It's been a week since we set up camp in the old armory, and in that time, the world hasn't gotten any kinder. The winds still howl outside the crumbling walls, carrying with them the whispers of the past, but here, in the shadow of rusted steel and forgotten memories, things feel quieter. There's a certain stillness that comes from being surrounded by ruins, the remnants of a time long gone. It's as if the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen, though I'm not sure any of us know what that "something" is anymore.
I'm awake before dawn, as usual. The cold metal of the armory presses against my back as I sit up, rubbing my eyes. The fire we'd built the night before has burned down to embers, but I don't need its warmth. The chill has long since settled into my bones, a constant companion that I've learned to live with. I stand up, my boots scraping the stone floor, and step out into the open air.
The sky is a dull gray, heavy with clouds, and the wind blows against my face like a slap. It's been like this every morning since we arrived—a constant reminder that the world has forgotten warmth. I take a deep breath, the air stinging my lungs, and start walking.
The armory is perched on a rise, overlooking a valley that was once something more. Now it's just barren ground, cracked earth, and a scattering of twisted metal, the skeletal remains of machines that were once powerful enough to wage war across the continents. The landscape here feels ancient, like the earth itself is scarred by whatever happened all those years ago. It's hard to tell what's natural and what was shaped by the hand of war.
I'm not sure how long I've been walking when I hear him—a voice, low and familiar, breaking through the stillness. "You're up early," Kvatz says, stepping out from behind one of the jagged ruins. His face is weathered, eyes squinting against the wind, but his smirk is as steady as ever. He leans against a shattered pillar, arms crossed, watching me.
I don't respond immediately, just take in the sight of him. Kvatz has always had this way of making everything feel a little less heavy. The world could be crumbling around us, but with him around, there's always a joke, always a smirk, always a moment of lightness. I can't help but feel a flicker of relief at the sight of him—he's a constant, in a way that makes this place feel less like an abandoned ruin and more like… home, in the strangest way possible.
"Couldn't sleep," I finally mutter, shifting my weight. "You know how it is."
"Yeah, I do," he replies, his voice softer than usual. He doesn't ask questions. He never does. Kvatz knows better than to push me. We've been through too much together for him to need to ask about the things I don't say.
We stand there for a long while, the wind gusting between us, stirring the remnants of our camp behind us. There's something about mornings like this—quiet, uncertain—that makes everything feel sharper. The sounds, the sights, the weight of the air around us. I catch myself staring at him longer than I should, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"You know," he says, his voice breaking the silence once again, "Gaer's still rattling on about you being the Pariah."
I wince at the name, the same one I've heard more times than I care to admit. The one that hangs in the air like a curse, like an omen that I can't shake off no matter how much I try to ignore it. "I know," I mutter, pushing the hair out of my face. "I don't know why he keeps bringing it up."
Kvatz's smirk falters for a second, replaced by a look I can't quite read. He studies me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Doesn't sit well with you, does it?"
I shake my head, my gaze turning to the distant horizon. "No. But I can't escape it. No one can. It's just… this thing that's always there, like a shadow. I didn't ask for it, Kvatz."
He lets out a sigh and steps forward, standing beside me now. I don't look at him, but I can feel the weight of his presence. It's strange, the way he can be both a comfort and a reminder of everything I've been trying to outrun. He doesn't say anything for a long time, and I wonder if he's even sure what to say.
Then, finally, he speaks. "You don't have to carry it alone."
I glance at him, surprised by the quiet sincerity in his voice. Kvatz has always been the kind of guy who cracks jokes to keep the mood light, the one who would make some offhand comment about the world burning down just to get a laugh. But this… this feels different.
"Someone has to," I reply, my tone harsher than I intend. "I didn't choose this, Kvatz. None of it. And now I'm supposed to be the one who decides if the world ends or not? That's not something I can just shrug off."
He's quiet for a moment, as if weighing my words. Then, finally, he says, "You're not the only one who's tired of the weight, Lanni. But you don't have to face it alone. I'm still here. We're still here."
