The wind howled through the Teeth, a jagged range of mountains that clawed at the sky north of Eryndor. Vaelreth didn't mind the cold—it bit, but it kept him sharp. He crouched on a ledge overlooking the Blackspire, a fortress carved into the rock like a scar. Its walls were iron and stone, its guards were Varn's best, and its reputation was a warning: nobody left Blackspire unless the king allowed it. Vaelreth's lips curled. He'd never been good at asking permission.
Kaelith knelt beside him, her breath misting in the frigid air. She'd led him through the old war tunnels, a maze of damp stone and forgotten bones that snaked beneath the mountains. The tunnels had been sealed, just as she'd said, but a flick of Vaelreth's fingers and a murmured spell had cracked the wards like eggshells. Now they were here, a hundred feet above the fortress's main gate, with nothing but a sheer drop and bad decisions between them and Jorath.
"Still think this is a game?" Kaelith whispered, her voice sharp as the wind.
Vaelreth didn't look at her. His eyes were on the fortress, tracing the patrol patterns, the torchlight glinting off spears. "Everything's a game," he said. "The trick is knowing when to cheat."
She muttered something about madness, but he ignored her, his mind already mapping the board. The parchment, now tucked in his cloak, had detailed Jorath's transfer—down to the cell number and guard rotations. House Varn was thorough, he'd give them that. But thorough was predictable, and predictable was a weakness.
He pointed to a shadowed crevice in the cliff face, barely visible. "There. The tunnel's exit. Leads to the lower cells."
Kaelith squinted, then nodded. "If it's still open. If it's not trapped. If—"
"Ifs are for cowards," Vaelreth cut in, his smile a sliver of moonlight. "Stay here or come with. Your choice."
He didn't wait for her answer. He slid down the ledge, boots silent on the frost-slick rock, and dropped into the crevice. The tunnel was narrow, reeking of mildew and something older, sharper—magic, stale but restless. Vaelreth's fingers brushed the walls, feeling for runes. None. Good. He moved faster, the dark no barrier to eyes that had spent years reading shadows.
Kaelith followed, her steps heavier, her dagger drawn. She didn't trust him, not fully, and he liked that. Trust was boring. It made people lazy.
The tunnel ended at a rusted grate, its bars warped by time. Beyond it, a corridor flickered with torchlight, and voices echoed—guards, two of them, grumbling about the cold. Vaelreth crouched, listening. Not for their words, but for their rhythm. Bored men talked in circles, and circles were easy to break.
He glanced at Kaelith, raising a finger to his lips. She glared but stayed silent. Vaelreth closed his eyes, letting the world fade until all he felt was the pulse of the fortress, its stone and secrets. There, faint but alive, a rune hummed in the wall beyond the grate. Not a ward—something older, hungrier. He whispered to it, a single syllable that tasted like ash, and the grate shuddered, then dissolved into dust.
Kaelith's eyes widened, but she said nothing. Smart.
They slipped into the corridor, the guards' voices closer now. Vaelreth moved like a thought, quick and intangible, until he was behind the first guard. A flick of his wrist, a spark of magic, and the man slumped, unconscious before he hit the floor. The second guard turned, mouth opening, but Kaelith was faster—her dagger pressed to his throat, her other hand muffling his cry.
"Sleep or die," she hissed.
The guard chose sleep. Vaelreth didn't bother hiding his grin as Kaelith bound the men with their own belts. "You're getting good at this," he said.
"Don't patronize me," she snapped, but there was a spark in her eyes. She was enjoying this, even if she'd never admit it.
They moved deeper, following the parchment's map to the lower cells. The air grew heavier, thick with the stink of despair. Blackspire wasn't just a prison; it was a tomb for hope. Vaelreth's smile faded, not from fear, but from memory. He'd been in places like this, back when he was a boy with too many questions and not enough answers. Places that tried to grind you down until you forgot how to want.
The cell they needed was at the corridor's end, its door iron and etched with wards that glowed faintly, like dying embers. Jorath was inside, if the parchment was true. Vaelreth knelt, studying the wards. They were strong, but sloppy—House Varn's arrogance showing through. He could break them, but it would take time. And noise.
"Problem?" Kaelith asked, her voice tight.
"Opportunity," Vaelreth corrected. He pressed a hand to the door, whispering to the wards. They resisted, spitting sparks that burned his skin, but he didn't flinch. Pain was just another rule to rewrite.
The wards cracked, a sound like breaking glass, and the door groaned open. Inside, a man sat chained to the wall, his hair matted, his eyes like storm clouds. Jorath. He didn't look like a heretic or a legend—just a man who'd seen too much. But when he saw Vaelreth, something flickered in his gaze. Not fear. Recognition.
"You," Jorath rasped. "The Smiling Shadow."
Vaelreth's grin returned, sharper now. "Flattered. But let's skip the titles. Can you walk?"
Jorath's chains rattled as he shifted. "Can you keep me alive?"
Kaelith cut in, her dagger already at the chains. "No promises if you slow us down."
Vaelreth ignored her, his mind racing. Jorath knew him, or at least his name. That was a problem. A spark he hadn't planned. He liked sparks, but only when he struck them.
The chains fell, and Jorath staggered to his feet, lean but steady. "The Starvein," he said, voice low. "You're after it."
Vaelreth didn't answer, just gestured to the corridor. "Move."
They retraced their steps, the fortress still quiet but heavier now, like it knew it was being robbed. Vaelreth's senses were taut, waiting for the inevitable. No plan was perfect, and perfection was dull anyway.
The inevitable came as they reached the tunnel. A shout echoed, then another. Boots on stone, too many to count. Vaelreth's smile didn't waver, but his heart kicked harder. Guards, alerted by some ward he'd missed or a patrol they hadn't seen.
Kaelith swore, drawing her dagger. Jorath froze, his eyes darting like a trapped animal's. Vaelreth stepped forward, fingers twitching. The rune in the wall, the hungry one, pulsed louder now. He could wake it fully, bring the corridor down, bury the guards—and maybe them.
"Run or fight?" Kaelith asked, her voice a blade.
Vaelreth laughed, soft and wild. "Why choose?"
He pressed his hand to the wall, spoke the ash-tasting word again, and the rune roared to life. The ground shook, cracks spiderwebbing through the stone. Guards shouted, closer now, but the corridor was collapsing, buying them seconds.
"Go!" Vaelreth snapped, shoving Jorath toward the tunnel. Kaelith didn't need telling—she was already moving, her silver hair a blur.
They ran, the fortress groaning behind them, dust choking the air. Vaelreth's blood sang, not with fear but with the thrill of it—the world bending, breaking, becoming something new. He didn't know if Jorath was worth this, if the Starvein was real, or if they'd even make it out.
But for the first time in days, he felt alive.