The fire had burned down to its last coal.
Azrael sat close to the dying glow, the cold pressing in from all sides. Veyna hadn't spoken since they left the basin's edge. Janis kept her blade unsheathed, eyes darting to every distant sound like she was listening to the trees breathe lies.
They hadn't said it out loud, but something had changed.
"Tomorrow," Veyna finally said, "we turn back."
Janis stirred. "You're serious?"
"We came to find what stirred the ashes. We found it."
"And it found us," Azrael muttered.
Veyna looked over at him. "That's why we leave before it finds us again."
They didn't argue.
As dawn cracked over the Ash Scar, the three packed their gear. The basin behind them had returned to silence, no glow, no hum, just a basin of soot and broken memory. The spiral columns loomed behind them like ancient sentinels bidding a farewell.
Azrael glanced over his shoulder one last time.
And the wind whispered: Not yet.
The journey back began through dense frostwood. Vines laced in old snow drooped from twisted branches. Fog curled between their feet as they descended from the crater's edge into the lowlands.
Janis walked beside Azrael, voice low. "You feel different."
"Do I?"
"Yeah. Like you're heavier. Not just the pack."
Azrael didn't answer. He thought of Deyvros, the vision, the stillness, the voice that never spoke.
He is not yet ready.
"What happens when I am ready?" he whispered.
Janis looked at him. "You planning to become a god or something?"
He almost laughed.
---
They didn't see the first arrow.
It whistled past Azrael's shoulder, embedding into a tree with a thunk.
"Down!" Veyna yelled.
The second arrow struck Janis' thigh. She grunted, rolling into the snow. Exhaling in pain.
Figures emerged from the fog, six, maybe seven, cloaked in bone-white hides, faces painted with ash. Each bore weapons fashioned from obsidian and bone. One held a crimson flag etched with a glyph none of them recognized.
"Move!" Veyna shouted, hurling a small flash stone.
It burst in white light. Azrael grabbed Janis's arm, dragging her behind a fallen tree as Veyna covered them.
"I thought you said this path was forgotten!" Janis yelled.
"I said the shrine was!"
The attackers flanked left. One rushed Veyna with a curved blade, she caught him mid-swing, parried with her staff, and slammed the end into his chest. He dropped.
Azrael tried to lift Janis.
"I can run," she hissed, gripping her leg. "Just not fast."
"Then stay low."
Two more assailants came through the trees. Azrael rolled to dodge one, landing beside a rusted axe left from a prior camp. He swung up as the attacker lunged, the blade catching wood and cloth, sending the man off balance. Janis kicked the second in the knee, slashing his side.
"We have to get out of here!" Azrael yelled.
Veyna backed toward them. "There's a ridge northwest. If we reach it, they won't follow."
"Why not?"
"Because they're not allowed."
Another arrow struck her shoulder. She winced but didn't fall.
"Go!" she roared.
They bolted.
Snow churned underfoot as they sprinted. Azrael took Janis's weight, half-carrying her as they ran. Veyna stumbled once but kept moving. The attackers shouted behind them, but the forest grew darker and denser.
And then they reached it.
A sudden wall of stone, narrow steps carved into its side, slick with moss and frost.
"Climb!" Veyna ordered.
Azrael scrambled up first, pulling Janis with him. Veyna came last, blood seeping from her arm. As they reached the top, a sharp cry rang out below. One of the attackers reached the base, then stopped.
He looked up… and turned away.
The others followed. They vanished back into the fog.
Janis dropped onto her back. "What the hell was that?"
"They're Bound," Veyna said, panting. "By pact. They can't cross this line."
"Why?" Azrael asked.
Veyna's eyes were cold. "Because of what's buried up here."
They found shelter in a stone hollow near the cliff's edge. Veyna bandaged her wound without flinching. Janis's thigh was worse; Azrael wrapped it with torn fabric and a compress of snow.
"I hate cults," Janis muttered.
"Those weren't cultists," Veyna said. "They were Ashbinders."
Azrael blinked. "I've heard that name."
