Night on the ridge broke in silver slivers. Clouds slid past the moon, turning Anchor Six's distant pulse into a rhythmic bruise on the horizon. Kael drifted half-awake, half-dreaming of chain links grinding against bone. When the first pale thread of dawn touched the basalt spires, he rose, muscles stiff but ready.
Thorn was already up, kicking ash over last night's ember pile. The retainer drank water straight from the skin, then handed it across. Kael swallowed, cool liquid cutting the grit that sleep had left behind. In those quiet seconds he felt the ridge's hum—low, patient, warning.
Rei stretched beside a stone outcrop, knives flashing as she ran linen over the edges. "Sky's calm," she murmured. "Too calm."
"Storm spike's still due," Kael answered. "Calm before the throat clears." He checked the Nullglaive. Yesterday's field-wide hum had left faint soot lines along the silver seam, but the weapon felt eager, almost hungry.
Elias emerged from his tent, hair wild, clutching his cracked lens. "Vector grid drifted overnight," he said, stifling a yawn. "Air pressure down a tenth. Nothing critical, but the ridge might flex."
"Flex how?" Varin asked while he cinched the mule's packs.
"Small torsion quake, maybe. We'll hear it before we feel it." Elias tapped the lens, purple light blooming like a bruise across the fracture. "If it starts, we spread weight."
Veyra approached with the fox mask draped over one shoulder like a fur stole. She eyed the red glow in the west. "It beats faster."
"It wants to be heard," Kael replied. He looked over his people—dust-scarred, spark-bound, not broken. Time to move.
They pulled down tents in silence. As Kael rolled his bed-mat, a familiar flash of white text flickered at the edge of vision:
His pulse hitched. Not new power, just data, but confirmation that yesterday's Nullglaive hum had tugged something awake. He tucked the knowledge away—no point rattling the others with half-answers.
Shardwalk, Ghostline Step, Grounded Cut, he reminded himself. Three tools, all understood. Shardwalk: half-second phase through solid matter—cold, risky, priceless. Ghostline Step: a cost-free blur dash that left an echo, handy for dodges. Grounded Cut: dump Essentia pulses through steel and silence spells. Everything else waited.
They set off single file. The ridge curved upward in shallow switchbacks, basalt undercut by wind until some steps felt like walking on knifeblades. Thorn took point, shield raised; Kael trod second this time, wanting a clear line of sight for the Nullglaive. The fox mask scouted overhead ledges. Varin whistled to the mule every few minutes—steady rhythm to soothe jittery nerves.
An hour in, the line halted. Ahead, the trail narrowed where two walls of basalt leaned together, forming a slot barely two meters high. Through the crack drifted a peculiar glitter, like powdered moonlight.
Rei crouched, prying a pebble free. She tossed it into the slot. It vanished with a soft hiss, as though swallowed. "Shimmer-zone," she said. "Gate's weeping mirror dust."
Kael studied the sparkle. The air inside the slot folded light; edges blurred. "We can't detour. Who's thin enough to test footing?"
"I'll go," Rei offered, twirling a knife. Her frame was narrow, but the shimmer's hungry look clawed at Kael's gut.
"I'll go first," he decided. He slid the Nullglaive free, tested its weight, then faced the slot and breathed slow.
The shimmer pulsed when he stepped through, like water resisting entry. Cold drilled into his skin. He took two slow paces; the light bent around the blade but left him untouched. Behind, he heard Thorn exhale relief.
A glint to his left—dust swirling into shape. It coalesced into a spidery silhouette with too many joints, each limb sprouting shard hooks. Empty sockets glittered, reflecting Kael's stance back at him.
[Veil Aberration – Glass-Crawler]
It lunged. Kael jerked the glaive up in a rising parry. Shard hooks rang against steel. He twisted, sliding the edge down a forearm and venting a quick Grounded Cut. White sparks forked across the creature; its limbs fritzed, losing cohesion. But it still swung a hooked claw at his flank.
He dashed forward—Ghostline Step—leaving a blurred echo that absorbed the swipe. The crawler skidded on mirrored sand, confused. Before it recovered, Kael pivoted and slammed the blade through its torso. The creature burst into glitter that faded into the air.
His throat burned with cold. When the dust settled he realized the slot roof sat only a handspan above his head; any Shardwalk misfire would have pinned him half-inside stone. He exhaled, then waved for the others.
