The mountain was older than the forest.
Torian could feel it in the wind that circled its cliffs, in the way the stone groaned beneath his boots. It wasn't just age—it was memory, heavy and unspoken, pressing against the skin. Even Skarn moved cautiously now, his claws digging softly into the trail as they climbed, head low, wings drawn tight.
They had flown far from the creatures. Far past the broken woods. Now the terrain rose jagged and uneven, climbing into a series of narrow ridgelines wrapped in cold air and silence.
Storm clouds churned above them, and when the first thunder broke across the peaks, Skarn turned off the trail.
He led them along a side path cut between two knife-like walls of granite. Halfway through the pass, he stopped.
Torian slid from his back.
"What is it?"
Skarn didn't move.
But the answer was already clear.
There—half-hidden beneath a wall of twisted vines—stood a door.
Or what had once been a door.
A wide, arched outline in the cliff, rimmed in spiral carvings and crumbling stone, swallowed nearly whole by plant growth. Roots had pierced its seams. Moss coated its face. But the shape was unmistakable.
It had been sealed. Intentionally.
Torian stepped closer.
The air here felt different. Cooler. As if it carried breath from another age.
He brushed his fingers across the stone.
Faint symbols lined the arch — glyphs like those he'd seen only once before, far below the world, in the spiral-marked grave where he'd first met Skarn.
But these were smoother.
Older.
They didn't hum with heat or warning.
They waited.
⸻
Skarn moved forward, sniffed once, and without hesitation, smashed his claws through the vines.
Stone cracked.
Roots splintered.
With a grinding groan, the doorway gave way, sending dust and ancient air rolling out like breath held for a thousand years.
The entrance yawned open into black.
Torian stepped back. Skarn growled low—not in fear, but in recognition.
They looked at each other.
Then stepped inside.
⸻
The passage led downward.
Cool stone beneath their feet. No torches. No lanterns. Only faint lines of glowing crystal laced through the walls, pulsing faintly as if reacting to their presence. Torian walked close to Skarn's side now, hand resting lightly on his shoulder as they descended.
The tunnel bent — not sharply, but subtly, curving inward, deeper, as if wrapping around something.
The silence grew heavier the farther they went.
Then the tunnel widened.
And the ruin revealed itself.
⸻
It was massive.
A domed chamber, big enough to hold a village, opened before them — half-choked by roots, half-lit by floating spheres of dim blue light that circled slowly through the air. Stone bridges curved above their heads, connecting doorways along the higher levels. Platforms jutted from the walls at impossible angles, some upside down, some pulsing faintly with weightless dust.
At the center stood a dais — and a mural.
Torian stepped closer.
It was etched into the wall above the altar. Ancient. Beautiful. A single figure stood at its center—tall, robed, faceless. In one hand they held what looked like a folded wing. In the other, nothing.
Below the figure, smaller carvings showed the same robed shape soaring through the sky, arms wide, cape-like wings flared as others watched from below. Mountains curved beneath them. Clouds parted before them.
And along the bottom:
A simple line of glyphs.
Torian stared for a long moment, then whispered, "…He flew."
Skarn snorted.
Not a scoff.
Not agreement.
Just a sound.
Torian looked to his left.
One of the sealed doors had a faint glow across its seam. A circular symbol — like a folded bird — hovered just above the lock.
He reached out.
Nothing happened.
Skarn walked forward.
Sniffed the door.
Then with one claw — smashed through it.
Stone cracked inwards.
Roots tore loose.
The door shattered.
Dust swirled into the hall.
And within…
…rested the glider.
⸻
It sat on a raised plinth in the middle of a silent room.
Folded.
Simple.
Sleek.
Not made of wood, or steel — but some blend of cloth and dark alloy. Ancient spiral-etched braces curved along the ribs. Cords twisted through glowing glass clasps. When Torian stepped closer, it gave off a faint draft—as if waiting to move.
He looked back at the mural.
The match was perfect.
"This is it," he whispered.
He reached out.
The glider was cold.
Not dead.
Cold like a deep well. Cold like something that had waited a long, long time for the right hands.
He gripped the handles.
Lifted it slowly.
The moment his hands tightened — it reacted.
Not violently. Just enough.
A rush of air swept across the chamber. Dust lifted. Vines curled away. The blue lights pulsed once.
Then the glider stilled.
Torian smiled.
Just barely.
Skarn watched from the doorway, tilting his head slightly.
Torian turned.
And said only:
"…Let's go try it."
The ruin behind them sealed itself in silence.
The doorway didn't close, but it felt closed. As though the moment they stepped back into the light, the mountain breathed again and decided to forget them.
Torian carried the glider carefully, both hands wrapped around the folded wings. It was light. Much lighter than it should have been. When he shifted it on his back, it adjusted to his posture with a strange, elastic pull — almost like it was balancing itself.
Skarn walked beside him, silent as ever.
