Chapter 22: Ash in the Hollow
The hollow was nothing more than a dip in the stone hills, but to soldiers who had just cut their way through Wardens it felt like a fortress.
The rocks leaned like tired shoulders, the trees crowded close enough to hide torchlight, and the fog poured in to seal the edges. Hale set them down with the gesture of a man who had done this too many times before, spear butt driving into the ground as if to say breathe here, breathe now.
Elias let himself sag against a slab of granite slick with moss. His thigh burned where the spear had kissed him, his ribs throbbed from earlier bruises, and his lungs carried the taste of iron and smoke. For a long moment he didn't speak.
The quiet felt strange after the clash of steel and the scream of horns. It rang louder than the fight itself.
Noll collapsed beside him, pale and trembling. The boy's ward had held far longer than anyone had a right to expect, and now the toll came due. His arms shook as if he were still holding the weave, muscles twitching, breath ragged. Elias reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Steady," he murmured. "It's done, you held."
The boy's eyes flicked to him, wide and too bright, then closed. He leaned into the touch like he was afraid to fall without it.
Elias remembered younger soldiers in the desert doing the same thing, holding onto anyone who looked like they knew which way was forward.
Tamsin crouched on his other side, the brazier's glow still in her hair like embers that refused to die. She peeled back cloth with brisk hands and swore under her breath when she saw his thigh. "Shallow," she said, "but angry. Hold still." She pressed linen to it, then dripped something sharp smelling from a clay vial. It burned like fire in his veins and Elias swore loud enough to make Rook lift his head.
"Good," Tamsin said, and smirked when he glared. "If you're cussing, you're alive." She wrapped the bandage with a soldier's efficiency, not healer's gentleness, then tied it off with a tug that made him hiss again.
Rook nosed forward after that, pressing his muzzle against Elias's chest as if to test his heartbeat himself. The cub's silver eyes flicked toward the two children huddled near Elvi, and with a small grunt he padded over to them instead. He curled at their feet, laying his head across his paws in a gesture so careful it nearly broke Elias's ribs again. The younger child's fingers sank into the fur without hesitation.
Elvi cut the last of their bindings with her knife, working in silence. The girl, older, sharper eyed, watched her every move, not trust but calculation. She sipped from the waterskin Noll had offered earlier, her throat bobbing slow and controlled, while her brother clung to Rook like a sailor to driftwood.
Hale remained standing at the hollow's edge, gaze scanning the fog. Blood ran down his forearm from the gash he had ignored during the fight. He gave it one shake as if to scatter rainwater, then planted his boots wider. "No fires," he said, voice low but carrying. "They'll hunt the smoke. We sit cold tonight."
Thorek grunted, easing himself down with hammer across his knees. His beard was blackened with soot and streaked with blood not his own.
He muttered something about dwarves not being made for creeping about like foxes, but the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. He lived for the clang, the fight, the hammer's song.
Elias could already see sparks in his eyes as if he were planning how to make the next weapon louder.
Lysera lingered near the children, veil still shimmering faintly around her like threads reluctant to fall. Her gaze flicked once to Elias, sharp as glass. She didn't speak, but he could feel the weight of her thoughts pressing against him. He'd cut Threads again, openly this time, and they both knew what that meant. She didn't have to say the Church would burn him for it. The silence between them said enough.
The air thickened in the hollow, heavy with sweat, blood, and damp earth.
Elias breathed deep anyway, forcing his pulse to settle. He thought of Alabama nights when the air pressed down the same way, hot and full of insects, when Ava had laughed at fireflies like they were lanterns made just for her. His chest twisted. He blinked hard and fixed his eyes on the stone instead.
Tamsin moved to Noll next, checking his hands where the tremors hadn't stopped. She rubbed salve into his knuckles, muttering about fools who thought they could hold wards with nothing but stubborn will. But Elias caught the way her touch slowed, softened, like she was wrapping more than bandages.
The children drank again, slower this time. The younger one hiccuped into Rook's fur, and the cub answered with a quiet rumble deep in his chest, soothing and protective. The sound filled the hollow with something that almost felt like peace.
For a few breaths, no one spoke. The silence wasn't comfortable, but it was needed. They had survived. That was enough for now.
Hale didn't sit. He never did until he was sure the edges were quiet. He scanned the treeline one more time before coming back to the hollow, planting his spear in the earth. The sound was final, like a pin driven through parchment.
