The council hall felt larger after Lucar vanished.

Not quieter, just larger, as if the stone itself had pulled back, unsure whether to lean in or recoil. The elders’ final words still echoed faintly against the carved ribs of the chamber. They had stepped out in tight formation, muttering in Terran phrases too clipped for the company to follow, leaving the fellowship alone with the last drift of cold air from Lucar’s passing.

The torches guttered once. Then steadied. Kiera exhaled softly. “I don’t like how the air feels.”

“No one does,” Lyra muttered, rubbing her arms. “Feels like he left a smear on the walls.”

Theo sniffed the air experimentally. “Is that… sulfur? Or nerves? Could be nerves.”

“It’s nerves,” Jaxson said, slinging his bow across his back. “And if it’s sulfur, let’s pretend it’s nerves.”

Thorne prowled to the doorway, hackles still raised. Mika followed with a low growl that trembled in her chest. Even Kestel, perched on a high beam like a sentinel, was motionless, eyes fixed on the spot where Lucar’s shadow had bent wrong just moments before.

Aldryn tapped his staff once against the stone. Not for magic, just decision. “We’re not staying here another hour,” he said. “They will want us gone before his influence stirs again, and I agree with them.”

Boaz nodded. The Sigil against his chest vibrated with that same thin, metallic dissonance it had carried since Lucar first appeared in the hall. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t heat. It was wrongness, a reminder that something in the world had just shifted out of place.

“Boaz,” Kiera said quietly, stepping beside him. “The Sigil is unsettled still?”

“Yes. So am I,” he admitted.

Aldryn heard that and moved closer, lowering his voice so only Boaz could catch it. “There’s something you must hear before the others do.”

Boaz stiffened a little. “Now?”

“Now,” Aldryn said. “Because the Terrans will call for us any moment, and once we step outside, our time is not our own.” He angled his head toward the corridor leading upward. “Walk with me.”

The others didn’t question it. They gathered their packs, already prepared from the night before, and fell into a loose formation, instinctively protective of the two at the front. Jaxson walked point without being asked. Lyra drifted to the side where shadows clung longest, checking them with trained suspicion. Theo lingered near Kiera, who kept an open palm close to her sling stones.

The moment they crossed the threshold of the council hall, the mountain seemed to exhale with them.

Light from the higher levels filtered down through carved channels in the ceiling, catching in pale quartz veins and sending thin ribbons of illumination along the walls. The upward ramp spiraled ahead, a long, steady climb back toward the main gate. Terrans passed on either side, some nodding in respect, others watching with lingering uncertainty. The memory of Lucar’s words had reached beyond the chamber.

Boaz felt each look like a small weight on the back of his neck.

Aldryn spoke quietly as they climbed. “I didn’t say everything in the hall. I didn’t want to feed Lucar’s fire. But the truth is this: he will not stay banished. Not in the way the Terrans imagine.”

Boaz swallowed. “He didn’t walk through that door.”

“No,” Aldryn said. “He walked through some door. Or none. Or every one. That alone should tell you the kind of enemy we’re dealing with.” They climbed a few paces in silence before Aldryn continued. “He won’t head west. He won’t return to Beltin. He won’t linger here to brood.” Aldryn’s voice was low, but certain. “He will go north. Toward the Altan Aeltharion.”

Boaz nearly stopped mid-step. “The next leaf?”

“The next test,” Aldryn corrected. “And the next people whose trust we’ll need.” He gripped his staff harder. “Lucar doesn’t want the leaf, not yet. But he does want to reach the Altans before we do.”

“Why?” Boaz asked.

“Because he moves in shadows and whispers.” Aldryn’s eyes were sharp. “And if he reaches them first, he’ll paint us as a danger. A storm. A force that does great good but leaves great ruin. His words will be reasonable. Calm. Troublesome. Like everything he spoke here.”

Boaz felt the Sigil’s hum deepen, vibrating faintly against bone. “He wants our reputation.”

“He wants your unity fractured before you arrive,” Aldryn said simply. “Altans are proud. They guard their sanctums fiercely. If they hear his version first…”

Boaz finished for him. “Our words may sound like lies.”

