She walks in contemplative silence for several minutes before responding. "They've had to become harder. More ruthless. I understand that."
But she doesn't. Can't. The gulf between understanding the necessity of hardness and witnessing the reality of consensual corruption is vast as an ocean. Still, I've planted the seeds. Given her a framework for interpreting what she's about to see.
As we descend toward the valley floor, I catch the first scent markers—territorial claims that speak of permanent occupation rather than temporary shelter. The smell is wrong somehow, tainted with something that makes my nostrils flare in instinctive revulsion. Death, yes, but more than that. The cloying sweetness of corruption mixed with the metallic tang of ritualistically spilled blood.
"Can you smell that?" Lyssa asks, wrinkling her nose.
"Success," I lie smoothly. "They've been effective in their hunt. The scent of dead enemies marks their territory now."
She accepts this explanation, but I can see her processing the wrongness in the air. Her human nose isn't as sensitive as mine, but even she can detect the undertone of something twisted in what should be simple territorial marking.
The cave mouth appears around a bend in the valley wall—a natural opening expanded and fortified with bone and stone. But it's the decorations that stop my heart cold. Skulls mounted on spikes create a perimeter around the entrance, their empty sockets staring outward in silent warning. Human and Waira both, arranged with artistic precision that speaks of ritualistic purpose rather than mere intimidation.
Lyssa gasps, her hand flying to her throat. "Those are..."
"Trophies," I say grimly. "Proof of their success against Malakor's forces."
It's partially true. Some of those skulls undoubtedly belonged to enemy converts. But I can see others—the bone structure wrong for ideology followers, the proportions speaking of bonded pairs who chose love over corruption. Innocents who became obstacles to Kaerith's evolving philosophy.
"They've become very effective," I continue, building the framework that will let her rationalize what she's seeing. "Perhaps more than any of us anticipated."
Before I can say more, she's moving. Running toward the cave entrance with the desperate urgency of someone who needs reunion more than safety. I let her go, watching as her slight form disappears into the shadows beyond the skull-gate.
Now comes the hardest part. Maintaining distance while ensuring her safety. Witnessing without participating. Seeing exactly how far my friends have fallen without revealing my own resistance to their methods.
I settle into concealment among the rocks overlooking the cave system. Close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to maintain the fiction of territorial boundaries. From here I can observe, can witness whatever reunion awaits inside that charnel house they call home.
The lies I've told her feel like lead weights in my stomach. But they're necessary lies. Protective lies. She needs the framework of tactical necessity to understand what she's about to witness. Without it, the truth might break her entirely.
From inside the cave, I hear voices—Kaerith's rumbling bass and Elira's higher tones mixing with Lyssa's joyful greeting. For a moment, they sound like the people they used to be. Like the family we once were.
But I know better. I've seen what they're becoming. And now, from my position in the shadows, I'll watch as Lyssa discovers the truth beneath the lies I've told to protect her.
