The mountain refused to rest. Night clung to the ridges, thickening every shadow into the shape of old regrets and fresh threats. Hunger gnawed anew—less at the belly now, more at the marrow. He felt emptied out, as if the gods themselves had hollowed him to make room for something sharp and bright and dangerous.
Jun moved at his side, steps careful. The ruins behind them lay quiet, outcasts huddled and whispering stories—about blades that cut fate, relic-cursed boys who did not bleed out, hopes bought in blood and storms. If the wind took their names to Rosewood or the distant valleys, so be it.
They pressed on. The relic pulsed in his chest, half-wild now, its rhythm matching his heartbeat only on the edges. Every miracle left him colder. Every price seemed carved into the soles of his feet.
His thoughts untangled only in pieces: the look on the woman's face when she grabbed the relic-blade, the orphan who craved storms, Jun's hand steady on his shoulder, the truth that survival might mean giving away every hope.
Morning light was thin—just enough to see the world as more gray than gold.
Jun broke the hush. "We could keep going west."
He shook his head. "Everywhere wants something. The relic's got more memories than I've got courage."
She snorted, a sound old as the stones. "Does it ever listen to you?"
He squeezed the talisman, let pain remind him. "Sometimes I think it listens, but only to its own ghosts."
Ahead, the world narrowed—a canyon gouged deep, statues shattered across its rim, faces chewed by wind and rain. They slipped down, loose stone bucking against boots, Jun cursing under her breath.
At the bottom: a river, slow and sullen, its banks littered with bones the color of forgotten prayers.
He knelt, wincing at each step. The relic flared, harsh and bright.
Jun hovered, eyes wide. "Feels wrong here."
He nodded—no need for stories. The river ran thick with secrets.
From the bend, movement—two figures, older boys, battered and thin as ghosts. They carried nets and rusted knives; their eyes flickered between hunger and hate.
"Outcasts," one spat, voice gravel. "Relic-thief, they say."
Jun bristled, her blade half-drawn.
He forced voice out—half truth, half bravado. "Not here to steal. Just passing through."
The boys looked at each other, uneasy.
The taller of the two stepped forward. "You been to the ruins? Did you see her?"
He blinked. "Who?"
The boy's mouth twisted. "The Bone Woman. They say she trades relic fragments for names."
Jun leaned in, suspicion raw. "What's she want with names?"
The boy shrugged, gaze darting. "Every name is a memory she can sell. She finds the lost. Or curses 'em, depending on her mood."
He felt the relic burn hotter, a warning or a lure. "Where is she?"
The boys pointed upstream, vanished then, too wary or too desperate to linger near miracles.
Jun considered him. "Every time you listen to a story, trouble follows."
He managed a tired grin. "Trouble's better than starving."
They stalked the riverbank, stones slick and treacherous, relic throbbing like a wounded animal. At a crook where the water slowed, half-submerged statues stared up from the mud—eyes and mouths open, as if pleading.
Jun tugged his sleeve, tense. "There—"
A shape crouched among the bones—a woman, hair white, cloak layered in patchwork, hands busy sorting fragments of old relics and polished stones.
She looked up, slow, deliberate. Her eyes gleamed, bright but buried in old sorrow.
"You bring gifts?" she asked.
He knelt, aching all the way down. "Got questions. Got memories, too. Not sure which is worse."
She smiled, lips thin. "Memories are heavier. Questions bruise. What's your name, exile?"
He paused—a name was a bargain, a price.
Jun spoke instead, voice steel. "Does it buy anything?"
The Bone Woman laughed, sound cold and lovely. "Names are currency, relics are wounds. You want answers? Pay with a memory, pay with a promise, pay with pain."
He offered his wrist, a scar old and deep. "Paid plenty already."
She traced the line, fingers cold. "Child, the mountain learns every lesson twice—by asking and by bleeding."
The relic pulsed, eager or afraid; he couldn't tell.
The Bone Woman pressed a splinter of relic bone into his palm. "This will show you what you lost. Or what you're willing to lose."
He squeezed it, let the ache blossom. A rush—vision stabbing through him: a house burning, Jun's face blurred by tears, gods laughing at a boy too stubborn to die.
He jerked back, breath ragged. Jun steadied him, mouth tight.
"What did you see?" she whispered.
He swallowed. "The price of surviving. The price of forgetting."
The Bone Woman nodded, grave. "You want the relic to listen? You want to lead other outcasts? You must choose what memory you'll keep. The rest—give to the storm."
He stared at her, fear flickering. "If I forget, who am I?"
She shrugged, wisdom jagged. "If you remember, who will follow?"
Jun gripped his hand. "You don't have to lose yourself. Even if every miracle asks."
The river mumbled, carrying words away.
He pressed the relic, bone fragment tight between his fingers. "I'll pay. But not all at once."
The Bone Woman nodded, fading into mist and memory.
Dusk crept over the canyon, cold and final. He and Jun sat together, names murmured to stone, the relic pulsing with every heartbeat and every secret unspoken.
Above, the storm beckoned. Below, bones waited—for memory, for mercy, for the next fool to barter hope for pain.
He squeezed Jun's hand. "Tomorrow, we move. Tomorrow, the relic listens, or it eats us whole."
She grinned—fierce, brave, unbroken. "Better to fight. Better to bleed with someone beside you."
He smiled, the smallest miracle. "May the gods remember."
Silence, then. Only the storm's promise, only the world's hunger.
Tonight, bones remembered. Hearts burned.