The mountain pass narrowed into a tight, winding trail where the cliffs pressed close on either side, casting long shadows over the path.
The light dimmed as if the sky itself hesitated to touch this place. The outpost's northern trail had vanished behind us, replaced by a footpath that looked like no one had walked it in years. Roots twisted beneath our boots, some stone, some vine, some carved with ancient glyphs whose meaning none of us could name. But Sylri didn't slow.
She walked like someone retracing a memory. Not watching for signs. Like she knew the path of the woods.
Riven stayed near me. Her steps were quiet, her posture careful, but her touch had changed. It no longer felt braced or reluctant. It felt like she meant to steady me now, not hold me together. She hadn't said much since the night before, not beyond simple necessities. But her silence wasn't cold. It carried weight. I could feel her thread still tethered to mine, pulsing faintly beneath the Core's rhythm. Fragile, steady, uncertain.
The path curved again, climbing higher along the ridge. That was when I saw it.
The building rose out of the cliffside like it had been grown from the rock rather than built. Moss clung to the old stones, vines tangled over its archways, and a single spire reached toward the sky, cracked but intact. Light filtered down strangely through the trees above, soft and golden, pooling around the base like it had been drawn there by something more than sunlight.
Sylri came to a stop a few paces from the threshold. She didn't speak right away. Her gaze lingered on the doorway, her expression unreadable.
"She lives alone," she said finally. "She doesn't welcome strangers."
There was no need to ask who she meant. I could already feel it.
The Core shifted inside me, not violently, but with interest. Something about the place stirred it, as if the air itself had teeth.
Sylri turned to me. Her voice stayed even, but there was a warning beneath it.
"Her name is Arivelle. She was a priestess once, trained in ancient rites that no longer belong to any temple. She still follows the old paths. She knows how to heal. But don't mistake that for weakness."
I nodded once, not to agree, but because I didn't need to argue. The Core had already reacted to the energy ahead, coiling slightly beneath my ribs like it had already decided something.
Before we could approach the door, it opened.
And then she stepped into view.
Arivelle didn't move like someone who had heard us coming. She moved like she had been waiting. Her robe was light, dyed in earth-tones that clung and parted with every step, exposing skin like it was meant to be seen, not hidden. Her hair fell past her waist in strands that shimmered white-gold, like frost catching sunrise. But it was her eyes that held me.
They were ageless. Not in the way of time untouched, but in the way of someone who had seen too much and let none of it blind her.
She looked first to Sylri, with a slow nod. Then to Riven, longer this time, as if she were weighing more than presence. And finally, to me.
When her gaze settled on mine, the Core surged.
Not with desire. Not with power.
With need.
Arivelle said nothing. She turned and stepped back inside, her gesture slow, fingers curling toward the threshold in silent invitation.
Sylri entered first, calm as ever, her sword still slung across her back. Riven hesitated, just for a breath, then followed.
I stepped in last.
As I passed her, Arivelle leaned close, her voice low and quiet enough that I almost thought I imagined it.
"The Core is broken in you."
I stopped.
She didn't.
She walked away without looking back, as if what she said wasn't meant to be questioned. As if she already knew I would follow.
The space inside her sanctuary was not what I expected.
It didn't feel holy. It didn't feel sacred.
It felt alive.
The walls were carved from stone, but softened with draped fabrics and lined with faintly glowing runes that pulsed as if they were veins beneath skin. The air carried a weight, scented with something herbal and slightly metallic. It settled into my lungs with the heaviness of ritual, like I had already inhaled something I could not take back.
Arivelle moved ahead of us with quiet confidence. Her steps didn't creak the floor. Her robe whispered across the stone. Every movement she made was intentional, not trained but innate. It was the kind of grace that belonged to things born, not taught.
Riven stayed close to the entrance. She hadn't removed her cloak. Her body wasn't tense, not in the way a warrior readied herself for a fight, but she held herself back with a quiet restraint that felt heavier than armor. I felt it in the way her presence pressed toward mine but never touched. The thread between us flickered gently, holding steady beneath her silence.
Sylri had already made herself comfortable. She sat on a low cushion, her sword resting across her lap. It wasn't a show of threat, but a statement. She would not put down her weapon here, but she also wasn't afraid.
Then Arivelle turned to me.
"You're not here because you want healing," she said.
Her voice wasn't cold. But it held no softness either. She spoke like someone who didn't waste words. Like someone who already knew the truth and had simply waited for me to catch up to it.
"You're here because the Core is unraveling."
I didn't answer.
Because she wasn't wrong.
She stepped closer, slowly, her gaze trailing over my chest. It wasn't lust that moved behind her eyes. It was something quieter. Caution, maybe. Recognition.
She stopped just in front of me. Her hand lifted slightly, and her fingers hovered over the center of my chest where the Core lived and pulsed. Her breath caught, almost imperceptibly.