He hadn't sniffed at the artifact. Hadn't shown any fear or interest. But his ears flicked every time it pulsed — and it did pulse, faintly, like it drew in the surrounding air and remembered flight.
The storm had passed.
The mountaintop stood clear, wind-swept, quiet.
Torian found a ridge wide enough to run along — a curving rise of stone that dropped off sharply into a valley of deep fog and swaying pine.
He stopped there.
Unfolded the glider.
It snapped open like a bird unfurling — crisp, sharp lines, a stretch of cloth unlike anything he'd touched before. It drank the wind. Drafts curled beneath the frame. Tiny red lights flared along the ribs, then faded.
He looked at Skarn.
"…If I fall, catch me."
Skarn didn't move.
Torian adjusted the straps, placed the grips across his arms, and took three steps back.
Then ran.
⸻
The wind hit him instantly.
He jumped—
—and the glider caught.
But only for a moment.
It twisted in the air, spun, dipped. The gust that had started to lift him collapsed beneath his boots. One wing folded slightly. He slammed into the ridge and tumbled down the slope.
Skarn moved instantly, blocking his fall with one thick forearm.
Torian groaned.
"…Okay. Not that way."
He stood, brushing dust from his elbows, and reset the glider.
This time, he tried crouching lower. He adjusted the spine. Let the frame angle up before sprinting.
He leapt—
—and flew.
Briefly.
Five seconds.
Then caught a tailwind and spun again—his boots knocked together, and he clipped a stone. The impact threw him sideways into a tangle of brush where he landed with a thump and a yelp.
Skarn tilted his head.
No movement to help this time.
Just watching.
Torian sat up and spat out a mouthful of leaves.
"…You could help."
Skarn blinked.
Torian stood again.
He could've left it there. Could've cursed, broken the thing, thrown it back into the ruin.
But he didn't.
He climbed the ridge again, breath sharp in his chest.
This time he waited. Let the wind gather.
He felt it.
The rhythm.
A gust rising up the slope, curling into the glider's ribs. The air shifted. Not just movement — a current. A memory. As if the wind remembered the old god who once used this tool, and was testing Torian to see if he deserved it.
He whispered, "Please…"
And ran.
⸻
The air lifted him.
Not much. But enough.
He soared past the ridge line — feet barely off the ground, but gliding — for a full ten seconds. The world swam around him. The trees tilted. The sky opened.
Then the draft failed again, and he dropped, tumbling through a loose roll and sliding into a patch of soft moss.
He lay there, grinning.
"…That counts."
Skarn padded over, sniffed once at the glider, then sat beside him.
Torian looked up at the sky.
Let his heart slow.
And for a moment, even surrounded by ruin, myth, and things he didn't understand, he felt something simple.
Hope.
Not because he could fly.
But because he knew he could try again.
Night came slow across the cliffs.
The wind settled into long, whispering breaths that curled down from the peaks like stories too old to speak aloud. Stars emerged above — cold and brilliant, their light sharp in the mountain air. No smoke. No fire. Just starlight and the glowing edge of old stone.
Torian sat near the edge of the outcrop, knees tucked to his chest, the glider folded beside him like a sleeping bird. Its frame gave off a faint shimmer, barely visible unless he looked straight at it. Every so often, the ribs flexed — not mechanically, but as if the artifact still breathed.
He hadn't tried again.
Three flights was enough.
His arms ached. His knees were bruised. And though he wouldn't admit it aloud, his chest still burned faintly — not from the Spiral mark, but from effort.
But that wasn't what made him stare into the dark so long.
It was the wall in the ruin.
The figure with the wings.
He could still see it perfectly in his mind — arms wide, body drifting over the mountain line, no flames, no weapons. Just wind. Just flight. Just… freedom.
Torian tilted his head toward the stars.
"…Who were you?"
He wasn't asking the sky.
He was asking the echo. The memory trapped in that ruin.
Someone had once stood exactly here. Had stepped onto that ridge, just like him. Had opened that glider, just like him.
And had soared.
Not to flee.
Not to fight.
Just to see.
The weight of it settled deep in his chest — not heavy, but solemn. Like inheriting something too vast to name.
He reached down and touched the glider's frame.
It pulsed softly in response. Not bright. Not loud.
Just recognition.
A silent yes.
⸻
Behind him, Skarn slept.
Coiled along the stone, wings half-curled, breath slow and deep. He hadn't moved since sundown. No watchful pacing. No sniffing the wind. As if he sensed this place was beyond threat — not safe, exactly, but sacred.
Torian looked back toward the glider one last time.
Then to the sky.
He whispered:
"Next time… higher."
And lay down beside Skarn, curling into the curve of his side. The glider lay between them, quiet and folded, its breath slowing with the wind.
Above, the stars blinked.
Below, the mountain slept.
And somewhere in the silence…
…the memory of wings lingered.