**Chapter 11: The Bridge That Burns**
The rope bridge swayed over the chasm, a fraying thread under the Teeth's cruel stars. Vaelreth stepped onto it, his grin a flicker of defiance, the Starvein's hum a pulse in his blood. The cave ahead loomed, its mouth dark but alive with a green glow, whispering of keepers and secrets. Kaelith followed, her arm bleeding from the spear's graze, her dagger a flash of fury. Jorath hesitated, his eyes wide, but Vaelreth's glare dragged him forward. Behind, Varn's men shouted, their torches a swarm in the night. The game was tight, and Vaelreth loved it.
"Move, heretic," he snapped, his voice sharp as the wind. "Or I'll cut the bridge myself."
Jorath's face was ash-pale, but he shuffled onto the ropes. "The keepers' cave," he muttered. "You're walking into their hands, Shadow."
Vaelreth's laugh was a spark, wild and bright. "Good. I've got questions for their hands."
Kaelith's voice cut through, low and fierce. "You're bleeding us dry, Vaelreth. This isn't a game."
"Isn't it?" he shot back, his eyes on the cave. The Starvein's hum was louder, a voice that knew him, pulling like a hook. His scholar's mind stirred—texts of wounds in the world, bleeding magic, binding souls. The cave wasn't just a hideout; it was a piece of the Starvein's board, and he was ready to play.
The bridge groaned, ropes fraying under their weight. Vaelreth's fingers brushed a rune etched into a plank, faint but alive, its glow matching the cave's. He paused, tempted to wake it, but Kaelith's hiss stopped him. "Don't. We're not buried yet."
He grinned but kept moving, the hum in his blood a drumbeat. Halfway across, a spear clattered against the cliff, missing Jorath by inches. Vaelreth spun, seeing Varn's men at the chasm's edge, their crossbows raised. His smile sharpened. Predictable, but fun.
"Kaelith," he murmured, "make it loud."
She didn't need telling. Her dagger flew, catching a soldier's hand. He screamed, dropping his bow, and Vaelreth whispered a word, tasting rust. The rune on the bridge flared, ropes sizzling, not breaking but burning, slowing the pursuit. The soldiers cursed, retreating from the heat, but the bridge held—just.
They reached the cave, its air thick with magic and dust. The green glow pulsed from a stone altar, etched with symbols Vaelreth knew too well—spirals, eyes, hands. The Starvein's hum was a roar now, and a vision hit: a world of ash, his hands breaking stars. He shook it off, his grin unsteady.
Jorath clutched the wall, voice hoarse. "You feel it, Shadow. It's claiming you."
"Claims are for fools," Vaelreth said, but the hum felt like chains. He approached the altar, fingers tracing its edge. A shadow moved—not the Veiled Order, but something older, formless, born of the Starvein itself. Its voice was a whisper, his name a blade.
"Smiling Shadow," it said. "You break what we guard."
Vaelreth's laugh was reckless. "Guard? You're just gatekeepers. I rewrite the rules."
The shadow lunged, a wave of cold that burned. Vaelreth's rune answered, the altar cracking, but the hum grew louder, drowning his will. Kaelith yanked him back, her bloodied arm trembling. "Enough, Vaelreth! We're leaving."
He met her eyes, his grin a dare. "Leave? When the game's this good?"
Jorath's warning was a hiss. "It's not a game. It's a mind, and it's winning."
The shadow faded, but the hum didn't. Vaelreth felt it—eyes in the dark, watching, waiting. The cave was a trap, but traps were just doors to new boards. He'd break this one too.
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