The ashen dunes gave way to cracked earth, the ground hardened by centuries of heat and neglect. Kaelith's boots crunched with every step, the sound too loud in the oppressive silence of the wastelands. The sky hung low, a bruise of gray and violet, spitting occasional flecks of ash that stung her eyes. She walked a few paces ahead of Varyn, keeping him in her peripheral vision. The sorcerer's cloak fluttered behind him, his muttering chants a constant drone, like insects she couldn't swat away. She didn't trust him—not his crooked grin, not his talk of redemption, not the way his eyes lingered on her satchel, where the Obsidian Key burned against her hip.
Cinderhold was close now, its smoke plumes smudging the horizon. The outpost was a festering sore of a place, a haven for scavengers, traders, and outcasts who clung to survival in the shadow of the Immortal Tyrant's rule. Kaelith had been there a dozen times, bartering scraps for bread or a night's shelter. But this time was different. This time, she wasn't just another scavenger. She was a target, marked by the key and whatever it had done to her. Shardbearer. The word gnawed at her, a splinter she couldn't pull free.
"Keep your eyes sharp," Varyn said, his voice low, cutting through her thoughts. "The Cabal's hounds don't give up easy.
"She glanced back, her hand resting on her knife. "Hounds? You said they were people."
He smirked, but there was no humor in it. "People, yes. But the Cabal doesn't send foot soldiers for something like the key. They send trackers—blood-bound, twisted by rituals. They don't tire, don't sleep, don't stop. And they can smell the Veil's power like wolves on a carcass."
Kaelith's stomach churned. She'd faced dangers before—starving wolves, rival scavengers, even a sand-serpent once—but this was something else. The key pulsed, a faint rhythm that seemed to quicken at Varyn's words, as if it knew they were talking about it. She wanted to ask more, to demand answers about the key, the Veil, the Shardbearer nonsense, but the wastelands weren't the place for long talks. Not with the Cabal hunting her.
The ground sloped upward, leading to a ridge overlooking a shallow valley. Cinderhold's ramshackle walls were visible now, a patchwork of scavenged metal and bone, crowned with spikes to keep out the ash-wolves. Torches flickered along the perimeter, their light swallowed by the dusk. Kaelith's shoulders relaxed slightly. Safety, or at least the illusion of it, was close. But Varyn stopped short, his hand raised, his body tense.
"What?" she whispered, crouching beside him.
He didn't answer, his eyes scanning the valley. The air around him shimmered, his runes flaring briefly at his feet, then fading. "They're here," he said, barely audible. "Not close, but close enough."
Kaelith's heart thudded. She followed his gaze, seeing nothing but shadows and ash. "I don't see anything."
"You wouldn't," Varyn said, his voice tight. "They're cloaked, woven into the Veil's edges. But I feel them. Three, maybe four. Moving fast."
She cursed under her breath, her knife drawn now, its weight a poor reassurance. "Can we make it to Cinderhold?"
"Maybe," he said, but his tone said otherwise. "They'll sense the key the moment we break cover. We need a distraction, or we're dead."
Kaelith glared at him. "You're the sorcerer. Do something sorcerous."
He snorted, but his hands were already moving, tracing patterns in the air. The runes at his feet glowed again, yellow and jagged, and the air thickened, heavy with the scent of ozone and rot. "This'll cost me," he muttered. "Stay close, and don't scream."
Before she could snap back, a low growl echoed across the valley, not from Varyn but from the shadows below. Kaelith's blood ran cold. The sound was wrong, too deep, too guttural, like bones grinding together. Shapes moved in the dusk, three of them, emerging from the ash like specters. They were humanoid, but only just—tall, gaunt, their cloaks tattered and fused to their flesh. Their faces were hidden by masks of bone, etched with runes that pulsed red. Their hands ended in claws, long and black, dripping with a viscous ichor that hissed as it hit the ground."
Cabal hounds," Varyn whispered, his voice steady but strained. "Stay behind me."
Kaelith didn't argue, her knife raised, her body pressed against the ridge's edge. The hounds moved with unnatural grace, their heads twitching as if sniffing the air. One let out a keening wail, and the key in her satchel flared, its heat searing through the leather. She bit back a gasp, clutching the satchel, willing it to be still. But the hounds froze, their masks turning toward the ridge, their runes glowing brighter.