I look at him then, really look at him, and for a moment I see something in his eyes—a vulnerability, something he doesn't show often. He's not as unshakable as he likes people to think. Not always.
"You're always here," I say quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. And I don't regret them. Not at all.
Kvatz doesn't smile this time, though his expression softens. For the first time in a long while, I feel the weight of everything settle, just for a moment, and it's not nearly as heavy as it's been.
"I'll keep being here," he says, his voice steady, "until the end."
I turn away, looking back toward the camp. The fire's still smoldering, and I know that soon we'll have to make our way forward. There's a long road ahead of us, and I have no idea where it'll lead. But for now, in this moment, with the wind biting at my skin and Kvatz standing beside me, I don't feel quite so alone.
The wind cuts through the ruins, but it's not nearly as cold as it should be. Maybe it's the presence of Kvatz that makes it feel bearable, or maybe I'm just too used to the chill by now. Either way, the landscape ahead still seems endless—just barren earth and the broken skeletons of machines. But in the back of my mind, I know that there's more here than meets the eye. This place… the armory, the valley, the wasteland around it… it all feels like it holds its breath, waiting for something. Waiting for us.
I glance over at Kvatz again, and this time, he's not looking at me. His gaze is fixed on something out in the distance, beyond the skeletal remains of old war machines, to where the land falls off into the endless horizon. I know that look. I've seen it enough times to recognize it. He's thinking about the past, about things we've both tried to bury. The memories we'd rather forget. The wars we've fought and the lives we've lost.
I don't ask him about it. He doesn't need me to. Kvatz and I have this understanding, an unspoken one. We don't need to say everything, because we both know what the other feels. He gets it. He always has. Even when we were both younger and just starting out, both fresh-faced and naive, we knew how to fall in line together. We knew how to watch each other's backs.
And right now, even though we're both weighed down by the world, we're still in it together.
It feels strange to acknowledge that. To realize that despite all the hardship, despite all the things that have happened, I'm still here. And so is Kvatz.
I look at him again, this time taking in the details. The lines around his eyes, the faded scar on his cheek, the slight graying at his temples. He's older than I am, but there's still a fire in him, the same one I remember from all those years ago. The one that never went out, no matter how dark things got.
"Have you ever thought about leaving?" I ask, and the words surprise me. Maybe it's the silence of the morning, or maybe it's just the heaviness of everything hanging between us. But it spills out, unbidden.
Kvatz turns his head to me, his expression unreadable for a second. Then, his lips quirk up into that familiar half-smile. "Thought about it?" He repeats the question like he's considering it. "Sure. Who hasn't? But I've never been one for running away."
I can't help but scoff, even though I know exactly what he means. Kvatz never runs. Not from anything. But that's the thing about him—he always knows when to stand his ground, when to push forward, and when to make a joke to take the edge off. It's why he's always been the one I rely on when everything feels like it's falling apart.
"You're impossible," I mutter under my breath, but there's a soft edge to my words, like a laugh waiting to break through.
He chuckles at that, the sound a familiar comfort in the midst of everything else. "I know," he says. "You've told me a thousand times."
We fall into a companionable silence then, the kind that's never awkward between us. There's no need to speak when we both know what the other is thinking. But after a few minutes, Kvatz shifts his stance and looks back down at the ruins below.
"I don't know if we'll make it out of this," he says, and it's the first time he's said anything like that since we've been here. His voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of something else there, something deeper. Maybe fear, maybe uncertainty, or maybe just the weight of everything we've seen and done.
I glance at him, my breath catching in my throat. It's not like Kvatz to admit doubt, even if it's just for a moment. He's always been the one to keep things light, to act like the world can't touch him. But even he has to know, deep down, that we're facing something bigger than the both of us.
"Maybe," I say, the word tasting strange on my tongue. "But I guess we don't get to decide when the end comes. We just… keep moving forward."
Kvatz nods, looking out over the valley again. "That's the thing, Lanni," he murmurs. "You never know when the end's coming. You just have to keep pushing until you can't anymore."
