They left at dawn, before the professors could mount a proper investigation.
Yegr had argued for speed — the cult would not wait for permission slips — and Darin had argued for breakfast, which earned him a half-loaf of bread tucked into his pack. Elen came in silence, her wounded arm bandaged but stiff.
The scroll's map was crude, its landmarks drawn as twisted shapes, half-symbol and half-geography. Yet Yegr remembered this path from the war — a route that had led to one of the Shadowed Path's early strongholds.
The first problem came less than an hour from the Academy gates.
They reached the base of the Keln Rise, a series of ridges that overlooked the valley beyond. Yegr remembered the view: a winding river that snaked silver through the plains, with the ruins of a watchtower on the far bank. It had been his first battlefield.
But when they crested the ridge, the river was gone.
In its place lay a stretch of cracked earth and dry grass, as if the water had never flowed there at all.
Elen's voice was tight. "This… isn't possible. The Keln has fed the capital for centuries."
"It should be here," Yegr murmured. "It was here. I remember the mud on my boots, the fog coming off the water…"
Darin kicked a stone into the dust. "Well, either your memory's bad, or something's already rewriting your history."
Yegr stared down at the emptiness. The Keln River had been a key defensive line in the war. Without it…
They continued in silence, following the map's twisting symbols until the sun dipped low. The path ended at a gnarled oak that leaned toward a sheer cliff.
At its roots lay a stone marker, carved with the same jagged script as the scroll.
Elen crouched beside it, tracing the symbols. "This says… 'The Third sleeps where shadow drinks the moon.'"
Yegr felt a chill. That line had been carved into the walls of Jojk's fortress — but years later.
Something rustled in the trees behind them.
Yegr's hand went to his blade. Darin drew his training sword, swallowing hard. Elen rose, her good hand glowing faintly with fire.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward — tall, cloaked, and wearing a mask of bone.
"Yegr of Vardun," the figure said, voice low and resonant. "You should not be here. And yet… you are."
The mask tilted, as though studying him.
"You've already changed too much."