The mountains had changed in five years, but so had Ahayue.
Once a boy who stumbled, cursed and frail, he now moved with the measured strength of a hunter. The mornings saw him sparring with shadows, the curse coiled into spears or blades at his command. Afternoons he walked the high ridges, carrying game back on shoulders that no longer bent under weakness. His body was straight, his steps steady. The curse had not healed him—it never would. But under Andalusia's harsh patience, he had bent it into a brace, a lattice of dark power that let him walk like other men, fight like other men.
Yet the cave was the same. The fire crackled in the same stone hearth, herbs dried in the same bundles along the wall. Andalusia's presence filled it, shifting always—sometimes a maiden instructing him with fierce eyes, sometimes a crone muttering warnings. He no longer flinched when her skin changed mid-sentence. He had learned to see her not as youth or age, but as herself: his teacher, his protector, his only kin.
And she had come to see him not as student, nor even as cursed boy, but as son.
Though she never said it outright, he read it in the way she lingered when he returned late from the ridges, the way her hand brushed his hair when he fell asleep over his scrolls. He read it in the way her eyes softened when he spoke of dreams of one day walking into the world beyond the peaks. For the first time in two centuries, Andalusia was not alone.
The Omen
It began with smoke.
One morning, Ahayue saw it from the ridge: a thin column rising from the valley far below, where no smoke should be. He stiffened, and his hand closed on the hilt of the bone-knife she had given him years ago. He returned to the cave quickly.
"There are others," he told Andalusia, breath sharp.
Her expression did not change, but her eyes clouded. "I felt them," she said. "For days, the mountain whispered unease. It seems the whispers were true."
"Another tribe?"
She nodded. "Word has spread. Witches draw fear and greed alike. They come to plunder, or to kill."
For the first time in years, Ahayue felt the old boyish tremor in his hands. He thought of the tribe that had mocked him, cursed him, cast him aside. Would these be the same? Or others? It mattered little. They were coming.
Andalusia touched his shoulder, her skin wrinkled today. "Do not fear. You are not the boy you were. And I… I have waited for this."
Her words chilled him, but before he could press, she turned back into the cave, already gathering powders and bones.
The Attack
They came at dusk.
Ahayue heard them first: war-cries echoing through the peaks, drums made of hide and bone. Then the torches, flickering like fire-serpents as the warriors climbed toward the cave-mouth.
There were more than a dozen. Men scarred and painted, with spears tipped in obsidian and bows strung taut. At their head strode a tall figure, skin painted black, feathers woven into his hair. His voice boomed across the rock.
"Witch! The mountains no longer hide you. By the blood of the gods, we will end your curse tonight!"
Ahayue stood at the cave's threshold, shadows curling around his arms. "Leave," he called, his voice low but steady. "This mountain is death for you."
Laughter answered him. Arrows whistled.
And then the fight began.
Battle Beside His Mentor
Ahayue had never fought men before, only beasts, illusions, the shadow-things Andalusia summoned. But now he moved like water, curse-blades slicing arrows mid-flight, shadows lashing spears aside. His feet were steady, his strikes precise. He was no longer prey.
Andalusia was beside him, terrible in her wrath. Fire leapt from her fingers, searing through shields. Her form shifted in the torchlight—maiden, crone, maiden again—confusing the warriors, breaking their courage. Her voice rose like a storm, chanting words of the old tongue, and the mountain itself seemed to groan.
But there were many, and they pressed hard. Spears struck stone, arrows rained. Ahayue cried out as one shaft grazed his shoulder, blood hot against his skin. Andalusia snarled and flung a wave of shadow that sent three men screaming into the abyss.
The leader advanced, obsidian spear glowing with painted runes. "The boy is cursed too," he bellowed. "Take him! His blood feeds the gods!"
Ahayue met him, curse meeting steel. The clash rang like thunder. He staggered, strength barely enough to hold, but Andalusia's voice cut through the roar:
"Stand, Ahayue! You are not broken! Stand!"
He did. With a cry, he forced the shadow through his arm, his legs, his chest—black fire burning—and struck. The spear shattered. The leader fell, chest torn open.
The warriors faltered. But victory did not come.
Andalusia's Fate
Ahayue turned to her—and saw it.
An arrow had found her chest, buried deep, black feathers trembling with her breath.
"No!" His voice broke.
Andalusia smiled faintly, young again for a fleeting instant, as if the curse itself wished her to die in beauty. She raised a hand, weaving one last storm of fire that scattered the remaining warriors into fleeing shadows.
Then she fell.
Ahayue caught her, the weight light, too light, for a woman who had carried centuries. Blood stained his hands. He pressed them to the wound, sobbing. "No, no, no—"
Her hand touched his cheek. Already it trembled with the cold of leaving.
"Ahayue…" Her voice was both maiden's and crone's, layered, as if her whole life spoke at once. "I have waited for this… so long. The curse would not let me die. But now… now it releases me."
Tears burned his eyes. "You can't. Not now. Not after—after everything."
Her smile wavered, tender and broken. "I regret… only this. That I met you so late. You are my son, Ahayue. In all the ways that matter. I… I would have kept you, if the fates allowed."
He clung to her, but the strength was leaving her body, her form flickering between youth and age, light and shadow.
"Listen to me," she whispered. "The curse is heavy… but you are stronger than I. Promise me you will walk further than I ever did."
"I promise," he choked.
Her eyes closed, her hand slipped from his cheek, and at last Andalusia—witch, teacher, mother—was still.
Aftermath
The cave was silent. The fire still burned, herbs still hung, but the heart of it was gone. Ahayue sat with her body, rocking, the boy inside him clawing free of the man he had become. He had fought beasts, shadows, avalanches, men—and yet this was the first battle he had truly lost.
Night fell heavy.
He buried her the next dawn, high on the ridge where the mountain touched the sky. He built the cairn with his own hands, stone upon stone until his fingers bled. And when it was done, he sat before it and whispered the only words that mattered:
"Mother."
Closing Beat
When he rose again, he did not feel weak. He felt hollow. Empty as the cave. But within that emptiness burned something new: not just survival, not just fear.
Resolve.
The curse still crawled in his blood. The world beyond the mountains still waited. And though Andalusia was gone, her voice lived in him.
Ahayue tightened his cloak, turned from the cairn, and stepped into the wind.
The journey had not ended. It had only begun.