Night ate the path behind, stitching every footstep into memory.
He and Jun walked with the mountain's hush at their backs, leaving Rosewood behind—a rumor-stained shadow, its prayers already rotten. The world ahead sprawled wide, bleak as promise. The relic at his heart pulsed sore and restless, heat flickering more constant than hope.
Clouds swung low. Lightning clawed the bones of ruined towers squatting on the next ridge: ancient sect temples, long gutted by storms and thieves. Their spires stretched, black and warning, a language only exiles understood—here was the edge of every map, every law.
Jun stopped, spitting breath into the wind. "I've heard stories. Gods bled here."
He scanned those crumbling stones, boots sinking into a graveyard of shattered statues and broken altars. "And what did the gods do with all that blood?"
She grinned, fierce. "They made relics. Then cursed anyone dumb enough to use them."
He touched the talisman under his shirt, feeling it burn a shape—a question, maybe a dare.
Their steps carried them close to a toppled arch, its carvings worn to riddle and threat. Vines clung, sheltering a thousand ghosts and two fools who wouldn't let curses speak for them.
Inside, the ruins were colder, the night heavy. Something watched them—old eyes, maybe hungry or jealous. Jun's hand found her blade; he checked each shadow.
Rats scattered ahead, tails vanishing in cracked tiles.
"People died here," Jun said softly, voice raw. "Sect wars, relic hunts. Folk say, sometimes lost things come back."
A flicker. The relic pulsed, sharp pain threading through his spine. He bent, nearly retching.
Jun caught his arm. "Too much?"
He shook her off, stubborn. "Just the relic making its price clear."
They pressed deeper, boots crunching bone or stone—they'd stopped caring which. The silence grew thick, like oil on the tongue.
Suddenly, a shape lunged—wild dog? Something worse? Jun lashed out, blade flashing pale in gloom. He dropped, pressing palm to relic, begging it to move, to save, to spit out anything that fit.
Heat. Pain.
A weapon formed—not sword or staff but a spear, haft grown from darkness itself, blade messy and jagged, dripped with something that looked like memory. The dog skittered back, yelping. Jun's breath hitched.
"That—wasn't here before," she whispered.
He stared, heart racing. The spear pulsed, symbols crawling up the length, none he could read. It felt heavier than the world, built for killing gods, maybe killing himself.
He thrust the spear at the ground—felt it bite into old stone, heard a moan echo from below.
Jun blinked. "You're bleeding," she pointed at his hand—where the spear's grip had left a line of bright red against filthy skin.
He tore away, dropping the spear, watching it melt—back into relic light, back into fever and pain.
"We take. We pay," he muttered. "The gods keep their count."
From deeper within the temple, a voice drifted—a child's, thin and petulant. "You're the storm-bringer, aren't you? Why do you keep coming back?"
He spun, sacred chill cracking his knee. In the alcove crouched a boy—no older than ten, eyes far older, clutching a scrap of old relic bone, cheeks smeared with ash.
Jun stepped back, blade wary. "You get lost, kid?"
The boy shook his head. "Nobody finds me, I find them."
He scooted closer, shoving the relic fragment forward. "It talks, sometimes. Not to me. To you."
He took it, palm prickling. The fragment was warm, pulsing with quiet intent—a sibling to his relic, maybe. Suddenly, he understood: the ruins weren't dead, they were waiting.
"You hear them too?" he asked quiet.
The boy nodded, eyes vast. "All the dead who tried. All the relics hungry for a home."
He started to tremble. The relic at his heart beat harder, pulling at him with words he didn't know.
"Can you let it speak?" the boy begged. "Can you let it forgive?"
Jun said nothing; her fear smelled sweet and sharp.
He looked inward—relic pulsing, bone singing with price, gods leaning close. He pressed both relic and fragment together, bracing for pain. Vision flickered, world turned upside down, every secret winding through his chest.
A chorus rose—voices tangled and ancient, storm and sorrow and laughter. He saw glimpses: old wars, lost friends, a woman clutching a blade that shone as bright as hunger.
Jun grabbed his shoulders, shook hard. "Don't let it drown you."
He gasped, wrenching every word from the relic's storm: "They want a promise. Not for power or escape. Just… to remember."
The relic flashed. Pain lashed him; the fragment burned away—ashes drifting over the ruined altar.
He slumped, breath ragged. The boy just watched, neither pleased nor mourning.
Jun knelt, wiping his forehead. "You with me?"
He nodded, shaky. "Paid enough for tonight."
The ruins breathed in the hush, blessing or curse, he couldn't tell.
Outside, the wind howled. A flock of birds scattered—warning the mountain, warning whatever gods never truly left.
He stood, relic quiet, Jun at his side, the orphan boy licking his wounds.
"Someday I want a storm all my own," the kid whispered.
He smiled, sad and brave. "I hope you survive it."
Jun sheathed her blade, eyes soft at the edges. "Maybe we all do."
They left the temple last, footprints caught in dust and broken history, hearts thumping with every promise the relic kept whispering—bones of old gods, storms clinging where courage grew, and hope worth bleeding out for.
Tomorrow, the mountain would ask for more.
And somewhere in those gods' ruins, exile tasted like belonging.