The Teeth mountains swallowed the night, their jagged peaks cutting the stars like a thief's blade. Vaelreth led the way, his cloak snapping in the wind, a shadow among shadows. Jorath stumbled behind, his breath ragged, while Kaelith guarded the rear, her dagger a glint of suspicion. The rune's collapse had bought them time, but Vaelreth felt the chase in his bones—House Varn's hounds were close, and the Starvein's "keepers" were a riddle he hadn't asked for. His smile was a blade, sharp and restless.
"Keep up, heretic," he tossed over his shoulder. "I don't carry dead weight."
Jorath's eyes burned, but he didn't answer. His words about the Starvein—alive, watched—had cracked something in Vaelreth's mind, a memory from his scholar days: dusty tomes whispering of forces older than gods. He pushed it down. Memory was a trap, and traps were boring.
Kaelith's voice cut through the wind. "You trust him? After that keeper nonsense?"
Vaelreth didn't turn. "Trust is for suckers, Kaelith. I trust his secrets to be worth the trouble."
She muttered something sharp, but the wind stole it. Vaelreth's gaze swept the path—a narrow goat trail hugging the cliff, slick with frost. No cover, no escape. Perfect. He thrived in corners, where the board tilted and only the bold survived.
A flicker of light stopped him, not from torches but from the path ahead: a shimmer, like heat off a forge, twisting the air. Vaelreth's fingers twitched, sensing a rune, but not one he'd woken. It was precise, cold, a trap laid with intent. His grin widened. Someone was playing his game.
"Hold," he whispered, raising a hand. Jorath froze, Kaelith tensed, her dagger half-drawn.
The shimmer solidified, and a figure stepped from the dark—a woman, cloaked in ash-grey, her face half-masked by a veil of woven silver. Her eyes were amber, unblinking, like a hawk's. She held no weapon, but the air around her crackled, a rune's echo at her fingertips. Vaelreth's pulse quickened. Not Varn's. Something older.
"Smiling Shadow," she said, voice smooth as poison. "You've stirred a nest you don't understand."
Vaelreth tilted his head, mock-curious. "And you are? The Starvein's nanny?"
Her lips didn't move, but her eyes narrowed. "I am Lyssa, of the Veiled Order. The Starvein is not yours to chase."
Jorath hissed, stepping back, but Kaelith's dagger was already at his side, keeping him still. Vaelreth's laugh was soft, dangerous. "Order, is it? Sounds dull. I prefer chaos."
Lyssa's veil shimmered, and the ground hummed, a rune waking beneath them. Vaelreth felt its shape—binding, not destructive. Clever. She wasn't here to kill, only to cage. He liked clever, but he didn't like cages.
"You've woken things that sleep for a reason," Lyssa said. "The Starvein's keepers will not allow—"
"Allow?" Vaelreth cut in, stepping closer, his voice a blade's edge. "I don't ask permission. I break rules."
The rune flared, stone cracking, but Vaelreth was faster. His fingers danced, whispering a word that tasted like ash, and the air split, his own rune clashing with hers. Sparks flew, the cliff trembling. Kaelith swore, dragging Jorath back, but Vaelreth didn't move, locked in a duel of will and magic.
Lyssa's eyes widened, just a fraction. "You're no mere trickster."
"Flattered," Vaelreth said, but his grin hid strain. Her rune was strong, older than his tricks. He needed a spark, something to tip the board.
Jorath's voice broke through, low and urgent. "She's not alone."
Vaelreth's gaze flicked past Lyssa, catching shadows moving—more Veiled Order, closing the net. His smile didn't falter, but his mind raced. Keepers, traps, and now an order he'd never heard of. The Starvein wasn't just alive—it was a game, and he was no longer the only player.