They had barely caught their breath after the last storm before the next crisis clawed at their fragile peace. Morning scattered gray over the high path, scars of muddy battle still shining beneath battered feet. The group was smaller now—Arl laid up with wounds, the relic-woman's hands still trembling, Jun scowling at every sound. Hope limped behind, wary but stubborn.
No one mentioned the missing. They packed up, kept their faces toward the east where the sky seemed less full of knives. The sect would come again soon. He could sense it in the way birds fled and in how the relic pressed against his heart—longing or warning, its rhythm skittering out of time.
He moved through the hush stiffly, Jun keeping her right shoulder close to his left. Footing was tricky, rocks loosened by the night's rain. Somewhere below, the river rushed out of sight, loud and merciless.
Ahead, the path split around a fallen statue like a wound refusing to close. A new face joined them—one of the youngest boys from the bandit clutch, copper-skinned, a shock of white at his hairline. He jogged up, panting, eyes wide.
"Someone's following," he hissed, glancing back over a boulder. "Not sect. Outcast, but quick."
Jun's knife lifted, eyes like broken glass. "Friend or spy?"
The boy's lips thinned. "She has a sect mark, but old. Says she's looking for the one who leads by scars."
He flinched. The weight of expectation threatened to crowd him out of his own body.
"Let her come," he said, and hated how much like trust it sounded.
The stranger arrived a few minutes later—tall, bedraggled, scars crosshatching her jaw. Cool eyes, all steel and mistakes. She wore a battered relic brooch on one wrist, the kind that marked old sect archivists.
Nobody trusted her at first. Even the children kept stones ready.
She addressed him directly. "You're the so-called curse-brother, the storm's shadow. You look tired for a legend."
He shrugged. "Legends are just the last ones left standing."
A smile flickered. "Fair. My name's Sori. I came from Crestfall, before the purge." She paused, letting the name rot in the air.
He caught the pain there; saw Jun nod—silent agreement, shared grief.
"What do you want?" Jun asked, always the blade in his peace.
Sori opened a battered palm. "I want to join, or at least not die alone. I have maps, names, and a warning: there's a bounty on your group, not just for relics anymore. They want a head to send back to each sect—the head of the one who started this little storm."
He felt everyone watching. Jun watched hardest.
He nodded, slow. "Then stay, if you pull your weight. We need eyes and stories as much as steel."
Sori's lips twitched. "I've killed for less."
The news lit a fuse. Unease spread—bandits whispered, children huddled. Even Arl grunted, "If they want your head, we might not have enough bodies to shield it for long."
He pressed the relic, feeling its ache: a hunger that was almost a question. Jun bent close, murmured, "You can't always save them. Sometimes running is leading too."
He met her gaze. "If I run now, I lose more than myself. I lose what we made out of nothing."
She nodded, that rare spark flashing in her eyes. "Then let's bleed together."
The day ground on—moving fast, every silence heavy. Sori proved true: she led them past traps, flagged marks in the trees only an old sect hand would know. At one fork, she pulled them up short, kneeling to scrape earth away. There, hidden in the roots: a stone jar, sealed with copper wire.
"A message drop," she explained. "The sects use these to track runners, send bounties."
Inside: a single knife, black as night, with his true name etched in blade script. The price for his capture.
He felt cold. Jun spat, "You're worth more dead than alive to them."
He took the knife, cut his palm. Blood welled up, feeding the relic's greed. For a heartbeat nothing happened, then the relic hummed, warmer than before—almost grateful. Using his own pain as promise.
He looked at the gathered few—children, thieves, Sori, Jun, the relic-woman clutching her blade. "This is the last line," he said quietly. "If we run, we run together. If we fight, we fight for each other's names, not for glory."
A hush. Nod after nod—faces creased, tired, but alive.
The afternoon shivered into ambush.
Sect hunters surged from both flanks—faster, smarter, masks shining with rule and ritual. Sori fought savagely, her brooch glowing with an old, ugly light. Jun was a storm unbound. The relic-woman cut a path, hands bleeding.
He reached for the relic, desperate: "Don't fail me."
It spat out a weapon again, different this time—a curved, hooked blade, its surface crawling with old names, some of which he almost remembered. Not easy. Not right. He hefted it, let the pain hammer through his memory. For every kill, a memory faded—a song, a night, a joke with Jun around a long-dead fire.
They drove the first wave back, battered, grim. The cost was immediate: his head felt light, the world blurred at the edges. Jun called his name, once, sharp. He came back, barely.
Sori pulled him aside while the rest regrouped, her face grim. "If the relic keeps eating your life, you'll have nothing left but a shell. You need to teach someone else how to bear the price. Or let me—let any of us—split the burden."
He looked at Jun; she was already shaking her head. "You carry it, curse-brother, but you don't carry it alone. Not anymore."
***
Night crashed in. They huddled in the remains of a shrine, fire flickering low. No songs tonight, just the slow sound of counting—wounds, names, hopes. Arl mumbled in his sleep. The relic-woman wept quietly.
He bandaged his hand, pressed the relic tight. "Tomorrow, we move east. There's a pass Sori knows, away from the sect routes. We'll rest, heal, find a new path. And we'll keep our names alive."
He glanced at Jun, at Sori, at the circles of faces—their found family, battered and bandaged, but still together.
Jun nudged his knee. "You kept your promise."
He managed a cracked smile. "Let's see if the mountain lets us keep it one more day."