They chose a broken side chapel to rest. The main hall still held the faint smell of old smoke and dried herbs, but here the air was quieter. A narrow window let in a blade of pale light; dust drifted through it like slow rain that never reached the floor.
They did not risk a real fire. Mira shaped a thumb-sized lamp of water and warmed it until it glowed. The little light floated above a fallen pew and painted soft gold over stone and cracks.
Elira sat with her back to a pillar, Lumeveil sheathed across her knees. The day had left weight in her bones—echoes to fight, a Keeper with winter in her eyes, a ruin that felt more asleep than dead. Still, this quiet felt like a kindness she hadn't earned but would not refuse.
Kael checked the corridor once, then again, habit more than worry. He tapped the floor with two knuckles, listening to the stone the way others listen to voices. Satisfied, he came back and eased down near the doorframe.
Mira passed bread and a small roll of cheese. "Eat first," she said. "Then we think. Then we don't think."
Elira accepted the bread, tore it small, and chewed like she was building a fence around her thoughts. The simple taste steadied her. She swallowed and let out a long breath that finally made room for words.
"This place," she said softly. "It doesn't feel empty."
"Sleeping," Mira agreed. "And guarded. The Keeper called herself a watcher. Not friend, not foe—just the lock on a door."
Kael nodded once. "Then we move like guests in a house that still remembers the family."
They let the lamp drift higher. Shadows climbed back up the walls. Mira drew a small, neat sketch on scrap paper—chapel, corridor, hall, broken altar. "Darius sent us here for a reason," she said. "He could have named a dozen other ruins. Why this one?"
Elira's fingers found the pocket watch under her tunic. The metal was cool, then warm, like a heartbeat catching up. "Because this place keeps records that don't burn," she said. "Not scrolls. Stone." She swallowed. "Names."
Behind the altar they had brushed dust from a slate slab and found four shallow lines, cut by a patient hand: Kyder Veylen. Tina Syvun. Teln Dravern. Susan Solem . No dates. No marks. Just names—set like anchors.
Mira read them again in a whisper, as if sounding them placed them more firmly in the world. "Two we know," she said. "Teln Dravern. Susan Solem." Her eyes flicked to Kael, then to her own lap. "The other two… not yet."
They cleared more dust along the lower edge and found two additional cuts, set a little apart from the first four—as if someone had carved them later, or didn't want them touching the others:
Hiuo Gishan. Lucy Lates Fardonas.
Mira frowned. "I don't know these two."
"Me neither," Kael said. He traced the last surname without touching it. "But Fardonas is a royal line. Old crowns, northern branch. If that name is real… a third party in this story wasn't a commoner."
Elira stared at the pair of new names, the space left between groups like a seam. "So not just Element. Not just our parents. Someone royal had a hand here."
Elira kept her eyes on the lamp. "They may be part of Element," she said, careful and flat. "Old guild. Old marks. The E on mine. Dust Ruin holds guild work. So it holds guild names."
Keal kept his gaze on the lamp. "We don't decide tonight," he said. "We just hold them."
A long quiet followed, not heavy—just careful. The ruin breathed with them. Far off, wind slipped down a stair with no steps.
Mira broke the stillness first, voice light by effort. "The dark in here is… different. Not wild like that village. More like a library that doesn't want loud voices."
Elira felt Lumeveil hum, a slow, steady note against her palms. Keep the light small and true, the spirit murmured, and the shadow will stay where you set it. Elira nodded once, a promise to blade and self.
Mira's eyes slid to Elira's sword—then to Elira. "About earlier," she said gently. "The way your edge moved—gold, then… not gold."
Elira's throat tightened. "I should explain," she began. "My contract—Lumeveil isn't only—"
Mira lifted a hand, small smile softening the line of the moment. "You don't have to."
Elira blinked. "What?"
Kael shifted, the plates on his arms giving a quiet click. "Everyone carries a corner they don't open on the first night," he said. He didn't quite look at her. "Small secrets are allowed."
Mira nodded. "We trust you. If there's a day we need to know every piece, you'll tell us. Until then—" she tipped her chin at the sword, "—we've got your back, and you've got ours. That's enough."
