The air was heavy the morning after the trial. Smoke from the pyres still clung to the trees, and ash drifted down when the wind stirred, grey as sorrow. Freedmen gathered in uneasy clusters, their faces worn, their eyes hollow. Some sharpened salvaged blades, others sat with heads bowed, murmuring prayers to names no one else knew.
At the edge of the field, one woman knelt with a strip of bark in her hands, carving names into it with the point of a dull knife. The letters were crooked, some barely legible, but she whispered each one before cutting it deep, her voice raw. She hung the strip from a tree branch when she was finished, the bark trembling in the breeze like a flag of grief. Others soon followed, tying scraps of cloth or laying small stones in lines, desperate to mark that their dead had been more than shadows in the dark.
For the first time since the caravan's defeat, there was no enemy pressing at their backs, no chaos to distract them. Only silence. Silence—and the question none dared speak aloud.
It was Rowan who finally broke it. He stood near the river's edge, staring at the way the current carried light across its surface, then turned to face the others.
"Where do we go?" he asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried, and the camp hushed.
No one answered at first. The freedmen shifted, eyes flicking between him and the elders of their strange company. A mother hugged her child tighter. A scarred man spat into the dirt, muttering something about running until the end of their days.
Ashwyn moved at last. The old warden leaned hard on his staff, his frame thinner now, his skin lined deeper than before the battle. Yet when he lifted his gaze, the weight of it stilled the crowd.
"I know of a place," he said. His voice was quiet, but it drew every ear. "A town cut into the cliffs, abandoned long before even my youth. Stone houses built high above the sea, walls rising from the rock itself. A river runs through its heart. Soil enough for fields lies on the terraces, strong gates still bar its main road. Defensible. Hidden. Waiting."
A murmur rippled through the freedmen. A ruined town. A home, perhaps.
Rowan swallowed, uneasy but listening. The image burned into his mind: towers clinging to stone, sea crashing below, river flowing within reach of his hand. The thought of training beside it, of learning to command more than desperate bursts of power, made something stir in his chest.
Toren stepped forward. The boy no longer looked uncertain. The faint shimmer of white-gold still clung to him when he moved, the mark of his Awakening. He looked at Rowan, then Brennar, then the gathered crowd.
"If it gives us ground to stand on," he said, steady despite his youth, "I'll fight for it. Stone, sea, or ruin—I'll fight for every piece."
Brennar clapped him on the shoulder, pride flickering across his scarred face. He hefted his axe, the great bear that shadowed him padding forward at his side. Freedmen had already begun to whisper a name for the beast—Artán. It rolled off their tongues naturally, as though the creature had always been called that.
Some stepped back when it rumbled low, eyes wide, clutching their children close. Others stared, awestruck, as though they had seen a god step into the world. Fear and reverence tangled together, the freedmen unsure whether to kneel or flee.
Brennar caught it and laughed, though the sound carried no real mirth. He scratched behind the beast's ear, the way one would a hound, and said, "He bites less than I do. You've nothing to fear."
Artán's growl softened into a heavy snort, and the tension in the crowd eased, but only just. They knew now that beasts were not only allies but part of their fate, and it unsettled them.
"A place to hold," Brennar said, more serious now. "That's all I care for. I've no wish to run again. If ruins give us walls, then ruins will do."
Nyx emerged from the tree line, Pan gliding beside her like a slice of shadow. Her eyes were flat, but the tension in her voice carried weight.
"Ruins are a beacon. Build a fire, and predators will come sniffing. We'll draw eyes. Strong ones. And soon."
Ari's response was quick, sharp as her arrows. "Good. Let them come. Better than waiting to be hunted like game."
Lyra stood near the mule that bore her bond. The animal stamped once, its endless bags shifting with a faint jingle of tools and rations. She smoothed its flank, then spoke softly. "If we're to rebuild, better to do it where the earth and sea provide. A place that can feed more than fear. A place that can last."
Ashwyn nodded once. "The strings of fate are not idle. They pull us there. To that place."
Rowan realized then that all eyes had turned to him. The freedmen weren't looking to Ashwyn, or Brennar, or even Ari. They were looking at him. He felt the weight of it press down like a stone across his shoulders.
He hesitated, staring at the river. The water rippled around his boots, calm now, but alive, as though waiting. He thought of Verdant Hollow, of the wolves at the gates, of the boy whose corruption they had been too late to stop. He thought of the caravan, of the dead, of the pyres. He thought of the way Brennar had stood unbroken, of Nyx's cold resolve, of Ari's arrows falling like rain when hope was gone.
And he thought of the people here now. Children clutching scraps of cloth carved with names, mothers holding half-empty bundles, men with hollow eyes staring at him like he might conjure an answer from the air.
Running had bought them nothing.
His jaw tightened.
He stepped forward, voice louder now, carrying across the field. "Then we make it ours. We march to Wraithborn."
The name hung in the air. It was new, raw, but it caught. Freedmen whispered it back and forth, the word spreading like kindling catching flame. Wraithborn.
A name to bind to. A name for the dead, and the living, and whatever future they could carve from the bones of the world.
Toren straightened at Rowan's side. "We'll make it home," he said again, stronger this time, and the white-gold in his aura pulsed once in answer.
Brennar rested his axe on his shoulder, Artán rumbling low at his side. Nyx turned her gaze toward the horizon, unreadable. Ari nocked no arrow, but her grip on her bow was firm. Lyra pressed her hand to the mule, whispering comfort, as though it too carried the burden of this new promise.
Ashwyn, old and weary though he looked, smiled faintly beneath his beard. "It is decided. The strings have been tied. The path begins."
And so, in the shadow of smoke and grief, hope found a name.