For a long while, we don't speak. We just stand there, side by side, watching the ruins, the barren landscape, and the winds that seem to carry the weight of all the things we've lost.
I think about what he said, about the end coming when we least expect it. It feels like that sometimes—like the ground is slipping out from under me and the world is shaking with forces I can't control. But at least I'm not facing it alone. Not now. Not with Kvatz here, standing next to me.
"You're right," I say finally, my voice low but steady. "We'll keep moving forward. Even if it's just the two of us."
Kvatz looks at me then, his eyes softening just a fraction, like he's hearing me for the first time in a long while. And I realize that, in a way, I've never really said it out loud before—not to him, not like this. That no matter what happens, I'm not alone. Not while he's still here.
His lips curl into that half-smile again. "Damn right, we will."
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe it.
⧫ ⧫ ⧫
The day stretches out before us, heavy with the weight of what's to come. As the wind picks up again, biting and bitter, I gather my gear, pulling on my worn gloves and tugging my cloak tighter around my shoulders. The armory that has been our refuge for the past week already feels like it belongs to a different time, like it's not part of the world we're about to step back into. But the truth is, the world out there isn't a world for resting. It's a world for moving, for surviving, and if we're not careful, for dying.
Kvatz's voice breaks through the stillness again. "Ready to go, Lanni?" He's standing by the campfire, the last of the embers flickering under his boots as he adjusts the straps on his armor. The faintest trace of a grin lingers on his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes—not today. Today, it's just the shell of that usual confidence he wears. The firelight makes the scars on his skin stand out, and for a second, I catch myself wondering how much more he's been through than even I know.
I nod, my mouth dry, and sling my pack over my shoulders. "As ready as I'll ever be," I say, my voice sounding foreign to me. It doesn't hold the bite it usually does. There's a weariness settling deep into my bones, and it's not just the cold or the travel. It's something else. A knowing. A sinking feeling in my gut that I can't explain.
Behind me, Gaer is already up, moving with that quiet, uneasy energy he always carries. He's a deserter. An outsider, by most standards. And yet, here we are, the three of us, about to journey toward the Northern Wards together. Toward the Rift and the Liturgy, whatever that means. I don't know if I trust Gaer, not fully. There's something about him that unsettles me. Maybe it's the way he never speaks of his past, or the way his eyes flicker toward the horizon as if he's constantly waiting for something to catch up with him. But for now, he's a necessary part of this journey, whether I like it or not.
"Let's get moving," Gaer says, his voice low, almost too soft against the wind. His eyes dart over the ruins behind us as if he's afraid the armory might fall apart before we've even left. He's a man in a hurry, and I can't tell if it's because he wants to get this over with or if he's just afraid of what lies ahead. Either way, there's no room for hesitation.
Kvatz doesn't wait for anyone's approval. He simply picks up his weapons and starts toward the valley's edge, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. I follow him, because that's what I've always done—follow the man who's been there when the world falls apart, when the pieces are too heavy to carry.
Gaer lingers behind us, keeping his distance. I don't think he trusts either of us, and I can't say I blame him. Trust isn't something easily given, especially in a world like this. But we don't need to trust him entirely. We just need to make it through the next few days without losing our footing.
As we descend into the valley, the ground underfoot grows more treacherous, with patches of ice that threaten to send us slipping at any moment. The wind howls around us, stinging the skin, biting deeper than it should. The world feels sharper here, colder. Everything seems to be waiting, holding its breath.
"What's the deal with this Liturgy?" Kvatz asks after a while, his voice loud enough to cut through the howling wind. His face is shielded by the collar of his cloak, but I can see the way his eyes flicker to Gaer, a silent question hanging between them.
Gaer shifts uncomfortably, his shoulders tense under his coat. "The Liturgy is a myth," he says after a pause, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Or maybe it's a curse. Hard to tell."
"Curse?" Kvatz's eyebrows knit together. "How's it a curse?"