"We move at dawn," he said. "Elvi knows a safe place for the children. Until then, we rest, and no noise that doesn't need making."
Elvi glanced up, strands of hair falling across her face as she adjusted the cloak she'd draped around the younger boy. "A root cellar. Old woman lives there, hates the Church more than she loves her own teeth. She'll keep them."
Hale gave a single nod, then turned his gaze to the squad, weighing them one by one. "That runner got out. We can't pretend otherwise. They'll sweep the Thornveil now, in lines, in force. Sooner or later, they'll know there's more than beasts out here."
Silence hung, heavy and unkind. Thorek was the one who broke it, because dwarves never let silence win. He chuckled, low and rolling, tapping the haft of his hammer against the ground. "Let them come. We'll greet them with teeth and steel. Maybe even fireworks." His eyes cut to Elias with a glimmer that was dangerous in its eagerness.
Elias shifted against the stone, rolling his sore shoulder, meeting the dwarf's grin with a steady look. "Not yet. We use the grenades when there's no other choice. Blow too much noise now and we might as well paint a target on the temple door."
"Temple doesn't have a door, lad, it's a hole in the ground." Thorek grinned wider. "But I take your meaning."
Rook huffed at their feet, like he was already tired of this argument.
Hale ignored the banter. His voice cut through with iron weight. "Discipline. We are not a mob. If you want to live long enough to piss on the Church's banners, you'll follow orders, not whims."
That silenced even Thorek, though his grin didn't fade.
Lysera's gaze shifted from Hale to Elias, the faint shimmer of her veil finally fading as she sat near the children. She waited until the others had drifted to their tasks, Thorek muttering at his hammer, Elvi humming a soft tune for the boy pressed against her side, Noll slumped half asleep with Tamsin scolding him softly. Only then did she lean closer, voice cold as river water.
"You cut Threads again."
Elias felt his stomach tighten, though his face stayed still. "And?"
"And," she said, eyes narrowing, "if the Church learns of it, you won't just burn. They'll sing whole cities to ash to erase the truth of you. They did it before. They'll do it again."
Her words pressed like a blade at his throat, not anger but fear sharpened to steel. Elias exhaled slowly, the memory of Ava's laughter still echoing in his chest like a phantom heartbeat. "If cutting Threads keeps the rest of you alive, then so be it. I won't let their horns tear us apart."
Lysera's lips pressed thin, her gaze sliding away as if she still saw the mural etched in stone. For a long breath she said nothing, then, quieter, "The Church calls him Saint Caelus. They claim he was born here, that he fought for their hymn alone. But the mural… it felt different, as if the stone remembered more than the sermons."
Her eyes snapped back to Elias, sharp as a blade. "And if they could twist his story to chain the world to their lie, what do you think they'll do to you if they even suspect the Veil can be broken?"
Hale frowned, the name pulling his attention like a hook. "Saint Caelus," he said slowly. "Every child in Velros is taught his hymns. Why drag his name into this?"
Elvi tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "You speak like you saw something we didn't."
Even Noll stirred, curiosity outweighing exhaustion. "What did you see?"
Elias glanced at Lysera. For once, she didn't look like she wanted to argue. He exhaled, rubbed at his temple, and said, "It's easier shown than told. When we're back at the temple, you'll see for yourselves."
Lysera gave the barest nod, her gaze still fixed on him. The warning hung between them like smoke: if they twisted one legend into a saint, they could just as easily unmake a living man.
The silence after stretched until Rook's tail thumped against the dirt, breaking it like a drumbeat. Elias scratched behind his ear, using the gesture as an excuse not to say more.
The night stretched on. They ate sparingly, hardtack from Elvi's pouch, dried strips of venison, water passed from hand to hand. The children ate first, watching with eyes too sharp for their years. When they finished, Rook licked crumbs from their fingers until the younger one giggled despite himself.
Elias leaned back, listening to the faint hum beneath the forest. He thought it was fatigue at first, the echo of battle still rattling his bones. But no, the Loom was louder here, deeper. Threads ran not just through people but through the land itself, and now he could feel them.
Water carried one rhythm, steady and sure. The trees had another, slower, like lungs filling with fog. Even the stones beneath his boots seemed to hum, faint but real, a background note that had always been there, waiting for ears that could hear.