Aldryn gave a single approving nod. “Exactly. And once suspicion takes root, even the truth feels dangerous.”

At the bend ahead, the corridor opened wider. Terran younglings moved aside respectfully, glancing not at Boaz but at the Sigil, some with awe, some with fear. Their elders watched too, stone-faced, but their eyes flickered with something else now: a hope they hadn’t dared before yesterday.

Kiera joined them, voice soft but steady. “Are we speaking of Lucar?”

Aldryn didn’t hide it. “Yes. And we must be faster than his stories.”

Jaxson looked back, hearing that. “We can be faster. Just point the direction.”

“No,” Aldryn said firmly. “Not just speed. Purpose. When we meet the Aeltharion, we must arrive united. Calm. Certain. If we look rattled, Lucar’s whisper will be the louder truth.”

Lyra huffed. “So basically: don’t let him get inside our heads.”

Aldryn smiled thinly. “Precisely.”

They climbed further. The sharp scent of cold wind filtered down, more distinct now. Real air, wide air, not the tempered breath of stone. Boaz breathed it in and felt the Sigil pulse with a faint answering spark.

Kiera reached toward it. “Still unsettled?”

“Still listening,” Boaz said.

Aldryn nodded. “It will remain that way until we leave the mountain. And perhaps after.”

The ramp leveled briefly, opening into a broad landing cut with Terran murals: scenes of old battles, forging halls, rivers of molten ore that once fed the heart of Durn-Kelmar. The lighting channels above cast shifting light across the carvings, making them look almost alive.

Theo slowed, eyes wide. “I’ll miss this place.”

Lyra raised a brow. “The death traps? The trials? The fungus? Or the fact every hallway feels like a tomb waiting for a body?”

Theo shrugged. “All of it. Except the fungus.”

Jaxson snorted. “Especially the fungus.”

A faint grin tugged at Boaz’s mouth. For just a moment, the heaviness of Lucar’s departure lifted.

Then Aldryn touched his arm lightly. “Whatever else you carry,” he said, “remember this: we walk together. That is what Lucar cannot imitate.”

Boaz nodded. “I know.”

The wind thickened above them. Sunlight, real sunlight, glinted far up the ramp like a silver coin balanced on stone. Aldryn gestured toward it. “Come. The elders will be waiting at the gate.”

Boaz adjusted his pack. The others fell in behind. The mountain breathed around them, awake, watching, alive. They resumed their ascent toward the world beyond stone.

The higher they climbed, the more the wind’s voice pressed downward, thin but insistent, as though the mountain itself were urging them onward. Light grew stronger with every switchback, reflecting off pale quartz seams until the ramp finally leveled onto the wide antechamber of the main gate.

The gate was open, not fully, but enough that a line of daylight cut across the floor like a blade. And standing just inside the arch were the elders.

All six of them.

Along with their assistants, the two Terran champions, Dorn and Kegh, several forge-apprentices holding bundles, and two drummers with stone mallets resting against their hips. It wasn’t a council, and it wasn’t a ceremony. It was something quieter: a farewell the Terrans hadn’t allowed themselves to hope for until yesterday.

The moss-marked elder stepped forward first. Her stone-pale skin had regained more warmth since the forge awakening; her eyes no longer carried that glassy exhaustion. When she spoke, her broken Common was softer than before: “Company of fire and tide. You go now.”

Aldryn bowed deeply, staff angled in respect. “We do. With gratitude.”

Ghor, eldest and hardest, folded his arms across armor that still bore the faint scar of the Sundering curse. His voice rumbled like rolling stone. “You walk good. Strong. Right.” He paused, searching for the right words. “Deep remember this.”

Theo whispered to Boaz, “That sounds like a compliment.”

“It is,” Lyra said. “Terran-style.”

Kegh, the swift champion with the ridged gauntlets, grinned. It was an expression that showed three chipped teeth and surprising warmth. “No break stone this time,” he said to Jaxson. “Good.”

Jaxson smirked. “Didn’t break you either.”

Kegh barked a laugh. “Almost.”

The elders shared a brief look, then the woman with geometric armor stepped forward, her tone formal. “Gifts,” she said. “Terran craft. Given for thanks, and for path ahead.” Assistants stepped forward with cloth-wrapped bundles and rune-carved boxes.

