"Northeast passage. Through the Ridge."
I release him, already calculating. The Ridge—the treacherous mountain path connecting Velzaroth to the outer territories. A desperate route. A dangerous one.
The bounty doesn't matter. It never did, not really—not after I saw her with Erisen that first day in the market. Not after I understood what I was being paid to destroy. But now, even the pretense of it is gone. The job is a ghost, an excuse I used to stay near them while I figured out what to do.
Now I know. I need to find them. Protect them. Be the shield between them and a world that wants to use them both.
I need to tell her that she was never the job. She became the reason I would never do another. Because I had nothing left to hunt.
I push myself beyond exhaustion, beyond reason, as I track the northeastern mountain path. My boots slip on loose shale, catching myself before I tumble into the ravine below. Six days without proper rest has dulled my reflexes, but I refuse to stop. Not when I'm this close.
The Ridge isn't meant for travelers—it's a death trap of narrow passages and sudden drops, where sulfur vents belch toxic fumes without warning. Only the desperate or the hunted use these routes. Esalyn fits both categories.
At a crossroads marked by a lightning-struck tree, I crouch to examine the ground. The recent acid rain has washed away most traces, but there—a small footprint pressed into mud, too small for an adult. Erisen. My chest tightens at the sight.
I follow the trail until dusk, when a grizzled nomad tending a hidden campfire grunts information my way after I offer him a flask of amerinth.
"Human woman?" He gestures vaguely toward the cliffs that rise like broken teeth against the crimson sky. "Saw her two days past. Pretty thing, scared eyes. Had a half-blood boy. Keeping to the shadows, they were." He takes another swig. "Headingfor the old shrine—the Temple of Forgotten Names, they call it. Nobody goes there. Bad omens."
Perfect for hiding. Perfect for ambush.
I leave him with the rest of the flask and set out immediately, pushing my body harder. The temple sits carved into the very edge of the cliffs, half-swallowed by ancient lava flows now hardened to black basalt. It's barely visible against the darkening sky, its spires crumbled like broken fingers.
From my vantage point in the twisted scrub brush, I watch the temple for hours. Nothing moves, yet I sense life within. I know Esalyn's patterns—she'll wait until full dark before risking movement, when the red moon casts enough light to see by but shadows are deep enough to hide in.
And there—a small figure emerges first, cautious as a wild thing. Erisen. His slight frame is tense, golden eyes scanning the perimeter before he signals behind him. Esalyn follows, a knife—my knife that I gave to her—gripped tightly in her hand.
The sight of them steals my breath. They're alive. But gods, they look wrong. Broken somehow.
Erisen's cheeks have hollowed in the short time since I last saw him, more sadness than weight. He's dirty, somehow looking smaller, and even from this distance, I can see the way he hunches his shoulders—a protective stance I know too well. It's like he's completely withdrawn into himself.
And Esalyn... She moves like a wounded predator, each step calculated despite her obvious exhaustion. Her dark hair is pulled back severely, emphasizing the sharpness of her expression. Shadows pool beneath her eyes, and her hand trembles slightly as she guides Erisen toward a patch of dreelk growing between the rocks.
They gather the bitter greens quickly, stuffing them into a ragged sack. Survival food. My jaw clenches. They should be eating warm meals at a table, not scavenging like animals.
I wait until they've returned inside before circling the temple, identifying entry points. The main entrance is blocked by rubble—intentional, I suspect—but a narrow window near the back sits partially open. Inside, the faint glow of votives casts weak light. The sulfur candles are common enough in Velzaroth not to draw attention, but provide just enough illumination to see by.
Night deepens. I move silently toward the window, listening for any sound from within. Their voices drift out—Esalyn's low murmur as she coaxes Erisen to eat, his small, tired replies. The domesticity of it slices through me. This is what I almost destroyed. What I still might lose.
I wait for silence—for Erisen's breathing to deepen with sleep—before approaching the window. I need to talk to Esalyn and I know she won't just let me in. And I don't want to further upset Erisen.
Hopefully she'll forgive me for breaking in. It's the least of my transgressions.
The frame groans softly as I ease my larger body through, dropping noiselessly to the stone floor inside.
The knife is at my throat before I can fully straighten, its edge pressing cold against my skin.
"I taught you well," I murmur, remaining perfectly still.
Esalyn stands before me, her body taut as a bowstring. The votives cast her face in harsh relief—high cheekbones, hollow cheeks, eyes like open wounds. We stand in a hall and at the very end, the door is cracked. Where Erisen must be.
Her gaze is pure wildfire, burning with equal parts fury and fear. My knife—the one I gave her for protection, the one I taught her to use with my hands guiding hers—doesn't waver at my throat.
"Esalyn," I say her name like a prayer, low and steady. I make no move to defend myself, no attempt to disarm her. I could—we both know it—but I won't. This choice must be hers.
I meet her gaze directly, letting her see everything I've hidden before: the regret, the need, the truth.
And I wait.
