We trudge on, the snow crunching under our boots, the cold gnawing into my bones. Night is coming fast, darker and colder than the last one, and exhaustion drags at my every step. My clothes are wet, sticking to my skin, each gust of wind cutting straight through me. Zaria and Rye do what they can Zaria's molten rocks sends ribbons of steam swirling from her arms, melting snow in our path, while Rye's fire flickers in the air, pushing warmth out in little bursts. But it's never enough. By the time the sun is a dull red wound on the horizon, my teeth are chattering, my hands numb.
Still, we keep moving. There's no other option.
But as we press onward, the ground begins to change. The wide, open sweep of the plains gives way to a land that undulates in slow, steady waves, the horizon no longer a single straight line but a rising and falling tapestry of low hills. Snow still covers everything, but here it lies in uneven drifts, clinging thick in the hollows and dips. The earth itself seems to heave and breathe, the land rolling gently upwards toward the dark teeth of the mountain range looming ahead.
Scattered shrubs and stunted trees huddle in the lee of the hills, their branches dusted with frost, their roots clutching at the frozen soil. The colors are muted: the blue-white of snow, the dull gold of grass, the gray-brown of stone and naked branches. It's a bleak beauty, but a beauty all the same a landscape caught between worlds, not yet mountain and no longer plain.
It's slower going here. The snow is deceptive sometimes it's only ankle-deep, sometimes you step into a drift and sink almost to your knees. Rye and Zaria do what they can, fire and molten rock keeping us moving, but even their magic can't melt the whole world. We slip, we curse, we lean on each other. But we keep going, because ahead of us the land keeps rising, the hills growing steeper and rockier, leading toward the infamous mountains.
We crest a low rise and finally spot it a jumble of rocks piled at the base of a shallow hill, forming a narrow outcrop. As we get closer, I see the dark mouth of a cave tucked between two slabs of stone, half-hidden by the tall, yellowed grass poking through the snow. Zaria stops, scanning the area, and nods. "That'll do. Let's move."
Relief surges through the group. We hurry toward the outcrop, boots slipping on icy grass and hidden snow patches, and crowd into the mouth of the cave. Inside, it's cramped but dry, the stone walls cold and smooth beneath my fingers. The ceiling is low enough that I have to duck, but there's enough room for all of us if we pack in. The air smells musty a hint of moss, dust, and the faintest trace of animals long gone.
We set up camp with a kind of desperate efficiency. Rye kneels at the center and flicks her fingers, conjuring a tongue of flame that she coaxes into a steady fire surrounded by rocks. The warmth is a miracle sudden and pure, chasing the cold from my skin. Imara starts to prepare the rabbits. After a few minutes the smell of roasting meat fills the cave, rich and wild, making my stomach twist with hunger.
I drop down onto my back, bones sighing in relief, and resist the urge to close my eyes and let sleep take me. Every part of me aches. My side throbs still bruised even if healed, a dull reminder of how close I came to dying. But it's not just my body that's tired. My mind feels stretched thin, like there's not enough of me left to fill my own skin.
The voices that constant, snarling presence that's haunted me since the marks first burned into my flesh are quiet now. Not gone, not truly, but hovering at the edge of my mind, separate from me in a way I'm not used to. They don't share my will, not anymore so we are once again separate. Instead, they swirl in the darkness behind my thoughts, watching, waiting. There's a strange sense of respect in their silence, as if they're finally seeing me as something more than a vessel or a pawn. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it that after eight months of hell, the power I never wanted finally respects me. It's ridiculous. It's almost funny.
Lucian settles down beside me, his long legs stretched out, hands resting on his knees. He glances over, his face cast in shadow by the firelight. "You good?" he asks, his voice low, edged with concern.
"Peachy," I mutter, voice tired. "Never better."
He laughs "Liar."
"Yeah, well, we're all liars."
Rye comes over and settles on my other side, folding her legs beneath her. Her normally straight black hair is wild, tangled and frizzy from the wind but her eyes are bright in the firelight. "You look like shit," she says, grinning.
"Wow, thanks," I mutter.
She laughs. "What? Sorry, but it's true."
I shake my head in disgust. "No need to actually say it out loud, though."
Lucian snorts. "Oh, come on, Rye hop off, no need to bully the wounded."
I shoot him a look. "My good man, you couldn't have sounded more sarcastic if you tried."
The smell of cooking rabbit gets stronger, my stomach rumbling so loud Imara bursts out laughing from across the cave. "Careful, Ayato. You'll scare the food away."
I close my eyes, sighing dramatically. "Is it pick on Ayato night? You're all villains."
Eventaully Imara passes around chunks of roasted meat, still sizzling, and I tear into mine without shame. It's tough and gamey, but it tastes like the best thing I've ever had.