The rain had eased, but the world still smelled of it — wet bark, cold stone, and the faint metallic tang the storm had left behind.Inside the hut, the fire had burned low, its light clawing at the corners as if reluctant to linger. Ezra lay on her side on the narrow cot, her head turned toward the door, pretending sleep.
She hadn't meant to wake. But a voice — Eliakim's — had threaded its way into her half-dream.
"…you've been holding the truth since the moment you took those bandages off…"
That had been enough to pull her to the surface. Now, the murmur of conversation bled through the hut's thin walls, the words softened by rain and distance, but the edges… the edges carried.
"…control," Eliakim's voice, sharp.
A pause. A low, calm counter from Malachi, too quiet to make out.
Then: "…only seeing half the board."
Her brow knit. Half the board? What board?
The voices dropped again, lost to the rain's whispering drip from the eaves. She strained, catching only fragments — "river," "storm," "spikes." And once… a single word in Malachi's voice, said with that same detached calm he always wore:"Ezra."
Her heart gave a small, hard kick. She waited for more — but the next sound was the squelch of boots in mud, growing nearer.
Ezra closed her eyes, let her breathing go slow and even as the door creaked open. Footsteps — Eliakim's — passed her cot. A moment later, the faint scrape of Malachi setting something down. Neither spoke.
The fire popped, throwing a small burst of light against her bandages.She didn't move.But she wasn't sleeping anymore.
Morning came slow. The hut smelled of boiled roots and damp wool, the air heavy enough to taste. Caleb sat cross-legged by the door, his hands weaving thin strands of grass into a braid — a meditative habit he'd fallen into since their arrival. Eliakim crouched near the fire, feeding it slivers of wood, his profile unreadable.
Gideon had been gone since dawn. His absence was a comfort to some, a worry to others.
The door thudded open.He returned — soaked through, hair slicked back, his clothes streaked with mud and crushed leaves.
But he wasn't alone.
A shimmer trailed in after him, the air bending around the shape of something not quite here and not quite gone. Kaelvryn — the spectral beast — moved like a living shadow edged in pale silver light, her form flickering between sinew and smoke.
She stepped into the cramped space, her eyes dimmer than usual, and let out a low rumble that made the coals tremble in their pit.
"You're late," Eliakim muttered without looking up.
Gideon ignored him, crouching beside the beast. "She's tired," he said, almost defensive. "The minerals she ate before we entered the Kingdom of Aeloria… The Cascading Crown's veins are dry now. She's been running on nothing but will."
Kaelvryn snorted — a sound almost human in its annoyance — then pressed her muzzle briefly to Gideon's shoulder before moving to the center of the hut.
The silver haze around her began to condense, her shape tightening, folding inward on itself. Her form shimmered once, twice — and then the light snapped inward, leaving behind a twin-bladed axe on the dirt floor, its surface faintly steaming.
The weapon gleamed darkly in the dim hut, veins of silver running through its black steel like frozen lightning.
Gideon picked it up, the weight familiar in his hands, then leaned it against the wall beside his cot. "She'll rest," he said quietly.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The fire crackled; the rain had finally stopped outside, but the silence in here was heavier than before.
Kaelvryn's voice, faint but clear in Gideon's head, spoke again. They're all… different. Scarred. Are they safe?
He answered aloud without thinking. "Everyone's still standing. That's something."
And then, without warning, his voice rose — sharp enough to cut the room in half."Is everyone actually okay?!"
It wasn't a question so much as a demand. His gaze swept from Caleb to Eliakim — and landed, finally, on Ezra.
She stiffened under the sudden attention.
Gideon's voice dropped in volume, but the words hit harder for it."You all keep walking around like nothing's wrong, but I'm looking at her—" he gestured, not gently, toward her face "—and there's a scar running straight across her eyes. And nobody's saying a damn thing."
The words seemed to reverberate off the cramped walls.
Ezra froze, her hands tightening in her lap. She hadn't meant for anyone to see it — hadn't even realized how much the faint firelight revealed against her skin.
Eliakim's head turned sharply toward Gideon, his expression flickering through something between warning and threat. Caleb's braiding slowed, then stopped entirely. Malachi, seated in the far corner, said nothing — only watched, his face unreadable.
Outside, the rainwater still dripping from the roof gave one last patter… and then stopped.
The silence inside the hut had nowhere left to go.
The air in the hut had gone utterly still. Ezra felt every eye on her, every heartbeat in the room. And for the first time since waking, she wasn't sure whether the quiet was meant to protect her… or to keep her from knowing the truth.