No one remembered how the storm started, only that it hadn't let go. Rain ripped the morning open, thunder following like a war drum. Near the ragged edge of the mountain, everyone became teeth and bone—wide-eyed or desperate, clutching bits of borrowed steel and worse hopes.
First came the shout—a scout, girlish voice gone thin with terror. "They're here! Colors on the ridge, sect blades—ten or more!"
Jun was already upright, knife drawn, damp hair slapping sharp against her cheeks.
He couldn't see the enemy yet, but he felt the relic's dread, crawling cold up his spine. Power wanted to leap, to burn, but something in its pulse warned: today, miracles might come up empty.
"We can't outfight ten," Jun hissed, eyes on him and beyond, "but a stand buys time for others to vanish."
The crowd of outcasts—old bandit Arl, relic-blade woman, children and the trusting broken—looked to him. A little fear, a lot of faith. "You led us this far, curse-brother," the relic woman rasped. "Don't start hiding now."
He held the relic in cold hands. "We'll split—fastest take the north path, the rest with me and Jun. If trouble catches us, run. If hope catches us, question it."
Jun's shoulders squared. "If you're not fighting, move. If you fight, fight to wound, not to die."
The first sect men slid from the mist in crimson cloaks, blades glinting as if the storm was nothing. Their leader wore a fox mask, every footstep neat as a funeral. Forces fanned out: a net closing in.
"Relic-bearer!" Fox-mask called, loud enough to shatter silence. "Give us what you stole. We spare the children, burn only the guilty."
He felt the relic quiver. It knew tyranny; it smelled old blood. He stepped forward, Jun at his right.
"Come take it," Jun spat, voice a blade.
Fox-mask flicked a hand. "As you wish."
Clash. Mud leapt, steel shrieked. Jun was wind and muscle, keeping three at bay. Arl swung a club, grunting. Two children slashed wildly, defending each other as if memory of home could become armor.
He tried to call the relic's power—wanted fire, got frost. The relic resisted, piping misery through veins, only a whisper of that axe he'd pulled before.
A sect blade cut his thigh. Pain, real and shocking, nearly dropped him.
He fumbled the relic, forced desperate prayer. It flashed—just briefly—a battered shield formed, old and nicks deep. He raised it in time for a sword to ring hollow off its surface. But the cost slammed full: a cluster of memories scattered from his mind, names and faces slipping into oblivion.
"It's not working," he muttered, barely audible.
Jun knocked aside a sword, backing to him, breathing hard. "Make it work. Or run."
He tried. The relic spat sparks, then nothing. Fox-mask raised a hand and all motion froze—sect magic, stronger than fear alone. "Last chance, relic-thief. They always love a mercy before the storm."
He let go of the relic—felt it burn, then go ice-cold. In that instant, the memory of his mother left him: gentle hands, soft voice, all erased. Rage filled the space. He rose, snarling, shield in one hand, grabbing a stick in the other.
This time, the shield broke the spell. Fox-mask's eyes widened behind the mask.
Jun surged beside him, and together they drove into the heart of the sect line. Mud, screams, thunder—the world collapsed into small moments of blood, flash of steel, screams snatched by rain.
He saw Arl clubbed down—a sharp cry, then stillness. Off to the side, the relic-woman stood above a child, bleeding from a slash, but still fighting.
The relic tried to leap again—wanted to be sword, wanted to be flame—but it sputtered, gave only a thin shimmer of light.
Jun took a cut on her arm and still didn't break.
He yelled—not words, but a sound like everything he feared. The sect men wavered. In that pulse, Jun swept the feet of one, drove her knife into a second. He slammed the shield forward, knocking Fox-mask off balance, rain blinding both of them for a heartbeat.
But the relic started to pulse out of rhythm, going dead-weight, stealing breath and memory. For the first time, he understood: there would be moments where faith and pain would bring no answer at all.
"Jun!" he gasped, "Fall back—now!"
She gritted her teeth, eyes gleaming in rain, "We buy their escape. That's how leaders do it."
Together, they dragged the survivors—wounded and wild-eyed—back through tangle and ruin. Sect men surged behind, but fear—raw, animal fear—bought them precious ground.
When the last of their group stumbled through the ruined arch, he stopped and turned—let the relic speak, no longer wishing for miracles, only begging for warning.
In faintest echo, the relic whispered: *Survive. The storm is not your end.*
He grabbed Jun, staggered forward, the survivors huddled around. Behind, Fox-mask spat curses, but didn't chase. Too many broken, too much blood for easy victory.
Hours later, they counted losses. Arl lay with his wounds, gasping but alive. Four missing, three found—one dead and already remembered in the tearful eyes of the young girl who'd tried to trade stones for stories.
The relic-woman came, pressing a bloodied relic fragment to his chest. "You lost too much, curse-brother. You paid enough."
He smiled, crooked, knowing it was a lie. "We'll pay tomorrow, too, if the mountain demands."
Jun bandaged his leg, scowling, but her hands shook. "No more miracles until you sleep," she commanded.
He wanted to protest—had always wanted to—but this time he obeyed.
The outcasts built a small fire. Song rose, battered but proud—a lullaby for the missing, a promise for the living. Jun dozed at his side, blade across her lap, scowl faded in the glow.
He closed his eyes, let the relic cool. In dreams, the storm whispered: *Not every failure is the end. To be remembered, you must survive.*
When he woke, the fire was nothing but ember. Jun was awake, eyes red.
"We keep moving," she said, "not because we're brave, but because the world hates the quiet. If you lead, lead with scars. If you can't heal, at least keep standing."
He squeezed her hand, voice a rasp: "We all stand together. One more storm. One more dawn."
Outside, rainless sky blinked blue for the first time in weeks. The survivors hobbled forward—broken, bandaged, memory-light—but not beaten.
The sect would return. The mountain would not forgive. The relic would hunger again.
But for tonight, under the hush of thunder fading, they had each other's names, and that, he decided, was enough to keep the world spinning one dawn longer.