The ruins stank of ichor and smoke. Arlen knelt over Harlan's axe, its haft splintered, his scar-knuckled hands trembling as he wiped the blood away with his sleeve. The blade's edge was chipped, dull now, useless against what had come through the rift. Yet he couldn't let it go—his father's last defiance bound into wood and steel.
Ryn Calder stood nearby, pacing like a trapped fox. His freckles stood out against his pale face, reddish-brown hair plastered to his forehead. His green eyes darted from the dagger pulsing at Arlen's side to the shadows shifting at the edge of the ruins. He finally spoke, voice hoarse.
"Arlen… we can't stay here. The wolves… the fire… the whole damned village—"
Arlen's jaw clenched. He sheathed Ignis, its runes dimming but not silent. The whispers had settled into a low hum, like an ember waiting for breath. "We're not running," he said, voice raw, almost alien to his own ears. "If the rift stays open, others will come."
Ryn shook his head, half laugh, half sob. "What do you plan to do, stab the sky with that cursed knife?" He spat, but his hands shook. "I saw your eyes glow, Arlen. You're not—" His voice cracked. "You're not the same."
Arlen said nothing. He only stared at the distant glow where Eldridge burned, smoke blotting the stars.
---
They buried Harlan at dawn, a shallow grave under the ash-tree by the river. Arlen's scar-knuckled fingers packed the earth with grim resolve, Ryn watching in silence. No prayers. No hymns. Just a boy pressing his grief into dirt.
When it was done, Ryn touched Arlen's shoulder. "We head to Kaelthorn," he said. "The Hunter's Guild will know what to do."
Arlen's gaze lingered on the horizon where the smoke curled. He whispered a promise, barely audible. "I'll kill them all. Every last Hollowed beast." Dagger pulsed once at his hip, as if in approval.