The first gift went to Lyra. An older assistant, her hands rough from stone-carving, opened a small basalt case. Inside lay a polished pendant of layered resonance-stone, faintly shimmering as it caught her breath.

“Whisperveil… strong, but wild,” the elder said, tapping her own temple. “This hold shape. Hold mind. Make illusion steady.”

Lyra reached out carefully, as though the stone might dissolve if she touched it wrong. When she lifted it, the pendant vibrated subtly against her fingers, harmonizing with her breath. Her throat tightened.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

The elder tilted her head. “Not just beautiful. Useful.”

Lyra smiled. “That too.”

Jaxson’s gift came next. A pair of assistants set down a heavy case between them. When they opened it, Jaxson blinked. Inside lay a pair of folded stone-metal wrist-guards layered like scales, but slimmer, built for speed rather than bulk.

“These grip,” Kegh said, demonstrating with a quick snap of his fingers. “Catch weapon. Catch edge. No slip.”

Jaxson strapped one on and flexed. The plates shifted seamlessly with his movement, gripping just enough to steady but not enough to impede.

“Feels good,” he admitted. “Like it knows what I’m thinking.”

“Terran metal listen,” Kegh said proudly.

“That’s… mildly terrifying.”

Theo received the third gift. A square rune-plate, intricate, shifting, alive with etched logic that rearranged itself like a puzzle solving new puzzles. The copper-ringed elder handed it to him with both hands. “Logic-plate,” he said. “Help mind. Help craft. Fasten runes. Make order of chaos.”

Theo was speechless for a moment. Then: “This is…this is genius. You people are geniuses. I mean, yes, you almost killed us twice, but look at this!”

The elder blinked slowly. “You use well.”

“Oh, I will,” Theo said, hugging the plate like a child hugging a storybook.

Kiera’s gift came in a soft-wrapped bundle of charcoal fabric. A harmonizing chime carved from deep-ore, small enough to fit in her palm, shaped like a tear drop with a slit through its center. When she tilted it, a soft, warm resonance filled the air, vibrating not in her ears but in her chest. The younger woman elder smiled with rare warmth. “Heal-song strong. This make it stronger. Deep listen to you. Sound go further.”

Kiera’s eyes softened. “Thank you. I’ll use it with care.”

“Care good,” the elder replied.

The geometric-armored elder lifted her hand once more before the assistants withdrew. “Two more,” she said. “Not fire-folk only walk this road.” She turned toward Telen first. An assistant stepped forward bearing a long, narrow case carved from dark stonewood, sealed with resin. When Telen opened it, he paused, just a fraction longer than usual.

Inside lay a pair of Terran deep-skin greaves, scaled and articulated, light enough for swift movement but etched with faint runes that glimmered when the wind brushed them.

“For Agua,” the elder said carefully. “Stone-walk long. These keep joints warm. Keep strength when water far.”

Telen ran his fingers along the etched plates, reading the craft with a warrior’s eye. The runes thrummed faintly beneath his touch, responding to his body heat. “They will help me endure distance from water,” he said quietly. Then, with measured sincerity, he bowed. “You have thought carefully. I honor this.”

The moss-marked Warden nodded. “Water-folk strong. Just… need help breathing stone.” A few Terrans chuckled at that, gentle and approving. The elder turned next to Shaye. Her gift was smaller: a wrapped bundle tied with copper wire. Shaye took it, unwrapped it briskly, and then froze.

Inside was a compact Terran climbing harness, stone-metal buckles worked into flexible bands, paired with a coil of razor-thin line that shimmered like wet silk. “Grip-line,” the elder said. “Does not slip when wet. Bite stone. Bite wood. Bite enemy blade if thrown right.”

Shaye lifted the line, testing its weight. It snapped taut with a soft metallic hiss and anchored instantly when flicked against bare stone. A slow grin spread across her face. “I like your people.”

“Good,” Kegh said. “Harness made for cliffs where falling is… permanent.”

Shaye laughed once, sharp and delighted. “Perfect.”

The elder’s gaze shifted then to Aldryn.