Gaer doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks toward the north, toward the mountains that rise like jagged teeth on the horizon. "You've heard the stories," he says, almost to himself. "The ones about the Rift, about the things that crawl through it." His voice hardens, and for the first time since we've been traveling together, I see a hint of something raw—something real—in his eyes. "People have gone searching for the Liturgy for years. They say it's tied to the Rift, but no one ever comes back to tell the tale."
A shiver runs down my spine, and I grip my pack tighter. I can feel the weight of Gaer's words pressing against me, like a cold hand around my chest. Something about the Liturgy feels wrong—like the ground beneath us is shifting, ready to swallow us whole. But we don't have a choice. We can't turn back now. Not after everything we've already lost.
Kvatz snorts, though it's not a laugh. "Great. So we're walking into a myth. We should've known."
Gaer doesn't flinch at Kvatz's sarcasm. "Myths have a way of being real when you least expect it," he mutters, and there's a bitterness to his tone that catches my attention.
I glance at him, but he's already turned away, his eyes scanning the horizon again, searching for something I can't see. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, fingers twitching like he's ready for anything. Or maybe nothing at all.
"We keep moving," I say, my voice firm despite the unease that's crept into my bones. "We've come too far to turn back now."
Kvatz nods without looking at me. "You're right. The only way out is forward."
I glance over my shoulder at the ruins of the armory one last time. The wind whips past, carrying with it the faint scent of old iron and rust, the scent of something long forgotten. For a moment, I almost expect the walls to crumble, to collapse in on themselves as if the world has grown tired of holding them up. But then I turn away, and we keep walking.
The path ahead is uncertain. We don't know what the Liturgy is, or why it's tied to the Rift. We don't know if it's a blessing or a curse. But the fact is, none of us really know what we're walking into, and that thought gnaws at me, a constant reminder that every step is one closer to a fate we can't escape.
So we keep walking, the three of us. Together, but not quite.
The wind howls louder now, its icy fingers clawing at my skin, pulling at my cloak as though it's trying to drag me down. The path before us is narrow, winding, and treacherous. The ground is frozen solid, the air so thin and cold it bites through my layers of clothing. We've been walking for hours, maybe longer, though it's hard to keep track of time when everything around us feels like it's holding its breath.
I glance back at Kvatz and Gaer, both of them trailing behind me, but not by much. We're not speaking much anymore. There's a heaviness in the air between us, thick as the snow swirling around our boots. I don't know what it is exactly—whether it's the journey itself, the uncertainty ahead, or just the sheer weight of what we're seeking. But something is off, something's wrong, and I can feel it deep inside my chest, like a knot that refuses to loosen.
Gaer is the quietest, his face as unreadable as always. He's good at that—being hard to read, hard to predict. I've watched him closely, especially since we left the armory. There's something about his movements, his silence, that tells me he's already preparing for something. Whether it's the Liturgy, the Rift, or something darker that none of us can name, I don't know. But I see it in the way his eyes flicker over every shadow, every shift in the wind. He's always looking for something. I'm not sure if it's something to kill or something to run from.
Kvatz, on the other hand, moves with purpose, but there's an edge to his steps today. A restlessness that hasn't been there before. Maybe it's the cold that's gotten to him, maybe it's the lack of sleep, or maybe it's the feeling that we're walking toward something we can't control. He's never been one to talk about fear, but I see it in the set of his jaw, in the tense line of his shoulders. It's as if he knows, deep down, that whatever is ahead of us—whatever the Liturgy is—won't be something we can just fight our way out of.
I take a deep breath and try to steady myself. The chill in the air sinks deeper into my lungs, but it doesn't bring clarity. It only adds to the haze of doubt that's been clouding my thoughts since we left the armory. There's something about this mission, something that feels off, and I can't shake it. Every step forward feels like a step toward an unseen precipice. I don't know what we're walking toward, but I know that once we cross this threshold, there's no going back.
The silence between us stretches out like a taut rope, and for a moment, I wish someone would break it. I wish Kvatz would speak, or Gaer would say something that might make this feel real, something that might pull me back from the edge of this growing unease. But they don't. They keep moving in silence, as if they too can feel the weight of the unknown pressing in on them.
