Dawn cracked over the far cliffs in streaks of ash and ember. The world felt muted, as if the stars themselves still whispered warnings to those below. The fire from the Ember Church had burned low in the night, but the memory of what had happened there clung to Mo like smoke. The second Seal fragment had changed him—he could feel it even now in his chest, pulsing like a second heart.
They had stopped in a forgotten clearing miles east of the ruins. Aylen knelt by a narrow stream, washing blood from her arms with practiced hands. Mo leaned against a broken stone pillar, the last remnant of a crumbled watchtower. The trees around them were skeletal, their limbs like blackened claws scratching at the pale morning sky.
It should have been peaceful.
But it wasn't.
"You didn't sleep," Aylen said without looking up.
Mo didn't respond immediately. His eyes were half-closed, focused on the way the water moved over the rocks—calm, sure, unbothered by anything outside its path. "Didn't feel like dreaming," he said finally.
Aylen dried her arms and rose, walking over slowly. "You're more silent than usual."
Mo's gaze flicked up. "And you're more talkative."
She tilted her head at that. "It's strange seeing you unsure."
"I'm not unsure," he said flatly. "I'm calculating."
There was a pause. Then, she stepped closer, eyes steady on him. "You've changed since the second fragment. You feel… heavier."
Mo stood, the Shamshir shifting slightly on his back with a faint chime of steel. "Power has a weight. I'm carrying it."
Aylen studied him a moment longer, her brow furrowed. "It's not just power you're carrying. It's something else. Something older. I've felt it before."
He narrowed his eyes. "Where?"
Her voice dropped, almost reverent. "In the Tomb of Fireborne Kings. The air there moved like it did around you last night. Like something ancient had woken."
Mo turned away, eyes settling on the mist creeping between the trees. "Then we keep moving. Before whatever followed us from Ember catches up."
But Aylen didn't move.
"Mo," she said quietly. "Before we go—"
He turned back just as she stepped in, close enough to see the flecks of gold near her pupils. Her voice was calm, but there was steel behind it. "Don't carry this weight alone."
He stared at her, a breath caught somewhere between suspicion and something else—something quieter.
"I'm not good at the soft parts," he said. "You should've figured that out by now."
"I did," she replied, not stepping back. "That doesn't mean you don't need them."
Their eyes held for a second longer than either of them expected.
And then, like all things between them, the moment was cut by motion—an arrow thudding into a nearby tree with a snap.
Mo spun instantly, blade already halfway drawn.
Three riders emerged from the trees—black cloaks, armored shoulders, and the mark of the Outer Vultures tattooed across their faces.
"Looks like we caught ourselves a bearer," one of them sneered.
Aylen's hand was already on her twin daggers. Mo let the Shamshir fall fully into his grip, the edge glowing faintly blue.
The quiet was over.