Thorn and the mule squeezed in first—shield scraping overhead. Elias followed, whispering gravity metrics to keep himself calm. Rei and Veyra slipped through last. The fox mask prowled circles, ears flat. Kael stayed until everyone passed, then backed out of the shimmer zone, spine prickling.
Once free, he knelt, letting warmth crawl back into veins. The System popped a gentle reminder—no drain, just fatigue tugging eyelids.
Elias crouched next to him. "Ghostline saved your ribs."
"Almost wasn't enough," Kael said, flexing tingling fingers. The higher-space affinity notice nagged at him. If the Gate believed he could bend edges better, maybe Ghostline would soon reshape—if he survived long enough to need it.
They marched again. Mid-morning sun burned fog off the ridge, revealing Anchor Six's plateau: a cracked tableland streaked with red fumes. Daric Rhal's squad trudged across it, small figures beside a molten trench where Essentia leaked like magma.
Kael felt heat roll off that glow even from kilometers away. "Looks nasty."
"Plenty of time before we get melted," Varin answered, though his tone lacked conviction.
They stopped at a rocky saddle for midday rest. The wind had died; sweat clung despite the chill. The mule huffed, side trembling. Thorn loosened girth straps and rubbed its neck. Kael sipped water, then unrolled a tattered training ribbon—red silk, frayed edges. He let his thumb trace the Ashwin crest stitched at one end.
Varin noticed. "Still carry that?"
"Reminder that the pact started long before this Gate." Kael stood, looking at each comrade. "Thorn—how many fights since the grain yard?"
"Lost count, ," Thorn rumbled, but the ghost of a smile tugged his scarred lip.
Kael turned to Rei. "And you? How many debts?"
"Running tally," she said. "Still owe you two silver for saving my hide in Fracture Alley."
"Interest's steep," he teased, though his voice caught. He faced Elias. "Last chance to regret the scholarship clause."
Elias flushed. "I regret not bringing thicker socks."
Kael laughed, tension bleeding away. "Veyra—"
She lifted a finger, mock-stern. "Never regretted," she said. The fox mask yipped agreement, then darted under Kael's cloak, making him twitch.
Varin clapped. "Courtyard pact reaffirmed." He produced a small bottle of winter root cordial. "Sip. One each." They passed it around—sweet burn, citrus after-bite. Even Thorn took a swallow.
When the bottle emptied, Kael tucked the ribbon into his coat, heart steady. The wind returned, whipping dust into miniature swirls that danced between them. High above, the chains groaned.
Afternoon shadows stretched long when they reached a cliff shelf overlooking the Anchor Six plateau. Steam vents hissed below; molten fissures crawled like veins across graphite ground. Kael scanned for Rhal's squad—no sign. Either they'd found cover or the plateau had swallowed them.
Elias clicked his tongue. "Energy readings rising. That fissure is bleeding Essentia at anchor-breach levels."
"And it'll worsen before nightfall," Kael said. "We camp short of the plateau, approach at first light."
Thorn drove pitons into a sheltered alcove, lashing rope for a windbreak. Veyra sent the wolf figment to stand sentry at the cliff's edge, its translucent hackles bristling against unseen threats. Rei nested under a jutting slab, daggers crossed on her lap, eyes scanning red vapors drifting skyward.
Kael couldn't sleep. He walked the ledge until moonrise, Nullglaive resting against shoulder. The plateau below glowed like a forge. He tried to imagine the path—molten sluices, unstable plates, anchor ribs thrumming with pressure. Somewhere in that storm his Ghostline would sharpen, shear space, become something new. He hoped the Gate would wait until he truly needed it.
A glimmer on the plateau caught his eye—a single, silver spark flitting erratic above the cracks. It vanished almost as quickly, but enough to prick dread. Not Rhal's men, not a Veil-beast. A warning, maybe, or a promise.
He returned to camp. Thorn looked up from sharpening a spare knife. "Danger?"
"Just reflections," Kael lied. He sat, back to basalt, and closed his eyes. The Nullglaive warmed gently against his palms, like a heartbeat growing faster.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow the chain asks its price again.
Sleep finally claimed him beneath the crimson pulse of Anchor Six, and the ridge murmured on