Unlike the others, no weapon or device was brought forward. Instead, the copper-ringed elder himself stepped closer, holding a thin stone-bound volume no larger than a travel journal. Its cover bore Terran runes worked so finely they looked etched by breath rather than tool. “For old-speaker,” he said, offering it with both hands. “Lore. Not for trade. Not for vault. For use.”

Aldryn accepted it with visible care, running his thumb along the spine. His brow furrowed as he recognized the script. “This is pre-Sundering hand,” he murmured.

“Yes,” the elder said. “Kept quiet. Forgotten on purpose.”

Aldryn opened the book. His breath caught. The pages were thin stone-sheets, etched with diagrams of Traveler’s Rests: their floor sigils, hearth alignments, the precise requirements of who must stand within them. He read silently for several heartbeats. Then softly, incredulously: “…by all races present… the way-gates synchronize.”

Boaz glanced at him. “Aldryn?”

Aldryn looked up slowly, eyes alight with a scholar’s restrained astonishment. “The Traveler’s Rest,” he said. “When used by members of every race — Huma, Terra, Agua, Alta — it ceases to be shelter alone.” He tapped the page. “It becomes passage. Any Rest to any other. Instant.”

Theo’s mouth fell open. Lyra blinked. Jaxson swore quietly.

The elder inclined his head. “Old truth. Dangerous truth. But world changing truth. You walk with all peoples soon.”

Aldryn closed the book with reverence. “This… explains why they keep reawakening when we pass through.”

“And why some were destroyed of old,” the elder added.

Aldryn met his gaze gravely. “Yes.”

He tucked the book into his satchel with the care of someone carrying fire in parchment. Finally, they turned to Boaz. Ghor himself stepped forward, carrying a round disc of stone-metal engraved with concentric Terran runes, each groove filled with faint ember-light.

“Forging-disc,” Ghor said. “Hammerless. Speak, and metal heat. Speak again, and metal cool. For craft. For path. For making right what break.”

Boaz took it with both hands. The disc vibrated faintly in his palms, warm, aware, almost eager. The Sigil pulsed once in answer.

“Thank you,” Boaz said, bowing slightly. “This means more than I can say.”

Ghor grunted. “Then no say. Just use.”

There was a quiet shift beside the elders. Dorn stepped forward.

Still in his chevron-etched armor, still massive, still carrying his unique weapon, part pike, part sword, all lethal. But today, his posture was different. Purposeful. Steady. Almost… hopeful.

He bowed to the elders first.

“I ask to join them,” he said. His Common was surprisingly natural: smooth, not broken, but spoken with a literal precision that made every syllable crisp. “Walk north. Guard their flank. Keep their steps true.”

The elders murmured. Surprise. Uncertainty. Respect.

The geometric-armored woman frowned. “You sure? Long path. Harsh path.”

“Yes,” Dorn said simply.

Ghor eyed him. “You speak Common too well.”

“Studied,” Dorn said. “Practice with trader-clans.” Then, more seriously: “They need Terran strength. I go.”

Boaz exchanged a look with Aldryn, half surprise, half relief. Having a Terran warrior with them would change the dynamic of the road ahead. It felt sudden, but right.

Ghor finally nodded. “Go then. But speak clear. Not twist words.”

Dorn nodded solemnly. “I do not twist words. My words are always straight.”

Lyra whispered, “Oh wow, this is going to be fun.” She smiled.

Theo snorted. “Terran literalism meets Lyra’s sarcasm. We’re doomed.”

Boaz couldn’t help a faint smile. The elders stepped back as assistants gathered their tools. The sunbeam through the gate widened as outside wind stirred dust along the floor.

The moss-marked elder raised his hand. “You go Duln’s Rise,” he said quietly. “We walk with you. Last steps of deep.”

Kiera nodded, moved. “Thank you.”

The elders turned toward the archway, beginning the slow, measured procession into the open air: carrying gifts, memories, and a hope none of them would have believed possible just two days ago.

Boaz tightened the forging-disc in his grip. The Sigil warmed against his chest. And the wind beyond the gate whispered their next direction.

North.

The main gate of Durn-Kelmar, its enormous runed slabs once sealed by the Sundering, had been opened wide enough to frame the sky like a waiting promise. Daylight spilled across the threshold in a long white ribbon, scattering dust in drifting motes that shimmered against stone.