The heat behind Elira's eyes surprised her. She breathed it away and managed a thin smile. "Thank you."
"Besides," Mira added, teasing to make the air lighter, "I have a spirit who scolds me for showy spells, and Kael pretends he doesn't like stories. We all have flaws."
"I don't pretend," Kael said, deadpan, which made both of them laugh a little.
They ate the rest of the bread. Mira split three dried apricots. The lamp hummed softly above them like a tame star.
Kael pushed to his feet, then paused, as if a second thought had tripped him. He picked up his bedroll, walked two steps to the spot he'd chosen… then moved again—farther, settling near the door in the narrow strip of floor a foot would have to cross to enter.
Mira raised an eyebrow. "Guarding the threshold even when asleep?"
"I like the doorway," Kael said, simple as stone. "And I want you two to sleep before the cold comes down."
Mira tipped her head, a small, thankful smile that did not make noise. "All right."
Elira looked at him. "You don't have to stand, you know. We're safe enough for one night."
Kael's mouth twitched. "I won't stand." He pointed with his chin to a narrow strip of floor between door and wall, exactly where any foot would have to pass. "I'll lie down there."
Mira snorted, but softly. "Sentry even when horizontal."
Kael shrugged. "If someone steps on me, I wake. It's efficient."
It should have ended there, clean and practical. But he hesitated, and in the warm lamplight Elira thought—just for a second—that there was color high on his cheekbones. He looked away too fast. "Also," he added, the words a shade stiff, "distance is polite. The floor's… crowded."
Elira blinked, then understood. A little heat climbed her own face. They were three young people in a cold ruin, and it was easier to talk about sentry lines than privacy. "Thank you," she said, and meant both the soldier's choice and the man's courtesy.
Kael gave a short nod and made for the threshold, then stopped, as if something else wanted saying and had to be checked for sharp edges first. "You need space," he said at last, not looking at her. "Both of you. I can listen to the stone from there. Draga hums less if I'm not… close." The last word was almost a cough. Then he settled on his bedroll at the door, turned onto his side facing the hall, and pretended he had nothing more to feel.
Mira set the water-lamp lower, so it cast a warm circle that just touched their packs. "We can keep thinking," she offered, quieter now. "About Dust Ruin. The Keeper. Why Darius chose this place."
Elira kept the pocket watch in her palm and listened to its tiny, stubborn tick. "He knew he didn't have time," she said. "He knew this is where stones still tell the truth. He wanted us to find it without anyone's permission."
"Then tomorrow, we look for more that won't burn," Mira said. "Corner marks. shallow cuts. Places a chisel stops when footsteps come."
Elira nodded. "And if we don't find any, we still rest. My edges are cleaner when I do."
Mira grinned. "A healer's favorite battle plan."
Elira laughed once—small, real—and eased down on her bedroll. She set Lumeveil beside her, palm resting on the sheath. The blade's hum smoothed to a thread-thin line, like a lullaby for a sword.
They did not set watches. They did not talk about danger. The chapel's walls were thick and the Keeper had allowed them to stay. That was the bargain of the night: trust the stones; sleep like people rather than soldiers.
Mira stretched out on her back, hands folded under her head, and blew a puff at the lamp to dim it. The little light obeyed, shrinking to a coin-bright glow.
Elira rolled onto her side, facing that glow. Her other hand slipped out across the space between bedrolls without thinking. Mira's fingers found it, squeezed once, and let go—a quiet promise that didn't need words.
"Good night," Mira murmured.
"Good night," Elira answered.
Kael did not speak, but his breathing settled into a steady rhythm at the door. If anyone asked, he would say it was because the threshold needed ears. The truth had other parts: he wanted them to have space, and he was a little shy about it.
The ruin kept still with them. A grain of plaster let go somewhere high and fell like a slow star. Wind nosed the narrow window and then thought better of it. The lamp held its small circle and did not waver.
Sleep came—first in thin slices, then in a deep, even piece. The names on the stone stayed where they were. The Keeper did not come. The dark did not press.
And for one night, under broken glass and old prayers, they rested as three friends in a sleeping house, saving their questions for the morning.