He rubbed at his temples, unsettled. It was too much, too loud. Like trying to hear a single voice in a crowd. But when he focused on Hale, the hum sharpened, aligning with the captain's iron steadiness. When he turned his awareness toward Noll, it jittered, unsteady but bright, like a boy's heartbeat running too fast.
Commander's resonance, he realized, half formed. He was starting to feel not just the enemy, but his own people, and everything around them. It was terrifying. It was also necessary.
He didn't tell them. Not yet.
Later, when most had drifted into uneasy sleep, Elias stayed awake with Lysera at the edge of the hollow. Fog drifted like ghosts through the trees. The Loom's hum pressed against his senses until it felt like the air itself was holding its breath.
"You hear it too, don't you?" he asked finally.
Her gaze cut to him, then back to the treeline. "I hear enough to know Thornveil isn't empty. Something watches. Something waits."
Elias felt the hair rise on his arms. It was the same presence he'd felt before, patient, immense, not hostile but not kind either. Like a hand pressed against the skin of a drum, testing. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. "Then let's hope it keeps waiting."
Lysera didn't answer. She didn't need to. The silence was answer enough.
When dawn crept pale through the fog, Hale rose first, as always. He shook the others awake with soldier's efficiency, no gentleness but no cruelty. The children stirred last, blinking against the thin light, clutching Rook's fur as if the wolf was the only proof the night had been real.
"We move," Hale said simply. He pointed toward the north ridge. "Elvi leads. We ghost the patrol lines, keep wide of the river, and reach the cellar by dusk. After that, we vanish."
Thorek hefted his hammer and cracked his neck. "And after that?"
"After that," Hale said, "we sharpen blades and wait for the Church to overreach." His eyes cut to Elias. "Because they will."
Elias met his gaze, steady. "Then we'll be ready."
The words tasted like ash, but they rang true.
The fog had not lifted when they left the hollow. It clung to them like a cloak, beading on skin, dampening every sound, but Elias knew it was no gift.
Fog blurred shapes, hid movement, but it also muffled sense.
His Resonance strained, tugging at threads he couldn't always see, the hum of the forest now a crowded tavern full of voices all talking at once.
He kept pace with Hale at the front, eyes moving, ears open, spear balanced in his hand. Behind them, Elvi guided the children with quiet words and steadier hands.
Noll walked close to her, ward held small and tight, a practice he had drilled until his arms ached. Lysera drifted near the rear, veil stretched thin as glass, not flashy but steady, catching stray noises and bending them away.
Thorek muttered the whole time, low and gravelly, hammer knocking softly against his shoulder. "Damn fog makes a man feel like he's sneaking through soup. If soup could stab you."
"Keep your voice down," Elvi whispered without turning her head.
Thorek's grin cut through his beard. "Soup doesn't listen, lass. Wardens do."
Elias snorted before he could stop himself. The sound earned him a glare from Lysera, but even she looked less like she wanted to kill him than usual. Humor, even bad humor, had its place.
The hours dragged. The forest around Thornveil was never still, never silent. Branches creaked under unseen weight. Small lives moved in the underbrush. Sometimes the air itself shivered with a ripple that Elias felt in his teeth more than his ears. Each time, his hand tightened on the spear until the hum settled again.
Twice, they froze as Warden patrols moved too close. Gray cloaks and iron helms, their boots crunching through undergrowth, voices sharp and clipped. The first time, Elvi melted into shadow so deep she seemed carved from it, her bowstring silent as breath. The second, Lysera flicked her veil across their path and turned three men's eyes away as if the squad was nothing but fog.
Elias breathed through both moments, heart thudding, Resonance vibrating against his ribs. He tracked the patrols by feel, not sight, sensing the tension in their movements, the intent humming like taut strings. It unsettled him how natural it was becoming.
When the danger passed, Hale gave a curt nod, and they moved again.
By mid afternoon, the fog thinned enough to show more of the land. Thornveil was no gentle forest. Its trees rose gnarled and tall, their bark split like old scars, their roots clutching stone as if trying to drag it deeper underground.
The children struggled with the pace, but Elvi never let them lag. When the boy stumbled, she caught him by the arm and steadied him, whispering a joke so dry Elias almost laughed. When the girl faltered, she gave her a waterskin, and her steady gaze. Rook padded alongside both, watchful, silver eyes bright in the gloom.