As the elders stepped forward, the company followed in a loose, contemplative line. Dorn walked at Boaz’s left flank, tall for his race and broad-shouldered, his stride unhurried but purposeful. His unusual weapon, half pike, half sword, was strapped across his back, the metal veined with faint ember-light from the restored forge-heart.

Outside the gate, the world opened without warning. Cool wind swept across them, startling after the constant warmth of the deep. It carried the smell of dust, scrub grass, and the faint metallic tang of distant storms. The sky was a pale, fractured blue, with thin clouds stretched into long smears by high winds.

Boaz breathed deeply. The Sigil warmed in response, as though recognizing the open world again after days inside the mountain.

“Feels like the air has more room out here,” Theo murmured.

“That’s what sky is,” Lyra said. “Room.”

“I meant metaphorically.”

“You always mean metaphorically.”

Behind them, the Terran elders and their assistants followed in a slow, rhythmic formation, each chisel or tool they carried held with ceremonial precision. Their boots crunched through loose grit that had accumulated over years of little use; the mountain’s breath stirred it with each gust.

Jaxson walked slightly ahead, scanning the hillside. “Strange to be outside again. Feels like we were underground longer than we were.”

“You were underground exactly three days,” Dorn said plainly.

Jaxson blinked. “That was… not a question.”

“It sounded like one.” Dorn considered. “Or a mistaken statement needing correction.”

Lyra whispered behind her hand to Theo, “Oh, this is going to be delightful.” Theo stifled a laugh.

Aldryn walked with quiet solemnity near the front, Nevara perched noiselessly on his shoulder. “Not much farther,” he said. “Duln’s Rise stands just ahead. The place she chose for her rest.”

Boaz’s throat tightened slightly. Duln. Their friend. Their guide. The woman of stone-slow speech and fierce quiet strength, whose last sunrise had carved her into the mountain she longed to see again.

The wind seemed to soften as though honoring her memory. The procession followed a gentle incline carved into the hillside, bordered by natural stone shelves where lichen clung in pale patches. The sky widened with every step until at last the slope leveled onto a small rise overlooking the valley.

And there she sat.

Duln’s statue was exactly as she had been the moment the curse reclaimed her: seated, facing toward the hidden heart of Durn-Kelmar, posture composed even as her features turned to stone. Over the last day, Terran artisans had refined the edges, clearing debris, smoothing surface cracks, and carving a pedestal beneath her that lifted her slightly above the ground.

Around her feet, fresh runes were being cut. There were loops and angles that shimmered faintly with new-forged heat, sigils of return and rest. Fine stone dust drifted in the wind like pale ash. The company slowed, instinctively falling silent.

Shaye stepped forward first. Her eyes lingered on Duln’s sculpted face, her usual sharpness softened. “She was braver than she believed.”

“Aye,” Telen said quietly. He touched Duln’s stone hand, then lowered his head in a brief, reverent bow.

The elders arranged themselves around the pedestal with deliberate precision. Each carried a finely sharpened chisel or hammer. Ghor, oldest and sternest, lifted his tool first. “Begin,” he said.

The first strike rang out. CLINK. A sound of stone meeting stone, but not harsh. More like a bell. Pure. Weighted with purpose. Another elder joined. Then another. Six rhythms weaving into one steady heartbeat.

Boaz stepped closer, feeling something tighten in his chest. He reached into his pack and removed a small shard of fireglass, taken from the Sanctum floor after the second leaf bound itself to the Sigil. A fragment of the moment the mountain was restored.

He placed it gently at Duln’s feet. “For what she gave,” he whispered.

Kiera kneeled beside him, bringing out the small harmonizing chime they had given her just that morning. She struck it lightly with her fingertip. A soft, warm note spilled across the rise, weaving through the chisel strikes like a voice beneath the heartbeat.

“She healed us,” Kiera said. “In ways we didn’t realize until she was gone.”

Lyra’s eyes glistened, though she pretended otherwise. Mika leaned into her leg. Telen stepped forward again. He placed one palm on the pedestal, closing his eyes. His voice, when it came, was low and melodic.