"They were once followers of Deyvros. After his death, they turned rogue. Believed silence wasn't surrender, but vengeance."
Janis scoffed. "Lovely. And now they shoot people in forests."
Veyna nodded. "Because they believe you touched what should remain buried."
Azrael sat quietly. The pain in his side was growing; but dull, like a bruise beneath the bone.
"Is it over?" he asked.
Veyna looked toward the fog. "For now."
In Danigrasse, Varros was no longer calm.
"You lied," he hissed.
Mura stood unfazed. "We controlled what you needed to know."
"You knew the Ashbinders survived."
Tenik folded his hands. "And we knew they would follow any spark that reached the basin. Your boy lit more than a flame."
"You used him."
"He was the only one the relic responded to," Mura said. "Would you have preferred we sent someone we couldn't control?"
Varros's eyes narrowed. "You think you can control him?"
"We can control what happens next," she replied. "We've sent scouts. If Azrael survives the Ashbinders, he returns under surveillance."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then the god dies again," she said simply.
Later that night, under thin moonlight, Azrael couldn't sleep. He sat outside the stone hollow, the wind biting at his face.
Janis limped over, dropping beside him. "You're thinking too loudly."
"I saw something today."
"Yeah. Same. Arrows."
He smiled faintly. "No. When I touched the basin, I saw a man. A god. But also a mirror. It felt like he knew me."
Janis was silent.
"I'm not afraid of the answers anymore," he whispered. "I just don't know if I'll like them."
Janis touched his arm. "Whatever's in there, it's still you. That's all I care about."
He turned to her. "And if I change?"
"Then I'll keep you honest."
He nodded slowly.
Behind them, Veyna stirred in the hollow, trying to piece together what is lost is lurking in there.
Overshadowed by forgotten memories, fixed on the curved stone above her; eyes that had seen too many basins, too many flames, too many gods.
Her shoulder ached where the arrow had pierced her earlier. The wound had gone deep, but not as deep as what stirred inside her now.
She breathed slowly. Let it take her.
The scent of frost and ash faded, replaced by the thick heat of a southern desert. A city carved from bone-white stone rose in the distance, glowing beneath twin moons. Bells rang in the wind, carried by chanting voices.
The City of Istherel.
She had not thought of that name in years.
She was younger, barely sixteen, cloaked in violet robes, her hands stained with ink from the relic scripts. She stood in the Vault of Mirrors, facing her old master.
"You will leave tonight," he informed her. "There is a boy born to the Danigrasse line. His shadow is wrong."
"I thought the line was sealed?" she had asked.
His reply had been simple. "Some seals don't last."
She'd journeyed north. She'd watched. She'd waited. She'd payed attention.
Azrael was still a child then. Afraid of birds. Afraid of cliffs. Afraid of himself.
And yet… she'd stayed. Against orders. Against logic.
She remembered cradling him once, after he'd fallen into the thorns. His eye had been bleeding. She'd cleaned the wound while his mother panicked, and he had whispered to her, not to his mother, but her "Am I broken?"
She'd wanted to say yes.
Instead, she'd said: "No. You're just unfinished."
Back in the hollow, Veyna's eyes shimmered. Still staring at the hollow.
How long had she delayed the truth? How many rituals had she ignored? The prophecy had said the vessel would awaken at the edge of the Scar. That the ash would choose him again.
She had thought it myth.
But she had felt it today; in the hum of the basin. In the weight of silence.
Deyvros was not gone.
Not fully.
She rolled onto her back, staring up into the starless night. Her voice came in a whisper, barely heard by the stones.
"Forgive me, master. I stayed too long."
The wind stirred the edge of her cloak like a reply.
But far above, unseen again, the cloaked figure moved between the trees. Not Ashbinder. Not man. Its eyes glowed faint violet beneath the hood. It crouched over a trail of footprints, touching the ash-stained snow.
"They've begun," it said in a voice of wind and whisper.
From the shadows, a second figure emerged.
"What now?" it asked.
The first figure smiled.
"We follow. Until he remembers what he is."