The tunnel shook like a beast waking up, dust raining from the ceiling as Vaelreth ran. His boots barely touched the stone, each step a dance with the collapsing world behind him. Jorath stumbled ahead, his chains gone but his body still heavy with Blackspire's weight. Kaelith brought up the rear, her dagger glinting in the flickering light of a rune Vaelreth had sparked. The air was thick, choking, but Vaelreth's grin burned brighter than the chaos.
"Faster, heretic," he called to Jorath, voice sharp with glee. "Unless you want to be a martyr."
Jorath shot him a look, eyes like storm-bruised clouds. "You'll bury us all, Shadow."
"That's the idea," Vaelreth said, but his mind was elsewhere, tracing the rune's pulse. It was old, hungry, and not entirely his to control. He'd meant to slow the guards, not bring the mountain down. Sloppy, he thought, but the thrill of it—mistake or not—made his blood sing.
The tunnel split ahead, one path veering up toward the surface, the other plunging deeper into the dark. Kaelith grabbed his arm, her grip iron. "Which way?"
Vaelreth's eyes flicked to the deeper path. Something hummed there, faint but familiar—a rune's whisper, older than the one he'd woken. It called to him, like a half-remembered dream from his scholar days. But the guards' shouts were closer now, boots pounding through the dust. No time for curiosity.
"Up," he said, shoving Jorath toward the lighter path. "Unless you fancy a grave."
They ran, the tunnel narrowing until it scraped their shoulders. The rune's tremor faded, but the guards didn't. Vaelreth's smile tightened. He'd miscalculated—not the collapse, but the speed of Varn's men. House Varn wasn't just thorough; they were relentless. He liked that. It made the game interesting.
The tunnel spat them into a crevice under the stars, the Teeth mountains looming like jagged teeth against the sky. Vaelreth crouched, scanning the darkness. No guards yet, but torchlight flickered below, a swarm closing in. Kaelith knelt beside him, her breath ragged but her eyes sharp.
"They're too close," she hissed. "You said you had a plan."
"I do," Vaelreth lied, his fingers brushing the parchment in his cloak. The stolen orders were useless now, but the weight of them grounded him. He needed a spark, something to tip the board.
Jorath slumped against the rock, his voice low. "You're not what I expected, Shadow. They said you were clever, not reckless."
Vaelreth's gaze snapped to him, green eyes glinting. "They? Who's been whispering my name?"
Jorath's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "The Starvein's keepers. They know you, Vaelreth. They've been watching since you cracked your first rune."
The words hit like a blade to the ribs. Vaelreth's grin didn't falter, but his mind raced. Keepers? The Starvein was a myth, a scholar's obsession, not a thing with watchers. Or was it? Jorath knew too much, and that was a problem. A spark he hadn't lit.
Kaelith's dagger was at Jorath's throat before Vaelreth could speak. "Talk," she growled. "Who's watching him?"
Jorath didn't flinch. "Kill me, and you'll never know. The Starvein's no trinket. It's alive, and it's waiting."
Vaelreth's laugh was soft, dangerous. "Alive, is it? Good. I'd hate to chase a boring prize."
Torchlight flared closer, shouts cutting through the wind. No time. Vaelreth's fingers twitched, and the crevice's stone hummed—a new rune, buried but awake. He didn't know its shape, only its hunger. He whispered to it, a word that tasted like blood, and the ground split.
Rocks fell, sealing the crevice, buying seconds. Vaelreth grabbed Jorath, shoving him toward the mountain's edge. "Run, heretic. You've got secrets, and I want them."
As they fled into the night, the Starvein's shadow loomed larger, and Vaelreth's smile grew. The board was shifting, and he wasn't bored.