“We stop here,” I said, louder now.
Gideon sighed in relief. “Thank every known god.”
Jasira gave him a look. “You don’t even pray.”
“I do now,” he grumbled.
We moved into what was left of the tower’s yard. The outer wall had mostly collapsed, but the central chamber still had enough of a roof to serve as shelter. I ducked through the broken archway first, sword in hand, checking corners, gaps in the stone, and dark hollows.
No movement or bodies. Only dust, stone, and silence.
I could hear the others enter behind me.
“Oh well, this is charming, isn’t it?” I heard Alaric remark.
“This place looks like it caught fire,” Wyn murmured behind me, her voice soft but clear.
I glanced at her.
Her fingers traced the scarred mortar of the wall, a faint contact that spoke of weary resignation. Her gaze drifted, lost in thought, shadowed by an exhaustion that settled deep within her bones.
She didn’t know I’d stopped the march because of her. A profound ache twisted in my chest at the sight of her so drained, so quiet, aching to grant her respite.
Even if it was in a cursed ruin.
“Let’s not light a fire,” I said. “Smoke travels too far in flat land.”
Gideon groaned. “So much for hot tea.”
“Boil it low. Keep the steam covered.”
Bran sniffed the cracked stairway and sneezed.
Alaric dropped his pack with more force than necessary and muttered something about weak stomachs. I let it pass.
As the others settled, I walked the perimeter again, scanning the horizon from the collapsed balcony. The hills rolled on, gray and silent. The tower stood like a broken tooth, one more relic from a war no one remembered, waiting to crumble for good.
But something about this place…
The stone didn’t feel old.
It felt deep.
As if something had passed through it and left a wound that the world never healed.
Night fell like a weight.
The sun disappeared behind the hills, leaving the sky dim and the wind sharper. What little warmth lingered in the air turned brittle, edged with the bite of winter returning. The tower ruins darkened fast, the broken stone swallowing any remaining light. We lit no proper fire, a low coal burn in a buried tin pit, with a half-cracked lid to keep the glow from traveling. Still, the shadows it cast danced across soot-blackened walls like old ghosts learning how to move again.
Bran wouldn’t stop pacing.
He circled the fire three times, then stalked to the wall, ears twitching.
We were all unsettled.
Gideon tried, as usual, to break the tension.
He stabbed a stick into the pot he’d rigged over the low flame and gave it a sniff. “So…we’ve officially reached the part of the journey where everything tastes like sadness and ash.”
