They didn't stay long enough to feel safe.
A runner from the Sanctuary found them at the city steps, dust white on her lips.
"Master Serayin's message," she said, swallowing hard. "By next sunpeak, the twin oases will fall out of rhythm. If the Heart isn't restored, wells will pale, canals will stall—and Ra'teluun will draw deeper from its source."
A low thrum rolled across the sky. Above the spires, the barrier rippled like heat over iron.
Amon tightened his cloak. "We move."
Scorched Expanse
The desert changed in an instant—dune to kiln. Wind-polished obsidian spines jutted from the flats. Whole basins lay vitrified, sand fused into smoky glass that chimed when a step landed wrong.
"Haarid's shard is out here somewhere," Bolt said, scanning. "Listen for the place that doesn't want to be heard."
Eryn closed his eyes. His mother's pendant hummed faintly against his chest; the world's din narrowed. Beneath the wind—a single, steady tone, like a singing bowl.
"This way," he said.
They slid into a shallow basin where the glass folded on itself like cooled waves. At its center, a column of clear stone held a palm-sized Ashglass Shard, dark fire trapped inside.
A shadow crossed their path—and kept going, without a body to cast it.
Amon's hand went up. "Eyes."
Shapes flickered between the panes: sand wraiths, lamplight-thin, faces drawn long by the wind. Steel would pass through them like rumor.
"They don't like being touched," Bolt murmured.
"Then touch the veil," Amon said.
Fight in Reflections
A wraith slid toward Eryn's back. Amon cut the air—
[Veilweaving — Cut Seal]
—an invisible line clicked, and the wraith condensed, suddenly heavy enough for the world to hate it.
"Now," Amon snapped.
Eryn fired a short burst—
[Static Ricochet]—into a nearby pane. The glass carried the charge in a spiderweb of bright lines and snapped it into the wraith's chest. It howled in a sandstorm's voice and died like a sigh.
Two more came low. Bolt planted his feet.
[Living Barriers — Impact Shell]
A rounded shield bloomed from his ring, drinking the first swipe and shunting the second into the glass floor, where it scraped harmlessly.
A third wraith spilled up from the pane beneath Amon's boots. He didn't leap; he threaded the space—
[Nullthreading — Bind Thread]
—and the creature hung as if caught in a net the eyes couldn't see.
"Eryn," he said, without looking.
Eryn's fingers moved, slower and cleaner than yesterday—
[Veilweaving — Veil Rend]
The net tightened. The wraith fractured along invisible seams and blew apart in glitter.
Two slipped past, arrowing for the shard. Bolt cursed, sprinted, and flung out both hands—
[Living Barriers — Corridor Logic]
Flat panels unfolded into a channel, redirecting their momentum into a glass wall. The wraiths struck and went to smoke.
"Good lanes," Amon said.
"Stole it from water engineers," Bolt grinned, a little too wide.
One last wraith slithered along the underside of a pane toward Eryn's ankles. He felt the air chill and didn't think—
[Veil Touch]—a firm push into the ripple. The pane rejected the intruder, flexing it back up where Amon's
[Glasscraft — Lattice Net]
dropped like a closing hand.
Silence returned, broken only by the faint singing stone.
Amon nodded toward the pedestal. "Take it."
Up close, the Ashglass Shard was cool, its heart a coal that refused to burn out. Eryn braced and twisted it free. For one breath, every pane in the basin sang the same note.
Far away, Ra'teluun answered with a pulse Eryn felt in his teeth.
"Time," Amon said.
Whisper Compass
Haarid of the Thousand Locks wasted no words. He set the shard into a brass cage, latched three tiny keys in a circle, and waited. The Whisper Compass trembled, then steadied—two needles where one should be.
"One points clean," Haarid said. "One jitters."
"The clean trail's a lie," Amon replied. "We follow the fight."
Haarid's mouth hitched in approval. "Then run. The city won't."
They stepped into light that should have been kind and wasn't. Above, the barrier breathed too hard, runes stuttering like a heartbeat gone wrong.
A Sanctuary courier staggered up the steps. "Wells in the outer rings—already paling. Sunpeak, or we start closing taps."
Bolt flexed his hand, his ring catching the light. "Then we stop talking."
They plunged back into the streets. Eryn kept pace, the compass quivering in his grip, his pendant warm—two rhythms trying to agree.
