The journey from Sorrow's Pass began in silence.
They traveled on horseback, Kaelen leading the way on a formidable black warhorse, and Lilith following a few paces behind on a sturdy but unremarkable mare provided by the Order. Two of Kaelen's cloaked soldiers rode at a respectful distance, a pair of ever-present shadows.
The road was a ribbon of mud and stone, winding through desolate hills. The wind, their only constant companion, whispered through skeletal trees, carrying tales of forgotten sorrows. For two days, the only sounds that passed between them were curt, necessary commands from Kaelen—"We make camp here," "We ride at dawn"—and Lilith's quiet, one-word affirmations.
She observed him from beneath lowered lashes. He was a creature of absolute discipline. He ate little, slept less, and his vigilance never wavered. Every action, from cleaning his sword to surveying the horizon, was performed with an economy of motion that spoke of a life spent in constant readiness for violence. He was not a man; he was a weapon, honed to a razor's edge. And like any weapon, he was cold to the touch.
He, in turn, watched her. He saw the way she moved, with a grace that seemed to defy the rugged terrain. He saw how she required no fire for warmth on the coldest nights, how her eyes seemed to pierce the deepest shadows. He cataloged these details, filed them away as one would assess the capabilities of a new asset. She was useful, but she was an unknown quantity, an anomaly to be managed, not understood.
Their alliance was a cage with two prisoners, each wary of the other's teeth.
On the third day, the landscape began to change. The barren hills gave way to a dense, mist-shrouded forest. The air grew heavy, damp, and carried a new scent beneath the pine and wet earth—the sickly-sweet odor of decay and disease.
"We're close," Kaelen said, breaking the long silence.
"I can smell it," Lilith replied, her gaze fixed on the oppressive canopy ahead.
The place the bone-shard had pointed to was not on any Imperial map. It was a secluded mountain village called Stillwater, a name that was a cruel joke. The water here was anything but still. A plague festered in its heart.
They found the village huddled in a high valley, a collection of damp, timber-framed houses shrouded in an unnatural quiet. Smoke curled from only a few chimneys. The faces that peered from behind shuttered windows were gaunt with fear and suspicion.
As they dismounted in the muddy village square, a group of grim-faced men, armed with rusty axes and hunting spears, emerged to block their path. An elder, his face a mask of desperation, stepped forward.
"State your purpose, strangers," he rasped, his voice raw. "There is only sickness and sorrow here."
Kaelen's presence alone was enough to make the men flinch. He dismounted, his armored boots sinking into the mud with a soft squelch. "I am here on the Emperor's business," he said, his voice cutting through the damp air. "I am looking for answers about the blight that has fallen upon your village."
The elder's eyes widened, a flicker of crazed hope in their depths. "The blight... it is a curse! A punishment from the mountain spirit! We have... we have prepared a sacrifice to appease it."
He gestured towards the center of the square, where a crude wooden pyre had been erected. And tied to the central post was a small child.
She couldn't have been more than seven years old. Her body was frail, her skin marked with the dark, tell-tale lesions of the plague. But her eyes, wide and terrified, were still lucid. She was not a sacrifice. She was a little girl.
Lilith's hands, hidden in the folds of her dress, clenched into fists. She had seen death in a thousand forms, had grown numb to its presence. But this—this was different. This was not the inevitable end of a life, but the cruel, deliberate snuffing of a spark in the name of fear.
"A necessary ritual to save the many," the elder insisted, as if sensing her unspoken condemnation. "Her life for the village."
Lilith turned her gaze to Kaelen, expecting to see some sign of intervention, some flicker of the authority he so readily brandished.
Instead, she saw only cold assessment. He was weighing the situation, calculating the odds. The lives of a hundred desperate villagers versus the life of one sick child. In his eyes, she could see the grim arithmetic taking shape.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "This is their way," he said, his voice low, meant for her ears only. "It is not our place to interfere with local customs. We are here for information, not to dispense justice."
He was going to let it happen.
He was going to stand by and watch them burn a child.
The villagers began to chant, their voices a low, guttural hum. One of them approached the pyre, a lit torch in his hand. The little girl began to cry, a thin, hopeless sound that was quickly swallowed by the wind.
The fragile, unspoken truce between Lilith and Kaelen shattered in that moment. She looked at the unyielding commander, then at the terrified child, and she knew she had a choice to make.
And it would not be his.