The mountain watched them leave.
Arel felt it even when he no longer looked back—an awareness pressing against his spine, heavy and ancient, like the gaze of something that had seen the world begin and end more times than it cared to remember. The Old One did not move, did not rumble or roar, yet its presence lingered, woven into the air and stone alike.
Seris walked ahead of him, her steps sure despite the uneven terrain. She moved like someone accustomed to listening to things others could not hear, her head tilting slightly now and then as if tracking distant whispers.
"How far until we're clear of the mountain?" Arel asked.
"Depends on what you mean by clear," Seris replied. "Physically? By nightfall. Spiritually?" She shrugged. "You never really leave a gate once it marks you."
Arel glanced at his glowing palm. "That's comforting."
She smiled faintly. "You'll get used to disappointing answers."
They followed a narrow trail winding downward through jagged stone and sparse trees. As they descended, sound returned to the world in cautious layers—the chirp of insects, the rustle of wind through leaves, the far-off call of something unseen.
Yet the air still felt wrong.
Arel slowed. "Do you feel that?"
Seris stopped immediately. "Yes."
"It's like… the world is leaning," he said, struggling for words. "Like it's trying to listen in on us."
Seris's expression turned serious. "That's because it is."
She crouched and pressed her fingers to the ground. Her mark glimmered, pale silver, casting faint ripples of light across the dirt.
"The Second Gate isn't awake yet," she said after a moment. "But it's dreaming. And dreams have consequences."
Arel frowned. "You said you were a Listener. What does that actually mean?"
She stood and brushed dust from her cloak. "Anchors hold. Listeners hear. Some see. Some shape. In the old world, every gate had a circle—different roles, different burdens."
"And now?" Arel asked.
"Now," she said quietly, "most of us are dead."
The words settled between them like falling ash.
They resumed walking.
As the sun dipped lower, the landscape shifted. The harsh stone gave way to rolling hills, dotted with twisted trees whose bark shimmered faintly, as though infused with traces of old magic. A narrow river cut through the land ahead, its waters unnaturally still.
Arel stopped again. "That river—"
"Doesn't flow," Seris finished. "Yes. I know."
They approached cautiously. The water's surface reflected the sky perfectly, like polished glass. When Arel knelt and dipped a finger into it, the reflection rippled outward, distorting the clouds above into spirals.
Arel pulled his hand back sharply. "That's not normal."
"No," Seris agreed. "That's proximity."
"To the Second Gate?"
"To one of its scars," she said. "Long ago, when the gates were sealed, some power leaked into the land. It never truly left."
Arel studied the river. "Is that why the world feels… thinner?"
Seris looked at him, surprised. "You're learning faster than I expected."
He gave a weak smile. "I nearly tore the sky open yesterday. Perspective changes."
They crossed the river using a fallen tree, the water beneath them remaining eerily still, even as their shadows passed over it. On the far side, the path widened, merging with an old road paved in cracked stone.
Ruins flanked it—collapsed walls, broken arches, the remnants of a civilization long swallowed by time.
Arel slowed, awe creeping into his chest. "People lived here."
"Yes," Seris said softly. "Before the Fall."
He touched one of the stones. It hummed faintly beneath his fingers, echoing the sensation from the mountain.
"Everything touched by the gates remembers," Seris said. "Even when we forget."
Arel straightened. "Is this where we're going?"
"It's a crossroads," she replied. "All gate paths intersect here eventually."
"And the others?" he asked. "The marked ones?"
Seris's jaw tightened. "Some will come willingly. Others will be drawn. And some…" She trailed off.
"Some will fight us," Arel finished.
"Yes."
As dusk deepened into night, they made camp among the ruins. Seris lit a small fire using a strange crystal instead of flint. The flame burned pale blue, steady and silent.
"Gatefire," she explained at Arel's curious look. "Doesn't attract attention the way normal fire does."
"Good," Arel said. "I've had enough attention for a lifetime."
They ate in silence for a while, the ruins casting long shadows around them. Above, the stars seemed brighter than usual, clustered in unfamiliar patterns.
Arel lay back against a broken pillar, staring up. "The Guardian said knowledge would cost me comfort."
Seris glanced at him. "It was right."
"Do you ever regret it?" he asked. "Being marked?"
She considered the question carefully. "Sometimes. But regret assumes there was a choice."
Arel nodded slowly. "The Guardian said the last anchor failed because he tried to carry the burden alone."
Seris poked at the fire. "That's the story most Guardians tell."
"You don't believe it?"
"I believe it's incomplete," she said. "Failure is rarely caused by one thing."
Arel turned his head toward her. "Then what really happened?"
Before she could answer, the fire flickered.
Not dimmed—distorted.
The pale blue flame stretched upward unnaturally, twisting into sharp angles. The air grew cold.
Seris was on her feet instantly. "We're not alone."
Arel's mark flared, pain sharp but controlled.
From the far end of the ruins, footsteps echoed.
Slow. Deliberate.
A figure emerged from the shadows—a man wrapped in layered robes, their fabric shifting like smoke. His face was uncovered, marked by intricate scars that pulsed faintly with light.
Another mark.
But unlike Arel's or Seris's, this one burned crimson.
"Well," the man said pleasantly, his voice smooth and calm. "This is interesting."
Seris stepped forward, placing herself between him and Arel. "You shouldn't be here."
The man smiled. "Neither should the First Anchor, yet here he is."
Arel's heart hammered. "Who are you?"
The man inclined his head. "My name is Kael."
The Guardian's voice slammed into Arel's mind, sharp and urgent.
"Be careful."
Kael's smile widened slightly. "Ah. You hear one too."
Seris's eyes narrowed. "You're a Shaper."
Kael spread his hands. "Once."
"Shapers died during the sealing," she said.
"So did anchors," Kael replied lightly. "And yet."
Arel swallowed. "What do you want?"
Kael's gaze lingered on Arel's glowing palm. "To see if the world truly intends to repeat itself."
The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet.
Far away, unseen but unmistakable, something shifted.
Seris's voice was steady. "The Second Gate."
Kael laughed softly. "It's waking faster than I hoped."
Arel felt it then—a pull, subtle but insistent, tugging at his chest, his mark responding with growing intensity.
"What's happening?" he asked.
"The gates are synchronizing," Seris said. "The First was only the beginning."
Kael stepped closer, eyes alight with something between awe and hunger. "And this time," he said, "I won't stop it."
The night wind rose, carrying with it whispers from places unseen.
Arel clenched his fist, the mark blazing brighter.
Whatever the road ahead held—alliances, betrayals, war—it was no longer a matter of fate alone.
It was choice.
And the gates were listening.