At the market's edge, Amon glanced at the shimmering dome and then at Eryn. "We get the Heart. Then we talk about the rest."
"About Ra'teluun?"
Amon didn't answer. He didn't need to. The barrier pulsed black for a heartbeat, like a breath held too long, and every bird in the square went silent.
Elsewhere
In a wind-cupped alcove overlooking the trade road, a figure in obsidian plates watched the trio weave through the crowd.
"The barrier draws deeper each hour," he murmured to the plain-robed man beside him.
"Good," the man said, voice mild as dust. "Let it drink. Thirst teaches."
The obsidian man raised a slender scope; in its lens, two starless eyes flared and faded like a reflection that wasn't there.
"Run," the mild voice added, almost kindly. "The faster, the better."
Some time later
They left Haarid before the city had fully remembered how to breathe.
Keystra receded in tiers of gold and shadow, Ra'teluun's dome a faint curve against the brightening sky. The Whisper Compass rested in Amon's palm, its two needles trembling—one steady, the other jittering like a nervous hand.
"We follow the shake," Amon said, eyes forward. "Real power resists being found."
Bolt adjusted the strap of his pack. "And if real power decides it doesn't want to be returned?"
"Then it should run faster," Amon replied.
Eryn tried to smile, failed, and focused on stepping where Amon's boots had pressed the sand firm. The pendant at his throat warmed now and then, a second pulse he didn't ask about.
They moved in silence until the sun began to bite. Dunes gave way to flatter ground scattered with knotty scrub. Somewhere far behind, the city changed its song; the low hum of Ra'teluun faded to a rumor.
"Don't miss it?" Bolt asked. "The way Keystra smells like spice even when it's lying to you?"
Amon snorted. "Keystra doesn't lie. Keystra omits."
"That's just a fancy lie," Bolt said. "Flirts, takes your drink, walks away with your ring."
Eryn looked between them. "You two grew up there?"
"Bolt did," Amon said. "I grew up in it."
"That's the same sentence," Bolt said.
"It isn't," Amon said.
They found a narrow throat of stone that cut the morning wind and took it as a path. The compass's jitter-needle leaned slightly east. Amon adjusted their course. Eryn tried to push away the memory of burned wood and voices; failing that, he kept moving.
By noon, the light had gone white. Amon called a halt under a limestone overhang that smelled faintly of salt and something older.
"Short break," he said. "Then we work."
"Work?" Eryn asked, wary despite his relief.
Amon set the compass on a flat rock where its needles chased each other in slow arcs. He unhooked the glass jackal mask from his belt—its facets dead and beautiful—and exhaled through his nose.
"We'll see the Cindral today," he said. "We'll have minutes to make decisions that should take hours. So—"
"—we steal hours," Bolt finished, rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand; the azure ring answered with a soft, living thrum.
Amon pointed at Eryn. "You learned Veil Touch, Cut Seal, Veil Feint. Good. Now we braid those with soulbranding. Show me the spark."
Eryn glanced at his mother's pendant. Its arcs caught light that wasn't there and never quite held it. He breathed as Bolt had taught him—deep, slow—and let his will sink into the metal. A faint ozone taste bloomed on his tongue. Lightning ticked between his fingers and the chain.
He let it go before it could bite.
"Again," Amon said, "and hold."
Eryn did. The spark steadied—small, clean.
"Good," Amon said, which still felt like a feast. "Now—combinations."
They moved five paces from the shade. Amon raised his left hand; [Glasscraft — Crescent Shards] peeled into existence—six curved razors hovering like a broken halo.
"Bolt."
[Living Barriers — Arc Guide] formed as a curved panel in front of Amon's shards, its surface ridged like the inside of a shell. Bolt angled it; Amon flicked his fingers; the crescents skimmed the panel and slingshotted in a wide fan that could cut three men from three directions.
"Add charge," Amon told Eryn.
Eryn shaped a Veil Feint with his off-hand to pull an imaginary defender's eye left, then snapped two [Static Ricochet] pips into the passing crescents. The air cracked. Each shard now carried a thin electrical skin, enough to stun through leather.
Bolt whooped. "Name time."
"Solar Fang," Eryn said before he could stop himself.
"Obviously," Bolt grinned.
