They climbed out of the depression as the last light left the sky. Behind them the second complex was already collapsing further; the pulse in the earth continued, but it no longer focused on that single site.
Aiden's new density of power settled into his bones like a second set of muscles that had finally been acknowledged. It sat there, quiet and ready, no longer thrashing against the edges of him.
They rode through the night and most of the next day, putting as much distance as the horses could give them between themselves and the open sinks. The land gradually softened—fewer ridges, more open grass, the occasional distant thread of chimney smoke.
Near evening they reached a larger waystation than the Broken Spur: a proper crossroads town with a timber palisade, two inns, and enough traffic that two more dusty travelers would not draw immediate notice.
