Darkness clung to them like a damp, cold mantle. The little trail Karrion had chosen hardly deserved the name "path"—it was more like a forgotten scar, winding through craggy rocks and tangled scrub.
Sharp stones slid underfoot, their soft clatter jarring in the dead‐silence of night. Raine held his breath, each cautious step so as not to alert whatever lurked in the shadows… or that unseen threat dogging their heels. The blank of the Starflame sword's blade‐shroud against his chest was his only anchor—its faint warmth a small comfort in the chill.
Karrion strode ahead, his stocky frame chiseling through low branches. His breath came in rough rasping grinds. "This way," he said suddenly, his voice echoing in the narrow cleft, "has a name."
Raine's ears pricked. Thalia followed silently behind, barely making a sound.
"They call it the Path of the Lost," Karrion continued, his usual banter gone, replaced by weighty solemnity. "Long ago—long before the stars dimmed and corruption spread—this was a pilgrim's road."
He paused, listening to the wind as if seeking assurance. "Legend warns: anyone with a wavering heart or a guilty past who walks this way will hear the whispers of the dead. Promises of whatever they most desire, leading them off the road—lost forever in these stones, joining those same whispers."
A knot of unease formed in Raine's gut. The dead's low voice? He recalled Marcos's taunting invitation and the ghostly ancestors twisted by corruption at the old outpost. This path… was no safer.
"Why choose it?" Raine asked, dry‐throated.
"Because it's hard," Karrion answered simply. "Hard paths see few travelers. Those pompous knights with mounts and bright steel won't stoop to scurry through a rat's den." He snorted. "Besides, just because a story's frightening doesn't mean it's true—dwarven proverb."
They pressed on. The rock formations grew more grotesque, as if shaped by unseen hands. Some walls wore thick, discolored moss—slick and foul‐smelling with decay. The air itself felt heavier, stickier… poisoned.
Raine frowned. This stench was different from mountain air, different from the swamp's tang. It was a subtler rot—something slowly and silently festering.
He watched Karrion's broad back as the dwarf slowed, nostrils flaring as he sniffed. "Hmm?" Karrion murmured. "This smell…"
Behind him, Thalia drew in a sharp, strangled breath. Raine whirled around. In the dim starlight, Thalia's face was nearly translucent—paler than before. She pressed one hand to a smooth rock and the other to her chest, trembling.
"Thalia?" Raine's voice was urgent. He recognized that cold wave of revulsion radiating from her as strange and unnatural.
She didn't reply. Instead, she flung her eyes open—eyes burning with alarm and something deeper… disgust. She watched the blackened moss on the rockface, the ghastly shapes of vines slithering from crevices.
Those plants… Something was wrong. Raine followed her gaze. They glowed a sickly purple‐black or jaundiced green, their growth random, knotted like dying serpents. The foul rot on the breeze seemed to originate from them.
"Corruption," Karrion said gravely. He stooped to pick up a chunk of rock stained purple with moss. It crumbled under his heavy fingers, revealing a gray, decayed interior. "Not the true Corrupted Woods—but the rot is setting in."
He looked deeper into the darkness ahead, face set. "This force… is spreading faster than the old records said."
Raine's heart tightened. Even the first signs of corruption were terrifying. It meant they drew ever nearer to that dread domain—and to Marcos's power.
Thalia drew a trembling breath, as if steeling herself. Though still weak, she straightened and said in a hoarse whisper, "Something here… is the source of that corruption. A twisted life‐force." She met Raine's eyes, expression conflicted. "Your blood… is sensitive to it. Be careful."
Raine nodded. He felt the faint pulse of his star‐blood throbbing with warning—a sibling reaction to the taint around them. This was not mere fear but a revulsion of shared origin.
"Onward," Karrion said, rising and brushing dust off his hands. "We can't linger—best get out of here." He set off again, steps cautious, eyes constantly scouring every shadowed crevice.
The next stretch was brutal: steep, slick rock covered in that uncanny moss, forcing them to scramble hand‐and‐foot. Wind howled through cracks, lashing at them with ice. Karrion's dwarven strength and balance proved indispensable—he scaled the wall like a mountain goat, using his hammer's haft to carve footholds.
Raine and Thalia followed, each laboring under pain and fatigue. Raine's muscles burned from the backlash scars; every strained movement set raw nerves afire. He focused fiercely on each grip and foothold, trying not to slip.
Thalia fared worst—her weakness magnified by the corrupt miasma. She twice nearly tumbled back down the slope before Raine could snatch her arm. In that close moment, their bodies pressed together, and Raine caught the faint fragrance of herbs and cold night air on her, mingled with the brittle flicker of her life‐force. She pulled away swiftly, murmuring thanks, eyes downcast.
They pressed on, cresting the steep flank into a narrow ledge. Below was an abyss of darkness so deep it swallowed every echo. Each step felt like walking a razor's edge.
At last, Karrion halted on a small, flat shelf. He signaled them to pause. Panting, the dwarf pulled water from his flask and drank deeply. Raine and Thalia did the same, neglecting dinner. The whet of cold water burned sweet.
The night stretched interminable. Karrion leaned against the rock, sweat matting his beard. "Damn… this place… grimmer than the forges' cellars," he growled.
Raine, seated nearby, stared up at the dim sky. The stars were so faint they seemed about to wink out. He tried to call on their light—just a shimmer of power—but found only a blank wall in his mind. Attempts to force it ended in fresh backlash pain, leaving him gasping and hollow.
Thalia, still wrapped in her cloak of exhaustion, closed her eyes against the memory of his anguish. He saw her brow crease. He knew the stars' fading hit her too—her secret, too, bound to this decay. But she said nothing.
Then, abruptly, she snapped her eyes open as though struck. Both Karrion and Raine sprang to attention, Raine's hand tightening on his sword's hilt—even if it was only the blank core, it was still a weapon.
Thalia didn't speak. She simply tilted her head, ears straining, as though hearing the faintest whisper across miles. Then she whispered: "Something… is moving toward us."
"A beast?" Karrion rumbled, raising his hammer.
Thalia shook her head. "Not exactly… a hunter." Her voice quavered. "More than one. Far off, but coming."
Karrion flicked a look westward. "Can you tell when?"
"Not precisely… the miasma masks it." She shuddered. "But they'll be here within hours."
Raine's blood ran cold. In this desolation, hours vanished in heartbeats—and enemies skilled enough to track them were even more dangerous.
Karrion acted at once: he snuffed any trace of their brief camp, covering footprints and burying clues. "Keep moving," he ordered, thrusting the flask back into his pack.
They slipped into the blackness again, Karrion leading with unmatched stealth—ghosting along rock faces, tamping soil to erase any prints. Raine supported Thalia, catching her when fatigue seized her limbs. The wind's lament followed them like ancient lamentation. Under the dim stars, every jagged rock threw monstrous shadows. Behind them, that unseen hunger pacing on silent feet.
They were candles in a gale, their flames flickering, at risk of snuffing out with every breath. And as they vanished deeper into the night, the wind carried a sullen dirge—foretelling the trials still to come.