They tried a second sequence—Amon raising [Mirror Gate] at three angles, Eryn bouncing short arcs into it to create a scatter-web, Bolt catching the reflections with a [Corridor Logic] pair and narrowing them into a single lane. The air sang with near-misses.
"That's Cage Dancer," Bolt said. "For when they think they're safe."
Amon allowed the corner of his mouth to move. "We are not naming everything."
"Wrong," Bolt said. "We're naming everything."
They pushed harder. Amon sketched a low [Sun-Tempered Aegis] to take a sand-blast. Eryn timed a Cut Seal to break as the Aegis met force, making the shield flex instead of crack—giving Bolt an opening to snap [Ram's Horn] clamps into place.
"Again," Amon said, and again, until Eryn's fingers trembled and the ring on Bolt's hand ticked like a contented animal.
They slumped back under the ledge for water and dates.
"Why help me?" Eryn asked into the shade.
Amon watched a thread of light crawl across the compass lid. "Because we need you."
Bolt leaned back. "Because we like you."
Eryn worked his jaw around a reply and decided silence was safer. He tucked the pendant under his shirt, letting it settle against his skin like a promise he hadn't made yet.
The compass's jitter leaned farther east as the land grew meaner—thorn-crowns that caught their boots, dry creek beds whose stones were too round, as if something huge rolled through when the world blinked.
At a narrow pass, they found raider prints and gear abandoned in haste—canteens, a torn sleeve, a black pebble smooth as spilled ink.
"Seen these," Bolt said, crouching.
"Obsidian Pact?" Amon asked.
Bolt rolled the pebble with his knuckle. "Raiders took a contract to hit a water train near Dryhook. Scouts went ahead. Never came back. We found their gear—and these. No bodies." He flicked the stone into Eryn's palm. It was warmer than the air. "Don't keep it if it starts to hum."
"What happens if it hums?" Eryn asked.
"Give it to me," Bolt said cheerfully.
They moved on. The wind rose and fell like a tired animal. Eryn tried not to see shapes moving against it. He failed—and kept it to himself.
They camped early, more because the land told them to than because anyone admitted it. A hollow behind a long-boned boulder gave them a half-circle of protection. Amon set invisible Veil Thread alarms. Bolt built a low fire that burned like good behavior.
Eryn sat with his back to the rock and worked his breath around the pendant. This time, when the hum came, it met him. He didn't push—he leaned.
"Better," Amon said without looking up from a sand-map.
"Think it'll wake soon?" Bolt asked.
"Soon isn't safe," Amon said. "Steady is safe."
"I'd like both," Eryn said.
"Greedy," Amon replied with a ghost of a smile.
They ate fast, content anyway. Bolt told a story about a noble who tried to bargain with a sandstorm by offering it land and titles. Eryn laughed before he could stop himself; it felt like breathing for the first time since the village.
Night fell quick. Stars inked the sky. The desert's noise shifted pitch.
Eryn stepped away and stared east, where the dunes broke into a dark seam like a closed eye. The seam shifted—sand crawling in a pattern that wasn't wind. For a heartbeat, he imagined scales the size of boats. He shut the thought down; thoughts, like snakes, listened for their names.
Back at the fire, Amon watched him through the flames. "See something?"
"Wind," Eryn said, then, choosing honesty, "Maybe not wind."
Amon nodded. "We won't sleep long."
They didn't. They slept in turns while the others listened to a silence that pretended to be empty. Near midnight, the Veil Thread sang once—soft as a finger on glass. Nothing came. The song faded. Sleep did not deepen.
They were moving before dawn. The Whisper Compass brightened in the half-light; the jitter-needle quivered so hard it buzzed like a trapped fly.
"Close," Bolt murmured, voice low as in a temple.
"Quiet," Amon said.
They crested a dune. In the basin below: canvas, low fires, men moving with their backs to each other. A Cindral Veil caravan, tucked in a crack the wind couldn't find.
Somewhere inside, a drum thumped three times—not loud, not a challenge. Celebration. Eryn's teeth clenched without his permission.
Amon's eyes narrowed. "Then let's ruin their day."
He knelt, tracing Mirror Gate angles in the sand. Bolt rolled his shoulders until something popped. Eryn's hand found the pendant; for the first time, it felt like a hand on his back.
The sun's lip touched the horizon.
They moved.