The cracked walls of the chasm still breathed faint wisps of pale smoke when Eliakim felt it—a presence watching him without threat, without question. He turned, meeting the mismatched gaze of Kaelvryn.
The beast tilted its massive head, crystalline plates catching what little light filtered down through the crack. No words passed between them—no mental voice, no sign of telepathy—but Eliakim knew, somehow, that it understood. The way its pupils narrowed and its stance lowered was a quiet acknowledgment: You know my name. And I know you will keep it.
Eliakim's reply was only a faint nod.
Skyling shifted closer to his side, talons curling on the stone floor as her multicolored feathers rippled in the faint drafts. Her sharp eyes studied Kaelvryn without fear, but with a hunter's wariness, the faint shimmer of her bond to Eliakim making her seem almost to glow in the dim light.
Gideon, on the other hand, was far less composed. "Uh… Eliakim? This thing is gonna get us noticed. I mean—really noticed. We can't exactly stroll into Greyspire with a walking fortress."
Kaelvryn's ears twitched, as though it had heard—and understood. Slowly, the beast stepped forward, eyes locking onto the twin axes strapped to Gideon's back. The weapons shuddered faintly under its gaze, their steel warming as molten-red light threaded across the blades.
Then, in a flare of fire and frost, Kaelvryn's massive form dissolved into a swirling stream of crystal, mist, and molten essence, pouring into the axes until their metal took on a faint, living shimmer. Gideon staggered from the weight change, blinking at the altered weapons.
The message was clear without a word: I will not slow you. I will fight when called.
Skyling let out a low, approving trill, wings rustling.
They began the climb, Eliakim first, Skyling hopping up the ledges beside him with effortless grace.
When they emerged from the crack, the Emberroot Plains were no longer empty. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of adventurers had gathered, weapons drawn, armor gleaming, all scanning for the promised fight. But whatever battle they had hoped to join was already over.
Some muttered in frustration. Others eyed Eliakim's group with suspicion, though Skyling's sharp glare kept the boldest at a distance.
Then the sky changed.
The lingering ice crusting the fields began to melt, frost receding in glittering rivulets under the sudden downpour. The choking flames that had devoured half the plains hissed into steam as rain fell harder, as though the heavens themselves were washing the land clean. None of them knew that this was no accident—that the sky had answered when Eliakim took the polyglyph into the Bracelet of Kharuun.
To the crowd, it was just weather. To Eliakim, it was a warning.
In the chaos, Nathaniel Blackthorn was gone before most noticed.
Eliakim felt him at his side a heartbeat before the low voice brushed his ear: "We will see each other again."
The tone was unreadable—half threat, half promise, with something unspoken tangled within. Eliakim turned, but the assassin was already swallowed by the crowd and mist.
Ezra also slipped away, stepping past with her usual calm, cradling her newly claimed treasure. "I've got what I came for," she said simply. "The rest is yours." Then she was gone, boots splashing through the puddled earth.
By the time the plains emptied, only Eliakim, Gideon, and Skyling remained.
They exchanged a glance and began their trek—not toward Yldrahollow, but toward the distant spires of Greyspire, the great trade city whose walls were visible even through the receding storm. Branik Ironhew would have to wait; Greyspire's guild held the keys to the next step of their journey, and possibly, to answers about the anomaly.
Eliakim said nothing of Kaelvryn's true nature, nor of the glyph now resting in the Bracelet of Kharuun. Gideon kept his altered axes to himself. And Skyling, padding silently between them, seemed to sense their shared secrecy, offering only a flick of her tail and a glint of knowing in her eyes.
Some victories were best kept quiet.