The mountain did not sleep, not for storms, not for the shivering mess of exiles that huddled beneath its shadow. Dawn bled thinly, all silver and bruise, dragging the promise of pain across every eye that dared open. Last night's battle had stitched new ghosts into the ruin's bones—a scattered trail of sect hunter blood, burnt prayer strips, and outcasts snoring in the uneasy cradle of survival.
He came awake aching, throat rubbed raw, relic a cold lump under his collarbone. For a flicker he forgot who he was—just a name chewed over by thunder—but Jun was kneeling by the smoldering fire, hair wild, blade already in hand. She looked carved from war, softer around the mouth for only the second before the world caught up.
"You bled through the night," she said, low, checking the wound at his side. "And you tried to lead. Pick one."
He managed a cracked grin. "If I give up either, everyone dies or runs. Not much of a bargain."
From the camp's rim came a shuffle—Arl the bandit, half a face burned, the other half too eager. "Scouts," he whispered. "Spotted tracks west, sect men in colors, not locals. Someone's learned our names, and they're paying in silver for proof we're gods-damned alive."
He felt the relic stir, hunger and warning tangled. "How long?"
Arl spread ruined hands. "An hour, if luck's still ours. Less if fortune gets bored."
Jun didn't stand. She adjusted the hilt of her knife, gaze steady. "We run, or we bloody the roots of these ruins for another legend."
All eyes on him now—children, old thieves, the broken woman gripping her relic-blade like salvation or curse. He sat up, body trembling against the cold judgement of dawn.
"We don't run," he said, voice rough as stone. "We move. We let the mountains swallow us, scatter if we must. But if the sects want a story so bad, then let it be one of thunder—one they'll fear to retell."
A hush. Breath caught and broke.
Jun pressed her palm against his shoulder, anchoring and dangerous all at once. "You don't have to die for them."
He shook his head. "Tonight—if price must be paid, let me choose the coin."
He let the crowd break, Jun at his right, Arl rounding up orphans and the bravest outcasts. He counted three with knives, two with rusty spears, and more than half with nothing but the faith that a curse can outlast steel.
The relic vibrated, desperate, alive. All through their scramble—over tomb walls, through ragged briar, beneath stone arches clawed by ancient wars—he begged it for nothing but warning.
His answer: a grunt of pain. A flash of memory—bone-white, teeth bared, a sect captain's hand around his throat. A warning shot: today might be the day the relic refuses, or changes its price from memory to name.
They found shelter in a cave, shadows eating the last of their warmth. Jun lit a bundle of pine, smoke carving stripes across her face.
"How long before they catch up?" a girl asked, young, voice cracking.
"Not long," Arl muttered, hands steady only as long as he watched the cave mouth.
At the edge of the dark, whispers: "He'll protect us, curse-boy will. The storm follows him."
He wanted to say no, wanted to spit it out—miracles don't come from hope, just desperation measured wrong.
The scouts found them before midday. Four sect hunters, masks carved like smiling gods, blades clean, boots unblemished by the mud of honest folk.
Jun moved first, blade at her thigh, steps like broken rain. He followed only because death demanded witnesses.
The leader of the sect men—tall, face tattooed with the mark of the Old Faith—smiled as he raised a relic-wrought spear. "Sectless. Relic-thief. Give it up, and we'll let you keep your tongue for the journey to trial."
He felt the relic shiver, demanding. It wanted, it always wanted. He let it bloom between his fingers, heat surging, mind torn raw—*not again not again*—but the outcasts needed something to pray to.
The relic spat out a weapon: a short, battered axe, its edge singing with hunger. Not the glory and gold the sect man wielded—just a tool, blackened in old use.
First blow, Jun's knife darted, catching one across the ribs. Second blow, he swung the axe, wild and awkward, catching the leader's spear at the haft. Pain crashed in—a memory forced loose, this time not his own: a boy crouching by a grave, swearing he'd never run, then running anyway.
His vision swam. The axe flickered, its edge fading, the relic sucking joy and memory in equal measure.
Jun screamed, voice cracking open the cave's hush. She swung wide, too wide—they hadn't practiced as a team, survival didn't let you train for miracles or chaos.
But the outcasts swarmed, desperate and terrified, hurling rocks and ruin, breaking the lines of the sect men. The woman with the relic-blade stabbed awkwardly, blood on her palm where payment was exacted. Arl clubbed a hunter across the jaw, then collapsed, sobbing.
He felt the relic pulse, demanding surrender; he refused.
Inside him: a storm, all hunger.
Outside: victory, pyrrhic and painful.
When the echoes faded, only smoke and battered survivors left, no sect man standing.
He fell to his knees. Jun caught him, arms tight, whispering a promise she might have meant.
"You did too much. You're burning out."
He couldn't answer, teeth rattling.
Around them, the survivors nursed wounds, raided the fallen for food, relic scraps, or useless prayers.
The woman with the relic-blade crouched at his side. "It costs more each day," she muttered, half accusation, half awe.
He let her words settle.
"I will remember the names lost today," he said. "All I ask is you remember we chose to bleed, not to break."
Night pressed close again, the cave a tomb, but also a shelter.
Jun sat, cleaning her blade, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
"We made it," she whispered.
"For now," he replied, exhausted, mostly empty.
He pressed the relic, pleading for rest, for oblivion. This time, it gave nothing but silence—a warning, a promise kept too close.
In the dark, Arl and the orphans sang, a song from before storms and sect curses. It echoed broken, but alive.
He drifted in half-dream, memories flickering—running from one exile to another, holding the relic, never sure if it was weapon, shield, curse, or key.
Tonight, he had all he'd ever wanted: people beside him because they chose to, not because the world left them with nothing else.
Let tomorrow bring worse—sect armies, betrayal, storms. Let the relic demand every memory if it must. He'd trade every scar for this: a single night, together, alive.