Dawn came pale and brittle. The forest did not brighten with it—no birds stirred, no thaw of color touched the trees. Instead, the light slid across the frost like dull steel, cold and unforgiving.
Aiden was already awake when Lyon stirred. He stood at the edge of the clearing, cloak draped around his shoulders, violet eyes fixed on the horizon as if reading something only he could see.
"You don't sleep anymore," Lyon muttered, rubbing at his eyes as he sat up.
Aiden glanced back. "I sleep when I need to."
Lyon snorted, dragging his satchel closer. "That's not an answer. It's a lie dressed as one."
"Then stop asking questions you already know the answers to."
Their banter was quiet, subdued by the weight of the forest. Still, it carried a familiarity sharpened by months on the road—Aiden's clipped retorts, Lyon's restless need to dig deeper.
They packed their camp in silence, stamping out the ashes until only a faint trail of smoke rose. Lyon hefted his staff, the iron rings clinking softly, while Aiden adjusted the straps of his satchel, his fingers brushing the hilt of the blade hidden beneath his cloak.
The path narrowed as they pressed on, winding between roots that clawed from the frozen earth. The forest whispered again, low and endless, a language neither boy cared to translate.
After some time, Lyon broke the silence.
"Do you ever think about home?"
Aiden's steps didn't falter. "No."
"Not even once?"
"No."
Lyon's jaw tightened. "You really are made of stone, aren't you?"
"Stone doesn't bend. Doesn't break. Better than being stormclouds, always scattering, never staying."
That stung, but Lyon only tightened his grip on his staff. The air between them crackled with an unspoken challenge before fading into quiet again.
Hours passed. Their breath fogged the cold air, their boots leaving prints swallowed almost instantly by drifting snow. The ruins loomed closer, though unseen, like a heartbeat beneath the earth.
It was Lyon who spoke again, softer this time, as though the question had haunted him too long to keep in.
"Do you think we'll survive this?"
Aiden finally slowed, his cloak brushing frost-laden branches. He looked back, really looked, violet eyes catching Lyon's storm-grey ones.
"Survival isn't the question."
Lyon frowned. "Then what is?"
Aiden's gaze lingered, unyielding. "What we'll become if we do."
The words hung between them, colder than the air itself.
They walked on, silence pressing down heavier than the frost. Somewhere ahead, the forest shifted—the faint echo of stone, the scent of earth buried too long. The ruins waited.
But not yet.
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