There was no way to slip the mountain's grip. It clung to travelers, spat out cowards, and wrote its own history in mud and bruises. When he and Jun left Rosewood behind, it wasn't celebration—it was retreat. The innkeeper's eyes haunted him, a prayer for luck or mercy, but he'd learned not to count on either.
They trudged through fog so thick it bit their skin. The relic pulsed with a sullen heat, warning of trouble ahead or behind. Jun's footfalls matched his: deliberate, stubborn, refusing to ask for promises.
By midday, the sky had dirtied itself to bruise-blue. The path vanished, reappeared, then vanished again. Stones jutted like broken teeth. Every step threatened collapse.
He stopped to catch breath, coughing on a cold that never quite left his bones. Jun scanned the world with the eyes of someone who'd outlived too many ambushes.
"I hear something," she said.
He pressed fingers to the relic. It pulsed—a signal, or a plea. He let the power leak into his skin just enough to prick danger.
The brush rustled. Out stepped a man, cloak patched with every color and age—old sect insignias sliced off, replaced by anonymous rags. Behind him, two figures, smaller, one hustling with sharp, nervous movements.
Bandits. But something was wrong. Their faces had the look of folk running from fear, not toward profit.
The leader sized them up with eyes that missed nothing. "You're relic-cursed, ain't you?"
He didn't bother lying. "I am."
The man laughed at that—dry, broken. "Ain't easy, is it? Not with the mountain eating what courage you bring."
Jun's knife was out, her stance a line in dirt. "We don't want trouble."
"None's needed." The leader exposed empty palms. "We got chased from the north. Sects found another god-bone in the river. Whole crew scattered—some to run, some to beg forgiveness."
He frowned, not liking the word "god-bone." The relic at his chest grew hot, almost resentful.
The kid behind the leader—a girl, maybe twelve—eyed Jun with open admiration. "You fight with him?"
Jun grinned, mean and sweet. "When I have to."
The bandits shifted, nervous. The mountain at their backs made them desperate, so they tried for parley. "You wouldn't happen to know how to call up a weapon, would you? Word is, you got more than bad luck on your side."
He hesitated. Every power, every miracle bled him dry in ways even he hadn't learned to name. But being sectless meant choosing bitter over broken most days.
He looked at Jun. She nodded, just once. "If they turn, we run. If they beg, we let them."
He pressed his palm to the relic, spoke a silent dare—*show me what the world needs, not what I want.*
The pain was instant—stabbing, burning—the mountain itself biting back. A haze shimmered from his fingers, an effort that felt like vomiting up every ounce of strength and hope.
In that blink, something took form in his hand.
A shield. Heavy, battered, etched in symbols older than any sect mark. It was a relic memory—maybe a hero's, maybe a monster's. The moment he touched it, a whisper curled through his mind: "Protect. Expect nothing."
The bandits stared, awe-struck. The leader reached to touch, hissed when it burned his fingertips.
"Not ours, then," he said.
Jun watched, careful. "Miracles and curses, all packed in one."
He let the shield fall; it vanished, leaving him weaker, almost hollowed out.
The kid approached timidly, cradling a broken dagger. "Can it fix things too?"
He shook his head, sorry. "Only what the mountain lets me."
The sun flickered across crumbling stone, blades of light sharpening every face.
The leader tipped his head, voice small for a mountain man: "Keep it close, boy. Sects don't like what they can't own."
They melted back into the mist, carrying secrets and old, fading hopes. He and Jun stood, silent, hearts thudding in the heavy air.
"Did it hurt?" she asked.
"Yes."
They walked higher, leaving footprints in soft ash and moss, every step burning with the cost of miracles.
At dusk, thunder rumbled low—a promise of stories not yet told. They settled under an overhang, wind scraping the hillside.
He leaned against the cold, staring up at bruised clouds. Jun curled a hand inside her cloak, edge softening. "Someday the relic might spit out something we can keep," she said, half a hope, half a dare.
He smiled—not yet beaten. "Maybe. Or maybe it'll spit out wings, and we'll fly straight off the mountain."
She laughed, low, risky. "Don't tempt it."
He closed his eyes, relic pressed to heart, chest aching with unanswered questions. Tomorrow there'd be more: more bandits, more storms, more moments where strength and curse were the same word.
He whispered thanks—quiet, just for himself—to every friendless night and every miracle paid in blood.
Above: lightning carved the sky, a god's jagged signature.
Below: two outcasts, alive and moving, mountain still not done with them yet.