Night had fallen like a heavy velvet blanket draped over the valley. The blanket of darkness obscured the stars, leaving only a faint moonlight filtering through gaps in the leaves. The three of them stumbled across a dried-up streambed until at last they found a narrow cavern carved into a towering cliff.
Karrion probed the entrance with the haft of his warhammer; finding no trap, he motioned them inside. The cave was shallow—just large enough to set a small camp—but its enclosed warmth was enough to hold back the chill wind and prying eyes. Thalia draped her shawl over her shoulders and stacked bundles of kindling—fished from Raine's pack—along one side of the entrance. Raine struck flint and steel, and in an instant flames leapt up, painting their faces in orange light and banishing the darkness beyond.
The fire crackled as it consumed the wood. The heat swirled in that tight space like a protective embrace. Karrion sat back against a smooth rock, rubbing his metal waterskin between his hands and breathing in the rare comfort. Raine crouched at the edge of light and shadow, tending to the ragged cut on his arm with a makeshift bandage; the slash from the curved blade glinted darkly in the firelight.
Thalia stood silently on the opposite side of the fire, her staff cradled in her arms, head bowed like a pale night-blossom. Now and then her eyes lifted, and the flames revealed flickers of silver in their depths.
Silence reigned, broken only by the hearth's breath and the steady thump of their hearts.
"Thanks for the kindling," Karrion murmured, his voice soft with gratitude. "Without this rocky overhang, I feared we'd be hiding all night again."
Raine nodded, tightening his bandage. "At least we can rest. At first light, we must slip out before those… trackers catch up."
Thalia offered no reply at once. Her gaze drifted past the flames to the fathomless darkness outside. Then, almost imperceptibly, she lifted a finger—its tip wreathed in a faint silver glow, like a will-o'-the-wisp dancing in the gloom.
"Do you hear it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, yet everyone heard it in the hush.
Karrion and Raine exchanged looks and strained to listen. Beneath the wind and crackling fire, a murmur surfaced—soft, indistinct.
"…Raine… do you hear me?" Thalia spoke his name again, her tone trembling.
Raine pressed his ear toward the hearth. Amid the crackle, he fancied he heard voices—long-hidden spirits whispering around a campfire, their tones laced with icy mockery and sorrow.
"Don't go near him… your blood will awaken deeper pain…"
The words were distant, as if carried through the rock itself—or were they echoing in the flames?
Karrion bristled, clutching his hammer. "Who's playing tricks on us? If it's one of those trackers, enough!" he snapped.
But Thalia raised a hand, stifling him. "Not a mortal ruse," she said, her silver eyes unfurling in the firelight. "This is… the call of the Star-blooded."
A pang shot through Raine's chest—he recalled the corrupted ancestors' murmurs, the village's forgotten despair, and his own faint, stubborn star-flame within.
"What are they saying?" he asked softly.
Thalia closed her eyes and intoned a low chant. The fire flickered to her words; the whispers undulated, sometimes drawing near, sometimes receding, like tides or broken, mournful sighs.
"…Truth lies buried… come with me, or perish with me…"
The fragmentary lines carried both promise and threat. Raine's heart slammed; anticipation warred with dread in his eyes.
Karrion, unnerved by the uncanny pressure, rose. "Enough of this ghost-talk—rest now, and at dawn we move on—"
His voice cracked as a chill wind buffeted the cave mouth, sending the flames trembling. A damp cold swept in, heavy and resentful.
Thalia's eyes shot open, blazing with resolve. "No. They intend to lead me deeper—to unseal the door beyond this firelight."
Raine frowned. "What door?"
"The door behind the hearth," Thalia declared, her voice ringing with conviction. "A void even starlight cannot reach. Only my blood can pry it open—briefly."
Karrion raged, "You'd send yourself to your death?"
Thalia shook her head, looking to Raine. "I need you, Raine. I sense… a pact hidden in your veins. Unless we break it, Marlos's schemes will never end."
In the hearth's glow, their intersecting glances forged an unspoken trial. Flames and shadow warred in silent vigil.
Raine gripped his sword-hilt, hesitated, then nodded. "Very well—tomorrow night, I go with you."
Karrion exhaled a long breath and slammed his hammer to the rock, sending a small tremor through the cave. "And I with you. Any who harm the three of you answer to me first!"
At last the fire settled, the whispers receded, and the cave held only glowing embers. The air, once laden with icy dread, was still—but changed, stripped of its terror.
Around the hearth they sat: weary, resolute, and bound by a silent pact. Outside, the wind howled through the opening—as if heralding the unknown yet to come.
By dawn's light, their fate would be decided: would the whispers at the hearth lead them to salvation—or down into a still darker hell?