“A blessing from the Aguan,” he said. “For those who cross from water to stone. May her rest be long, and may her name rise with the tide.”

Boaz bowed his head. Dorn cleared his throat. He stepped forward slowly, looking almost hesitant. Then he straightened and spoke with respectful gravity. “I will say her blessing too,” he said. “In Terran tongue. Words she would know.”

The elders paused briefly in their chiseling, turning toward him.

Dorn placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head. His voice came low and resonant, shaping the Terran syllables with surprising delicacy:

“Kaltha rekun, Duln’ara, Shulen Forkest, Padeth menlo.
Stone remember you.
Wind hear you.
Deep welcome you home.”

The words were not broken. They were simple. Clear. Faithful. And somehow more moving because they carried the exactness of someone who refused to alter their meaning even a fraction.

The elders nodded in approval.

Kiera wiped her eyes. Lyra looked down, pretending Mika had dust in her fur. Theo pressed his lips together, moved but trying not to sniff loudly. Aldryn bowed his head deeply. “She walked where stone and wind meet,” he said softly. “Let her rest in both.”

The last chisel strike faded into the wind. Silence settled, not empty, but full, like the moment after a song’s final note. The elders stepped back. Ghor spoke with solemn finality. “Done. She home.”

Boaz stepped forward, touched Duln’s stone knee gently, then withdrew. The Sigil warmed against his chest, not in warning this time, but in quiet recognition. As if honoring her sacrifice.

The wind rose again, stirring dust around the pedestal. The elders turned toward the company. “Now,” Ghor said. “You go north.”

Boaz nodded. The others did too. And the procession shifted, turning from remembrance toward the road ahead.

For a while after the last chisel strike, no one moved.

The wind had settled into a gentler rhythm, tugging at cloaks and hair as if unsure whether to linger in grief or push them onward. Duln’s statue sat in the center of it all, new runes clean and sharp on the pedestal, fireglass token catching pale light at her feet. She looked almost as if she were listening, not only to the mountain behind her, but to the open world she would never walk again.

Boaz stood with his hand resting lightly on the Sigil. The artifact’s warmth was calm now, the dissonant burr quieted by the stillness of the ceremony. It didn’t feel asleep. It felt sober. Like fire after the bellows stop: alive, but no longer thrashing.

Aldryn was the first to break the hush. Not with words, but with a slow breath and a nod toward the elders. “We’re in your debt,” he said.

Ghor grunted, which in Terran language meant something between “we accept” and “do not make this sentimental.”

The geometric-armored elder stepped forward. Her Common was still broken but clear. “Deep open again. Because of Sigil. Because of you.” She lifted her chin toward Boaz. “We remember. We tell young ones.”

Theo swallowed. “And we’ll tell ours.”

“Good,” she said simply.

The moss-marked Warden looked from Duln to the company. “She walk far for us. You walk far for all.” He hesitated, then added with awkward sincerity: “Do not… die stupidly.”

Jaxson blinked. “We’ll do our best.”

Dorn turned toward the moss-marked elder, earnest as a stone oath. “We will avoid dying stupidly. If we must die, we will attempt to do so with dignity and strategic value.”

Lyra muttered, “That’s a terrible promise.”

“It is an honest promise,” Dorn replied without looking at her.

A couple of the assistants actually laughed. Not loudly, Terrans didn’t do loud laughter much, but enough to lighten the air. The elders didn’t smile, exactly, but they didn’t stop it either.

Shaye stepped closer to Duln’s statue once more, resting her forehead briefly against the cool stone. “I’m sorry we couldn’t bring you farther.”

Telen laid a hand on her shoulder. “She arrived.”

Shaye’s throat tightened, but she nodded. Then the wind shifted. Not a gust exactly, more a change in direction. It came from the north and carried something sharper in it, like cold high air skating across rock. The dust around Duln’s pedestal lifted and spiraled, and the grasses on the rise bent all at once.

Boaz felt the Sigil respond. It pulsed hard against his hand, three beats in quick succession. Crimson, pearl, crimson. Not dissonant now. Urgent. A tug in the bones. A compass you couldn’t ignore.

