Too late, the Shades screamed. But the fugitives were already sprinting into the narrow canyon beyond.
The Ash Road cut between fused cliffs of glass where static buzzed across skin and weapon. After an hour, the canyon opened into a battlefield of broken war machines. Rusted husks, twisted metal. Wind hissed through vents like mourning spirits. Beneath the shattered wing of a mech, they paused. Damon's shoulder bled through his bandages. Let me see it, Dahlia said. He didn't flinch as she dug out silver shards, the dagger tip glowing with sterilized Moon-fire. When she pressed her hand to his skin, light flowed. Feels like lightning and frost, he said. Better than infection, she replied. Silence followed—thick, raw. Why help me? she asked finally. They've done it before, he answered, eyes lost in memory. The Order raided my pack's crypt. My father gave his life to save mine. I swore I'd burn the Order down. So you bought me? Expected leverage, he said. "Not Moonblood. Fate's an ass.
Lightning split the sky. Shadows moved along the rim. "Rogue scouts," Damon hissed. They ran low, weaving between wrecks until they reached a collapsed bridge. Damon vaulted first. Dahlia followed—but the structure groaned beneath her. She jumped. Metal shrieked. Damon caught her wrist, hauled her up as the bridge collapsed into the void below. Scouts shouted. Arrows rained. Damon dragged her into a maintenance chute. They slid through grime and darkness, landing in a hollowed pipeline chamber. Any brilliant plan? she asked, panting. "One." He pointed at a ladder. Metro tunnel. Still warded. They climbed. The tunnel beyond was black and cold, filled with the hum of ancient seals and glowing fungi. Railcars lay twisted. Glyphs blinked where wraith worms slept beneath their feet. They passed in silence.
A rusted door opened to an elevator shaft. It groaned as it climbed. Through the slats, dawn turned the sky molten red. They emerged onto a hill of swaying irongrass. The Barrens lay behind. Ahead, pine forest. We made it, Damon said, exhaling. The scent of soil and rain greeted them like a forgotten blessing. In a clearing, they found an abandoned ranger lodge, roof sagging with moss, walls crawling with ivy. Damon checked the perimeter. Dahlia stared into a cracked mirror. Her reflection barely looked human—silver veins, blood on her chin, shadows under her eyes. But the Nullstone still pulsed, calming the storm. Damon returned. We rest till dusk.
Over canned soup and a weathered map, they spoke softly. The Hollow Gate's here, Damon said, pointing. But my brothers will reach us soon. Roderick survived. He'll hunt. They serve the Order? They serve power. If the Hollow God wakes? The world ends. So we stop it, she said. A harpy's shriek shattered the silence. Shadows swooped from the sky—void-winged, clawed. "Scouts," Damon growled. One smashed through the window. His arrow struck its chest in a burst of silver flame. Two more followed. Dahlia hurled Moon-fire. One disintegrated. The last latched onto Damon's back. He slammed it into the wall. She burned it clean. Silence returned, broken only by his breath.
They know, he muttered. Then we run, she said. He looked at her. Thanks for not freezing. Fear's a luxury, she replied. And someone has to watch your six. His mouth curled. "Storm and wolf." They patched wounds and slipped into the forest as morning light pierced the trees. The world smelled of sap and wild promise. With each step, Dahlia felt steadier—less a weapon, more a force. She glanced at Damon. He smirked without turning. Hours later, they crested a ridge, and the Iron Curtain swallowed the sky. Beneath it rose a fortress carved from obsidian, its towers wrapped in green flame. The Hollow Bastion. Damon's voice was quiet. "Endgame." Dahlia adjusted her pack. "Then let's write a better ending."