"Shit," Varyn hissed. He thrust his hands forward, and the runes at his feet erupted, sending a wave of yellow light arcing across the valley. It hit the ground near the hounds, exploding into a swarm of spectral shapes—ghostly wolves, their forms flickering, their howls piercing. The hounds recoiled, claws slashing at the illusions, but the distraction worked. They scattered, chasing the phantoms, their wails echoing.
"Run!" Varyn grabbed her arm, pulling her down the ridge toward Cinderhold. Kaelith sprinted, her legs burning, the key's pulse pounding in her ears. The outpost's gates loomed ahead, guarded by two figures in patchwork armor, their spears glinting in the torchlight. She risked a glance back—the hounds were still distracted, but one had stopped, its mask fixed on her, its claws twitching.
Varyn's chant grew louder, his voice ragged, blood trickling from his nose. The air around them shimmered, a faint shield that flickered with each step. "Keep moving," he gasped. "I can't hold this long."
The gates were close, the guards shouting now, their spears lowered. Kaelith waved frantically, her voice hoarse. "Open the gates! Let us in!"
One guard, a grizzled man with a scar across his cheek, squinted at them. "Who're you? No entry after dusk!"
"Scavengers!" Kaelith lied, her mind racing. "We've got relics, good ones. Let us in, or we're dead!"
The guard hesitated, glancing at his partner, then at the valley. The hounds' wails were louder now, the illusions fading. He cursed, banging on the gate. "Open it! Quick!"
The gate creaked, a narrow gap opening. Kaelith dove through, Varyn stumbling behind her. The guards slammed the gate shut, bolts clanging, just as a hound's claw raked the metal, leaving deep gouges. Kaelith collapsed, her chest heaving, the key's heat fading to a dull warmth. Varyn leaned against the wall, wiping blood from his face, his breathing shallow.
"Too close," he muttered, his grin weak but there. "Told you I'd get us through.
"Kaelith glared, her knife still in hand. "You almost got us killed. What was that magic? And why's it tearing you apart?"
He shrugged, wincing. "Price of power. The Veil's unstable, and so's my craft. But it worked, didn't it?"
She didn't answer, her attention on the guards, who were eyeing them warily. The scarred one stepped forward, his spear still raised. "You're in, but you're trouble. What's chasing you?"
"Nothing you want to know about," Kaelith said, standing, brushing ash from her cloak. "We need a scholar named Zorath. Where is he?"
The guard's eyes narrowed. "Zorath? The mad old Exiled? He's in the Underbelly, but he don't see just anyone. What's your business?"
"Relics," Varyn cut in, his voice smooth despite his pallor. "We've got something rare. He'll want to see it."
The guard grunted, unconvinced, but pointed toward a cluster of shacks and tents in the outpost's heart. "Underbelly's that way. Don't cause trouble, or you're out. And whatever's after you, keep it outside."
Kaelith nodded, already moving, Varyn at her side. Cinderhold was a maze of noise and stench—traders haggling over bones, drunks shouting in alleys, the clank of forges mixing with the wail of ash-wolves beyond the walls. The Underbelly was its darkest corner, a warren of tunnels and hovels where the desperate and the dangerous hid. If Zorath was there, he was her best shot at understanding the key—and surviving the Cabal.
As they navigated the crowded streets, Kaelith's mind churned. The hounds, the key, Varyn's magic—it was all too much, too fast. She thought of her brother, of his steady hand, his warnings. Stay sharp, Kael. She was trying, but the world was shifting under her feet, and she was drowning in it.
Varyn's voice broke her thoughts, low and serious. "The hounds won't stop. They'll wait, they'll watch, and they'll come again. The Cabal wants the key, and they'll burn Cinderhold to get it."
"Then we find Zorath," Kaelith said, her voice hard. "And we figure out how to make this thing stop singing, or whatever you called it.
"He nodded, but his eyes were distant, haunted. "Zorath knows the Veil's secrets, but he's not what you expect. Be ready, Shardbearer. This is only the beginning.
"She ignored the title, her hand brushing the satchel. The key was quiet now, but its weight was a promise—of answers, of danger, of a fate she didn't want but couldn't escape. The Underbelly loomed ahead, its shadows swallowing the torchlight, and Kaelith stepped into them, her knife ready, her heart pounding with the rhythm of the Veil.