He looked up. Beyond the rise, the land rolled away in long, pale hills and fractured ridgelines. The sky above was clean and high, but the far horizon wore a faint bruise of cloud, as if weather, or trouble, was already gathering. The Sigil pulsed again. Aldryn watched his face. “North,” he said quietly. Boaz nodded once.

The elders noticed the change. Ghor’s one good eye narrowed. “Sigil call you?”

“Yes,” Boaz said. He didn’t try to soften it. “It’s pulling us north. Hard.”

The copper-ringed elder glanced at the others, uneasy. “Whisper-man go there too?”

Aldryn didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” The word sat heavy in the wind.

Ghor’s jaw tightened. “Then go fast. Go straight. No sleep slow.”

“We will,” Aldryn said. “And we will remember your courage today.”

Ghor’s grunt this time was almost approving. “Remember. But also survive.”

The fellowship gathered instinctively into travel formation. Packs were adjusted, straps tightened, weapons checked. Kiera’s chime was tucked safely into a pouch at her belt. Theo thumbed the shifting logic-plate once, feeling its subtle warmth. Lyra slipped the resonance pendant under her collar so it rested near her sternum.

Jaxson rolled his shoulders, already scanning the terrain with the restless energy of someone who could only feel peace while moving.

Dorn stepped beside Boaz, squinting at the horizon like a man measuring a problem in angles and distances. “We head north,” he said with calm certainty. Then, after a beat: “North is where the wind comes from right now. That feels symbolically appropriate.”

Theo snorted. “You’re going to fit right in.”

“Good,” Dorn said. “Fitting in is usually safer than a mismatch.”

Lyra muttered, “Sometimes.”

Dorn considered her. “Sometimes is not always. Therefore I will aim for usually.”

Lyra opened her mouth, then closed it, deciding the argument wasn’t worth the effort.

Aldryn walked to the front with Boaz. Nevara took to the air, circling once as if to mark the moment. Eira drifted soundlessly above Kiera. Kestel rode a higher thermal, sharp-eyed and eager. The ground familiars stayed close: Thorne at Boaz’s knee, Mika alongside Lyra, Tink hitching a ride on Theo’s pack strap for the sheer joy of it.

Boaz paused at the edge of the rise. Duln’s statue was behind them now, framed by the gate-mouthed mountain she had longed for, her face turned homeward forever. The fireglass token glimmered faintly at her feet.

He bowed his head once. No speech, no ceremony, just the quiet acknowledgment of a debt that could never be repaid. Then he turned toward the wind.

The elders followed them to the crest of the slope, stopping where the stone path became open hillside. Assistants stood behind them, hands folded, eyes bright. The geometric elder lifted her hand in a Terran farewell, fist to chest, then outward. “Walk true, fire-bearer.”

The moss-marked one added, “If you make deep safe… we open gates again. Someday.”

Aldryn inclined his head. “Someday.”

Ghor’s voice rolled out last, hard as granite but not unkind. “Tell Altan this: Terran remember honor. Terran not bow easy. But we bow to flame that listen.”

Boaz met his eye, steady. “I will.” The Sigil pulsed again, almost impatient.

Aldryn leaned close enough that only Boaz could hear him over the wind. “We must reach the Altan Aeltharion before Lucar speaks in our place.”

Boaz’s jaw set. “I know.”

“Then we move.”

They started down the northward slope. The wind rose as they walked, pressing at their faces as though warning them. The grass hissed softly around their boots. The hills ahead looked washed clean, bright under a fractured midday sun.

Behind them, Durn-Kelmar stood awake, its gate open, its people watching from the mouth of stone like a nation reborn into daylight. Ahead of them, unseen but keenly felt, a shadow was already moving toward the sky-people.

Boaz felt it in the Sigil’s pull. Felt it in Aldryn’s tension. Felt it in the way the whole company unconsciously tightened their circle as they walked. He glanced back once more at the rise.

Duln was already smaller in the distance, a calm stone sentinel in a world of wind. “Rest well,” he whispered.

Kiera heard him and echoed softly, “Rest well.”

Then the company turned fully north. The Sigil beat like a living compass in Boaz’s chest. And together they stepped into the open world again, the wind rising around them like the beginning of a song.

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