It was strange, Elias thought, how natural it felt to see them there, as if Rook had decided that guarding children was a duty older than hunting or fighting.
The first sign of the Warden encampment was sound. Faint at first, just a clash of metal, a grunt, the rhythm of hammers striking pegs into earth. Elias stopped, hand lifting without thought, and the others froze behind him. Hale came up beside him, brows drawn, head tilted.
"You feel it?" Elias asked under his breath.
Hale shook his head. "Hear it. You feel it?"
Elias nodded. "Too many notes at once. Like a drumline out of step." He gestured north. "There."
Lysera's veil stretched thin, and together they crept forward until the trees thinned into a ridge overlooking a clearing.
Below them sprawled the beginnings of an encampment. Dozens of Wardens moved like ants across the mud, raising tents, digging firepits, setting posts for watchtowers.
Porters carried supplies from wagons, crates stamped with the Church's sigil, the yellow stitched eye. At the center, a crystal pole already glowed faintly, waiting for the veil singers to tune it.
Elias felt his throat tighten. The last one of those had nearly broken them.
"They're fortifying Thornveil," Lysera whispered, voice clipped. "Not just hunting parties. They mean to dig in."
Hale's jaw worked, eyes scanning the field. "That means they'll sweep wider. Secure routes. Patrol in shifts." He exhaled through his nose. "We'll be hemmed in within a week."
"Damn it," Thorek muttered, fingers tightening on his hammer. "Give me ten grenades and I'll clear the bastards before supper."
"No." Hale's voice was iron. "Too loud. Too soon. They'll bring a Choir if we make noise like that."
Elias kept his eyes on the camp, the hum vibrating in his bones sharper now. He could feel not just the men, but the crystal at their center, its resonance wrong and heavy, like a bell cracked but still rung. It pressed against the Loom around it, bending threads to its rhythm. It made his teeth ache.
"They're anchoring themselves," he said quietly. "Tying the Loom to their camp, so it won't just be mud and tents. They'll make it sing their note, not the forest's."
Lysera's eyes flicked to him, sharp. "You shouldn't know that."
"I don't," Elias said, jaw tight. "I feel it. And I don't like it."
They pulled back from the ridge before eyes could lift and catch them. The fog closed around them again, damp and cold. Hale set them in a small dip among roots and spoke low.
"They're here to stay. That means we change how we move. The temple stays hidden, but we can't walk Thornveil as if it belongs to us anymore. Every trail will be watched. Every village will be squeezed." His gaze swept them all. "This is war, whether we asked for it or not."
Elvi's hand tightened on her bow. "So we bleed them. Slow. Quiet. Pick their lines apart until they choke on them."
Thorek grinned, savage and eager. "Now you're speaking my language."
Noll swallowed hard but lifted his chin. "We can fight them. I'm ready." His ward flickered faintly at his fingertips, still raw, still trembling, but there.
Elias looked at the boy, at the squad, at the direction of the camp. He thought of Alabama nights, of Ava's laughter, of the daughter he couldn't save. He thought of the two children walking with them now, eyes too wide, too knowing.
"We've been training for a reason," he said, voice steady. "We knew we couldn't stay hiding in the woods forever. If they want to choke Thornveil, we'll give them something to choke on."
The words sat heavy in the fog, but no one argued. Hale gave a single nod, slow and final.
"Then we begin," he said.
That night, they didn't sleep much. The children curled against Rook, Elvi's cloak draped over them, but the others kept watch in turns. The fog carried the faint glow of torches from the new camp, a smear of yellow against gray. Every now and then, the crystal sang, a low pulse that made Elias's bones hum until he clenched his jaw.
He lay awake longer than his turn, listening, hand resting on the spear. His Resonance stretched farther than it had before, brushing the edge of the camp, feeling the wrongness woven into it. He wondered if this was what The First Threadcutter had felt, long ago, when the world had bent and begged for a hand to steady it.
The thought chilled him more than the night air.
When dawn came, pale and sharp, he rose with the others. They had no fire to warm them, no walls to guard them, only the weight of what they had seen and the unspoken knowledge that Thornveil had just shifted beneath their feet.
The Loom hummed on, steady and patient, and Elias felt its challenge in every note.