Her gaze lingers on mine for a long moment.
“Okay.”
Night arrives.
We make camp in the ruins of the old waystation—two walls standing, partial roof. I scout the perimeter while Soreia settles against the most intact wall.
“You should eat.” I lower myself beside her, near enough that our knees nearly touch. “Your magic draws from physical reserves.”
“I ate this morning.”
“That was twelve hours ago.”
She makes a sound that might be amusement. Pulls dried meat from her pack and tears off a piece.
I watch her chew. Watch her swallow. Watch the column of her throat work and the way her lips curve afterward.
She sleepswithin arm’s reach.
Curled on her side, facing me, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Vulnerable. Open. Trusting me with her unconscious body in ways that make my spine tighten.
I position myself between her and the darkness. Back against stone. Eyes on the darkness beyond our partial shelter.
Sleep pulls at me. The poison is mostly gone now. My body needs rest. Demands it. Threatens to shut down whether I consent or not.
I refuse.
THIRTEEN
SOREIA
The shrine rises from the dead landscape like a broken tooth.
Vaulted ceilings, partially collapsed. Stone walls carved with symbols no one remembers how to read. A central altar sits at the heart of the main chamber, cracked down the middle and stained with residue that might be old blood or might be old worship. Hard to tell the difference in places like this.
“Someone’s here.”
Kaster’s voice carries no inflection. Statement of fact. His attention fixes on a shadow moving near the altar—human-shaped, hunched, too small to be a threat.
The informant.
We’ve been tracking rumors for three days. Whispers of someone who trades in dangerous knowledge, someone who might know why the gods have unleashed their monsters specifically on us. The trail led here, to this abandoned god-site where faith went to die.
The figure straightens as we approach. Male, middle-aged, wearing the kind of layered clothing that marks extended timeon the road. His eyes dart between us with the calculating awareness of prey assessing new predators.
“You’re the ones.” Certain. “The dragon and the Anchor witch.”
“You have information.” I step forward, putting myself between Kaster’s intensity and the informant’s obvious nerves. “About why we’re being hunted.”
“I have theories.” The man’s gaze flicks to the entrance we came through, then to the partially collapsed eastern wall, then back to us. Mapping escape routes. Smart. “Dangerous theories. The kind that get people killed for knowing them.”
“We’re already being killed.” I keep my voice steady. Unhurried. “Slowly. Systematically. Anything you know might change that.”
The informant’s eyes narrow. He takes in my appearance—the lean frame, the shadows beneath my eyes, the careful way I hold myself to conserve energy. Then he looks at Kaster, who hasn’t moved from his position near the entrance.
His expression shifts. Fear, yes. But also curiosity. And beneath that, a flicker of hope that might be more dangerous than either.
“You really don’t know, do you?” His voice drops. “What you are. What you could become.”