As the day wears on, the terrain begins to change. The trees that once crowded around us start to thin, replaced by jagged rocks that jut out of the ground like the bones of some long-forgotten beast. The landscape is growing harsher, more unforgiving, and the cold is biting harder with each step. I don't know how much longer we can keep this pace. I don't know if we're heading toward the Northern Wards, or if we've already passed some invisible line into a place we shouldn't be.
Kvatz's voice breaks the silence again. "The Rift," he says, his voice a rough rasp against the wind. "You think it's really out there, Lanni?"
I don't answer right away. Instead, I look up, squinting into the distance. The sky above us is a dull gray, heavy with clouds that promise more snow. But it's not the weather that makes me hesitate. It's the question itself. What if we're already too close to the Rift? What if it's already begun to tear through the fabric of this world, pulling us into something we're not prepared for?
"Well, according to our dear companion here," I finally say, my tone more sarcastic than I intended. "It should be in the Coldmagia Tundra, northernmost-point of the Wards.."
Kvatz doesn't respond right away. He just keeps walking, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. It's like he's trying to outrun the words, to outrun the truth of what we're really searching for. But I know better than to think any of us can outrun this. Not now. Not with the Liturgy, not with the Rift.
We reach a narrow pass between two massive boulders, the path growing steeper as we climb. The air is thinner here, colder, and I can feel the weight of it pressing down on me, making my breath come in short gasps. But still, we move forward, driven by the same thing—the need to find the Rift, to find the Liturgy, to make sense of whatever the hell is going on in this broken world.
Gaer slows as we reach the top of the pass, his eyes scanning the horizon. For a moment, I think he sees something—maybe he's picked up on something we haven't—but then he just shakes his head and moves on without a word. The wind shifts again, sharp and biting, and I feel a flicker of unease. I don't know what it is, but something in my gut tells me we're closer than we think.
"Keep moving," Kvatz mutters, his voice low but firm. "We're not far now."
But even as he says it, I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. The distance between us and the Northern Wards is closing fast, but the closer we get, the heavier the air becomes. It's like something is pulling at the fabric of reality itself, tugging at the edges of our world. And the closer we get to whatever lies beyond that, the more I can feel it.
For a long moment, I wonder if this will be the last time we set foot on solid ground, the last time we see the sun or feel the earth beneath our feet. I don't voice it—no one ever does—but I can feel it in my bones. A quiet warning that maybe we've already crossed the point of no return, that there is no escape from whatever tragedy awaits us. But still, we walk. Still, we move forward.
We keep moving, step by step, toward something we can't fully understand.
After a long trek, we finally reach the Coldmagia Tundra just as the last light of day begins to fade behind the jagged horizon. The wind here is different—thicker, colder, like it carries with it the whispers of the dead. There's a weight to the air, an unnatural stillness, as if the land itself is holding its breath. We've come so far, but I can't shake the feeling that this is the point where everything begins to unravel. The land is empty, blanketed by a never-ending stretch of snow that sparkles like shattered glass under the faint light of dusk. The wind sweeps through the barren landscape, howling like a forgotten ghost.
I pause at the edge of the tundra, my boots crunching into the deep snow as I glance back at Kvatz and Gaer. Neither of them says anything, but I can see it in their eyes—the same unease, the same silent acknowledgment that whatever we've been chasing is waiting here. It's not just the Rift, either. There's something more here, something deeper, something we can't fully comprehend. I can feel it gnawing at the edges of my mind, pulling at me like a distant memory that I can't quite reach.
Kvatz grunts and steps forward, pushing through the snow with more determination than I feel in my own limbs. Gaer is behind us, his face as unreadable as always, but I know he feels it too. The air here is suffocating in its coldness, but there's also a kind of quiet that feels wrong. In the forest, there's always something to distract you—the rustle of leaves, the call of birds, the crackling of fire—but here, it's just silence. A silence so profound that it drowns out everything. The wind, the earth, even the thoughts in my head. It's as though the land itself has been emptied of life, left behind by everything that once existed here.