"The poison that touched you is more than physical," she said softly. "It corrupted the Core's rhythm. I can steady what remains, but your system has already shifted. This isn't about the wound anymore. This is about what you're becoming."
I felt the air shift around us. Thicker. Still.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, not with suspicion, but with understanding.
"You're already tied to more than one," she continued. "Two threads, maybe more. But your body hasn't adjusted. Your energy is being pulled in different directions, and the Core is trying to fix that imbalance on its own."
She glanced at Riven then.
It was only a moment. But it was long enough. I felt the tremor in Riven's silence. I saw the understanding pass between them before Arivelle looked away.
"There's only one way to realign the Core fully," she said. "It needs full access. Not fragments. Not passive connection. It must be physical. Complete. It needs your body's full surrender to something stable."
Her meaning sank in before she said it outright.
"Shared release," she said quietly. "Shared breath. That is how it anchors."
Riven turned her back.
Not in protest or shock. But in pain.
Her movement wasn't abrupt. But it was full. She closed herself off from the room, from the moment, from me. And even though she said nothing, I felt it ripple through the bond.
Not anger. Not rejection.
Grief.
The quiet kind. The kind that knows something must happen and hates that it still hurts.
Arivelle turned back to me. Her posture was steady. Her voice calm.
"I will not demand anything of you," she said. "But if you want to survive what's coming, your energy must be fused with something that can hold it. Right now, I am the only one capable of doing that."
My throat felt tight. I swallowed once, but it did nothing.
The Core stirred inside me again. Not with urgency or with desire, this time it waited.
Not as a plea.
But as a command buried in patience.
And still, Riven stood with her back turned, quiet, motionless, her silence the loudest thing in the room.
I stood still for a while. The air in the sanctuary was too quiet, too heavy. I could feel the heat of the Core in my chest, pulsing steadily beneath the skin where Arivelle's hand had almost touched. It wasn't hunger now. It wasn't chaos. It was… expectation. A rhythm waiting to be followed.
But it wasn't the Core I was thinking about.
Riven hadn't moved.
Her back was still to me. Her hood half drawn, her cloak pulled too tight around her shoulders. Her sword was still at her side, untouched, but her hands were clenched. One around her elbow, the other fisted against her hip.
I stepped toward her, slowly.
"Riven."
She didn't turn. But her jaw tightened.
I waited a breath, then tried again.
"You don't have to walk away."
"I'm not walking," she said. Her voice was soft but clipped. "I'm standing still so I don't say something I'll regret."
That landed harder than I expected.
"I didn't choose this," I said, quietly. "Not like this."
She turned then.
Her eyes were dry, but that didn't make them any less raw. They weren't angry. Not exactly. They were wounded. The kind of wounded that doesn't bleed, but breaks everything inside.
"No," she said. "But you will."
Her words didn't have venom. Just a tired sort of truth. The kind that had taken too long to admit to herself.
"I know what the Core needs," she went on, her voice steadying. "I know what you need. I'm not blind. I can feel it too. But knowing doesn't make it easier."
I stepped closer. "Then tell me how to make it easier."
"You can't."
"Riven—"
She shook her head, slow and deliberate.
"I've seen you with her. With Sylri. With this priestess. It's not just about survival anymore, is it? You've started to crave it. The pull. The power. And I don't blame you. But I don't know where I fit in that hunger."
Her words cut deeper than I expected.
"Is that what you think?" I asked. "That I'm leaving you behind?"
"I think," she said, carefully, "that I've already been left behind more times than I can count. And I think I told myself this time would be different."
I reached out. I didn't touch her, not yet. I waited.
She let out a slow breath, one that shook at the edges.
"I don't want to be another thread to burn through," she said. "I want to matter even when there's no power to gain. Even when the Core doesn't care."
"You do matter."
"Then prove it," she said, finally meeting my eyes. "Not with promises. Not with excuses. With how you hold me. With how you carry me forward. With how you don't forget me when the next bond lights up in your chest."
I wanted to tell her that she was the first. That what we had forged in the cave still lived in me like breath. But I knew that words would fall short here. Words would be easy.
So I stepped closer and placed my hand over her heart.
The bond flared between us, faint and flickering, but alive.
"You are not a thread I'll burn through," I said. "You're the tether I come back to when everything else threatens to unravel."
Her gaze flickered.
For a moment, it looked like she might believe me.
Then she stepped back.
"Go," she said, and her voice didn't break. "Do what you have to do. But don't ask me to stay in the room and watch."
"I wasn't going to."
She nodded once, then turned away, her cloak sweeping with the movement.
And I stood there for a long time, the warmth of her still clinging to my hand, knowing that no matter what I said next, no matter how true it might be, this moment would change everything between us.
I didn't follow her.
Because some distances can't be closed with footsteps.
Some must be earned back.
With time.
And something more than fire.