With the ash settling across the wounded earth, he knows it will hold the imprint of her boots—deep, deliberate. So he lets her go, hiding in the shadows of the town’s outskirts, not daring to risk his position.
But when night falls, and the town turns in, Ronyn will get his answers.
Calira has not returned.
She vanished into hollows carved into the volcano’s feet—some ancient footprint left by fire and molten heat.
Vyrhal’s sun dips below the horizon, giving Ronyn the cover of darkness. He follows the disturbed ash that Calira’s boots left behind. No hesitation in the stride. No deviation in direction.
She knew exactly where she was going.
Ronyn follows, bow raised, arrow nocked. Because whatever Calira is doing out here, she doesn’t want anyone to know, and Ronyn is sick to fucking death of secret agendas.
A hush settles across the earth. Quiet. Exposed. Dangerous.
The land doesn’t rise toward the volcanoes—it breaks open.
The ground splits into blackened ridges and hollowed paths where something molten had once carved its way through the earth. Ronyn follows the trail until the rock gives way entirely. Until the world opens into something else.
A tunnel. Not carved. Not built.Formed.
The walls curve in unnatural, fluid shapes, like the stone itself had once been liquid and then frozen mid-motion. Ridges run along the sides in long, rippling waves, and the ceiling stretches high above, dark and uneven, with hardened drips of rock hanging like the aftermath of something that had bled fire.
Heat lingers in the air. Not enough to burn, but enough to remind him that this place isn’t dead. It has just… cooled.
Torchlight flickers deeper within, casting long shadows along the warped stone.
And there—footprints.
Fresh.
She didn’t hesitate coming in. Which means she knew exactly what she’d find here.
The air changes the moment Ronyn steps inside.
Hotter. No—worse.Heavier.
Heat clings to the walls in a way that doesn’t belong to the sun—thick, breathing heat that settles into his lungs and stays there. The tunnel curves inward, the stone warped and smoothed like it had once flowed, and then… stopped.
Hushed voices ricochet off the volcanic walls.
Low.
Measured.
Controlled.
Then stop.
Ronyn slows, raising his bow and aiming his arrow, his steps silent against the ash-dusted ground.
He edges closer to the mouth of a wider chamber, and stops.
There are more of them than he expected.
A dozen, maybe less.
They sit in strange, heavy stillness on the cavern floor, their movements sluggish and delayed, as though the air has thickened around them. One stares blankly into the fire’s flames, breathing slow and deep, while another leans heavily against the cavern wall with unfocused eyes.
