By midday, the mountain breathed mist and quiet back into itself.
The slate-colored sky pressed low, threatening more rain, until even the crows gave up their raucous bickering and flapped away, black wings vanishing in the haze. He pressed a fist to his stomach, staving off another round of hunger cramps. Two wild plums, barely ripe, tickled the back of his tongue with their sourness. His teeth ached from it, sharp and real—a thousand cuts more bearable than the slow grind of empty days.
His companion—if she was that—walked a pace ahead, robes already drying into crisp ridges. Any warmth from their odd alliance was thin as the mountain air. They hadn't spoken for hours, and every sound seemed to echo twice.
He didn't know her name.
She hadn't asked for his, either.
Their path twisted between pines stunted by cold, roots coiling aboveground like old secrets. Once, he might have stopped to admire the shape of a fallen trunk, moss ringed in pale green against fire-blackened wood. Now he just watched the trail, counting each step as proof he hadn't collapsed yet.
She paused at a fork, gaze drifting to the far ridge. "We'll reach Lower Rosewood this evening—if we keep pace."
The words were practical, uncolored by kindness.
He grunted, testing the silence that lingered like fog. Trust was a luxury neither of them could afford.
A gust of wind brought scents: smoke, mud, something sharper—burning herbs. Not sect magic, but close.
He slowed, scanning for shapes in shadow.
"Don't fall behind," she snapped, voice brittle.
He forced his legs to move. The relic beat at his collarbone, a wild pulse just shy of pain. It crept into his mind, the urge to use it—anything to hush the hunger, erase the cold, drive off whoever watched from just beyond the path's bend.
"You smell that?" she said, not quite a whisper.
He nodded. "Bandits," he guessed, or hoped.
"Or worse. Sects have spies everywhere—"
A snapping branch.
He ducked, pressing flat to the earth, heart roaring in his ears. She mirrored him, hand on her blade's hilt.
Soft footsteps, then the hush of bodies pressing close. Not folk eager to talk.
He squeezed the relic, seeking strength, bracing for the price. It burned—slow, deep, like swallowing coals. His vision blurred at the edges but focused in the center: four shapes, circling, blades barely glinting under dull light.
The largest, all beard and wild eyes, stepped forward. "You lost, strangers? Or just stupid?"
Laughter from his friends, knives bared as if hoping for a fight.
She glanced once—her look said: run if you must, but you won't get far.
He stood his ground, feeling every weakness in his limbs, every meal he'd missed in his bones.
"We're just passing," he managed, voice rough with exhaustion. "We have nothing."
The bandit barked out a laugh. "Nobody wanders this way with nothing."
He held up empty hands, the robe's tattered fluttering, daring them to spot the relic hidden beneath. Sweat trickled cold down his back.
One man lunged, blade flashing.
She moved—smooth, decisive—a parry and a twist, sharp as lightning. The man howled, cradling a bloodied arm as she pivoted to face the next.
He didn't watch the rest unfold. Instead, as a boot came swinging for his ribs, he let the relic's heat surge through him, fear and hope fusing until every muscle crackled. He dodged, faster than hunger or rain would allow, then shoved the attacker face first into the mud.
Pain cracked across his senses, the cost of the relic's gift biting deep into his leg. He staggered, barely upright, as the fight bled out: one man groaning in the underbrush, another bolting for the trees.
The big one sneered, knife catching the weak sunlight. "Witch and curse, that's what they say. I'll end both."
She stood, blade ready, but the world tilted. The relic inside him reached for something—power, memory, a prayer whispered too many times.
He opened his mouth. The words didn't sound like his own:
"You want what you can't kill. But I haven't finished living yet."
For just a breath, the bandit didn't move. The storm gathered. Some truth in his words made space.
With a scowl, the man spat in the mud and backed away. "Not worth the curse tonight, girl. Let's find easier prey."
Silence.
The mountain rang with the fading rush of danger.
He slumped, clutching his thigh, the relic scalding. She approached, face unreadable, sheathing her sword.
"You ever try asking for help?" she said, half-smiling, not quite sarcasm.
"It never comes."
He wiped blood from his knee.
She crouched, tearing a strip from her sleeve to bind the wound.
"And now?"
He blinked back a tired laugh. "Now I wish for less hunger and fewer storms."
She pressed the cloth tight. "We're both wishing, then."
They walked the rest of the way shoulder to shoulder—a strange, fragile peace building with every aching step.
When the ridge finally broke, lights glimmering in the night's cradle, he could almost believe in tomorrow.
The relic was silent—watchful, patient, waiting for its price. He kept it pressed between palm and chest, a feverish comfort.
As Rosewood's shoddy gates creaked open, hope and dread tangled behind his ribs:
Would anyone welcome a boy spat out by heaven and a sword-sister marked by secrets?
Would the world ever make room for those who belonged nowhere?
He didn't have an answer.
But as they moved together into the fragile safety of not-quite-home, he found himself repeating the only prayer he believed in—the one the night and all its hunger had taught him:
Survive. Survive. Survive, and find something worth the cost—whatever the relic demands, whatever the storm takes away.