We continue to trek forward, the snow getting deeper with every step, until the world around us is consumed by the white, shifting veil of the tundra. The wind cuts through the layers of cloth, biting at my skin, and I can feel the numbness creeping into my fingers, my toes, my very bones. It's the kind of cold that makes you question whether you're still alive or if you've already crossed over into something else.
I keep my gaze fixed on the horizon, searching for anything that might indicate the Rift, the Liturgy, or some kind of sign. But all I see is an endless expanse of frozen wasteland. The more I look, the more it feels like we're walking into nothingness, as if this land is stretching on forever and we'll never find what we came for.
Then, just as I'm about to say something—something to break the quiet—I feel it. A pull. A tug in the back of my mind. My heart skips a beat, and suddenly, everything around me feels distant. The wind, the cold, the sound of our footsteps—it all fades, replaced by a silence so deep it's suffocating.
It happens without warning, as if the very world has tilted on its axis. I feel the ground beneath my feet begin to shift, and then, before I can even react, I'm falling. Falling, but not through the snow. Falling through something deeper, something beyond this world.
I blink, and in an instant, I'm no longer standing in the tundra. I'm standing on a mountain—no, a mountain of corpses. The scene is so vivid, so horrifying, that it takes me a moment to even comprehend what I'm seeing. The bodies are piled high, their twisted, mangled forms stacked like discarded dolls. Some are still clothed in the tattered remnants of armor, others are bare, their skin frozen and rotting. The stench of death is so thick I can almost taste it.
But what chills me the most are the eyes. Everywhere I look, the eyes are open—dead, but staring. Staring at me. Each one is filled with something. Rage. Fear. Despair. It's as though they're all looking at me, accusing me of something, waiting for me to do something. I don't know what it is, but I feel the weight of their gaze, the pressure of their unblinking eyes, as if they're all waiting for me to take the next step.
I try to look away, but I can't. I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but stand there, surrounded by the corpses of people who were once alive. I can feel the cold seeping into my very soul, freezing me in place.
And then, as though the vision is not enough, I hear a voice. A whisper, barely audible, but clear enough to send a shiver down my spine.
"You are the one."
The voice isn't from one of the bodies. It's from somewhere beyond them, somewhere deep inside my own mind. I don't know who or what is speaking, but it doesn't matter. The words are enough to freeze me in place, enough to make my heart stop for a second.
"You are the one who will bring this. You are the one who will stand at the top of the mountain of the dead."
The vision twists, distorting like smoke caught in a whirlwind. The mountain of corpses becomes a battlefield, stretching out as far as the eye can see. I can hear the sounds of screams, of clashing metal, of explosions, but they are distant, muffled, as though they belong to someone else's world.
I see faces. Faces I recognize. Faces of people I've known, people I've fought alongside. They're falling. They're dying. And I'm standing there, in the midst of it all, watching. Watching as the world crumbles.
"This is the path. This is the future. There is no escape."
The voice is louder now, almost a scream. It reverberates in my skull, twisting my insides.
"You will be the death of this world!"
Suddenly, the vision snaps, and I'm back in the tundra. My heart is pounding in my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps as if I've just run a marathon. The world around me is still cold, still silent, but everything feels different now. The weight of the vision hangs heavy in my mind, and I can't shake the feeling that what I saw—that future of death and destruction—is inevitable.
I turn to look at Kvatz and Gaer. They haven't noticed. They're still walking, still moving forward, oblivious to the horror that has just unfolded in my mind. But I can't forget it. I can't forget the mountain of bodies, the faces, the whispers.
Something is coming. Something terrible. And I don't know how to stop it.
We're too late. We've always been too late.
"Are we close?" Kvatz asks, his voice breaking through the fog of my thoughts.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my breath, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Yeah," I say, the words coming out shakier than I intended. "We're close."
But I know, deep down, that whatever lies ahead, whatever we're walking toward—it's already begun. The tragedy has already started, and we can't turn back now.