A cold touch roused Raine. Not the bite of wind, but a bone‐deep weakness.
He opened his eyes. His vision swam; the grotto's rock walls slowly sharpened into focus. The soul‐splitting burn was gone—replaced by a hollow exhaustion that seeped through every limb.
"Awake?" Karrion's gruff voice came from nearby. The dwarf sat against the wall, wiping his hammer absently as though lost in thought.
Raine tried to push himself up, but his arms felt like jelly. He managed only to lift his head. "What… happened?" His voice was raspy, as if sandpaper coated his throat.
"You nearly burned yourself to cinders," Karrion said, dropping the hammer and crouching beside him. His bushy brows knit as he studied Raine's pallid face. "A starflare backlash, lad. If not for—" He broke off, eyes flicking to the shadows.
Thalia sat quietly just beyond the firelight, her hood shadowing most of her face—only a deathly pale jaw was visible. She looked more insubstantial than ever, like a wisp of smoke ready to vanish on a breeze.
Karrion's tone turned stern. "Thalia—what did you do?"
She didn't answer at once. Tilting her head just enough for Karrion to catch sight of her, she said softly, hoarsely: "I merely stabilized his energy." Her voice was distant, twisted with fatigue. "Some… calming incantations."
"Calming incantations?" Karrion snorted, his beard bristling. "I don't recall any calming trick that leaves a man looking like he crawled from his grave." He jabbed a thick finger at her. "You look worse than he did in his worst delirium."
Thalia held her silence, which only deepened Karrion's suspicion.
Raine watched them both, feeling the unspoken tension choke the narrow cave. Thalia had saved him without doubt—but Karrion's wariness wasn't unfounded. Her secrets were too hidden, her power too strange.
Karrion fell silent. He chewed his lip, then pulled from his pouch a rough leather satchel and produced the fallen star‐shard.
Even in the dim glow, it pulsed with an otherworldly light—black as void, etched with silver veins that shimmered like captured starlight.
"Lad," Karrion said, holding the stone up to Raine. "Feel this."
Raine stared at the meteor fragment. A faint, familiar tug echoed in his chest—an echo of his own starflare, but tempered rather than maddening. He shook his head. "I… just feel drained."
Karrion nodded, not pressing further. Carefully, he laid the stone aside and pulled out a set of dwarven tools: a magnifying lens, chisels of varying hardness, and tiny hammers. He began to probe and tap the meteorite, studying how light flared off each facet.
"In dwarven lore," he murmured, "we speak of 'heaven's stones'—chunks of shattered stars, bearing primal power."
He tapped again, listening to the ring. "Some are 'star‐iron,' perfect for forging unbreakable weapons. Others hold 'lumen‐core,' capable of storing and channeling colossal energy. And a rare few—called 'void's tears'—are said to be the very tears of ancient gods, steeped in ill‐omened power."
Lifting his lens, Karrion examined the meteor's surface. "This… is unlike any ore I know. Its energy signature is pure—and wild."
He set down the lens, grabbing a whetstone. As he ground a tiny wing off the meteor, sparks flew—silver‐blue embers that danced before fading.
"Starflare draws outward to distant constellations," Karrion continued, voice low, "but starborn magic exacts a terrible toll, as you discovered. Dwarven runes, by contrast, draw inward—awakening the latent spirits of earth and metal—and we bind them, making them steadier, more predictable. Not as showy, perhaps, but far more controlled."
He paused, then returned to the meteor, gently sketching a rune with his chisel. "I'm thinking… we might inscribe a containment rune. Something to shield you from the stone's backlash."
Raine's eyes brightened at the prospect. If he could ease the starflare's burn… "Is it possible?"
"In theory," Karrion said, stroking his beard, "but not easy." He wiped his brow. "We'd need the right medium—something as tough as star‐iron, yet malleable to hold the runes. Legends name 'heartstone of the earth' or 'starlit steel,' but those are songs and myths. Then we'd need a steady forge and plenty of time. Too much time for this blasted gorge."
Raine's hope dimmed. Time was their scarcest resource.
Karrion seemed to read his thoughts. He reverently returned the meteor to its leather case, eyes darkening. "And one more thing, lad. Objects like this are beacons." He tapped the pouch. "Licensed mages, covetous scholars, blade‐hungry cutpurses… and worse, creatures born of shadow. Imagine a certain 'Void‐seer'—he'd sniff this out a mile off."
His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Might even draw the source of the Corruption itself. That thing devours life, warps reality—it could crave a piece of this power, too."
Karrion's words settled like stones in Raine's chest. The meteorite wasn't only their hope—it was a siren, luring predators both human and inhuman.
Raine glanced at Thalia. She still sat in shadow, her cloak folds deeper than ever. Karrion's warning only made her aura of chill more pronounced.
Outside, the ravine wind moaned. Ahead lay more dangers than the hunters they'd fled. Behind them, new threats stirred in the darkness of the meteor's call.
The path before them was as treacherous as ever—and their fragile trust, like a candle flickering before the storm, threatened to snuff out entirely.