The air was thinner on this side of the range. Each breath stung like a warning to pace themselves, yet the three moved easily, boots sinking into old snow softened by sun. The long climb out of the underworld had burned away any weakness left in their limbs.
They'd been walking for three weeks now—long enough that silence had turned comfortable again, and conversation no longer felt like duty.
Texan broke the stillness first. "So, remind me again what the hell we're doing when we reach the capital. Drink, sleep, maybe flirt with someone taller than Himmel?"
Himmel smirked faintly. "We had a year and two months before the treaty signing. A month's travel to the soul smiths city, eleven months in the city, one more month back. That means we reach the capital exactly one month before the signing."
"Math. Great," Texan said. "But that doesn't answer the flirting question."
Recon rolled his eyes. "You couldn't flirt your way past a door guard."
"Sure could," Texan said, flashing a grin. "As long as they like charm, muscles, and the smell of victory."
"Or sweat," Himmel murmured.
Texan laughed, the sound echoing down the pass. "Fair. So what then? We're joining a faction, right? Which one?"
"The strongest one we can, not just the strongest one either. We need the perfect synergy, someone who we can build a trust with," Himmel replied. "We'll need influence to reach the King."
Recon adjusted his bowstring, thoughtful. "I still can't believe you're actually serious about that. You think it will be easy?"
"No," Himmel said. "That's why we'll probably take some stupid risks."
They walked for a while longer before Recon finally spoke again, softer this time. "You really think we can convince him to sign?"
"We have to," Himmel said. "Otherwise this whole continent burns in another fifty years."
The thought hung over them like the clouds — heavy, inevitable.
That night, they made camp under a ridge streaked with quartz. The firelight painted the snow gold and the shadows deep blue. Gumbo, now enormous, lay curled like a scaled mountain at the camp's edge. His tail flicked occasionally, scattering snow like dust.
Texan scratched under his chin affectionately. "He's bigger than his mom now," he said with pride. "Stronger too. Eats like a fortress."
Recon threw him a chunk of dried meat. "He's gonna eat us out of supplies one day."
"Worth it," Texan said. "He's family."
Himmel smiled faintly. "You've done well with him. He really has grown, especially for someone who isn't a tamer."
"Yeah," Texan said. "I seriously am proud of myself."
They all laughed, the kind of laughter that eased ache and memory alike.
When the sound faded, Himmel stirred the fire with a branch. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you both."
Recon looked up. "Oh no. You're not about to say you found religion, are you?"
"Worse," Himmel said. "Knowledge."
Texan groaned. "I knew it."
"I learned how to extract souls."
The words dropped like stones into still water. The fire crackled louder in the silence that followed.
Recon blinked first. "You—what?"
"I said," Himmel repeated calmly, "I learned how to extract souls."
Texan sat up straighter. "Like… Soul Smithing? You? Angar said that was impossible. Said it took decades. Hell, he said it took him decades!"
Himmel nodded. "It does. I'm not a Soul Smith. Not even close. What I learned isn't the true craft—it's the basic theory. Something anyone can learn, if they have a teacher. It's more about understanding the connection between essence and vessel."
"Still sounds pretty damn close," Recon muttered.
"It's not," Himmel said firmly. "A Soul Smith molds the soul into something new. What I learned is just how to find one and separate it from the world around it."
Texan frowned. "So why didn't Angar teach us that?"
"Because," Himmel said quietly, "it's forbidden. Too easy to abuse. You could use it to strip life itself from someone if you knew what you were doing."
Texan stared at him. "That's… scandalous."
Himmel shrugged slightly. "That's why I didn't tell you until now."
Recon leaned back, rubbing his temples. "Man, and I thought my training was bad. At least my teacher didn't make me question my morality every day."
Texan snorted. "Didn't he, though? From what you said, he sounds like a cryptic bastard."
"Oh, you have no idea." Recon sighed, tossing a pebble into the fire. "Varan never says anything straight. Everything's a damn riddle. Ask him how to aim in wind, he tells me to 'listen to what doesn't move.' Ask him how to hide better, he says, 'Don't be seen by your own fear.' Like, what the hell does that even mean?"
"Sounds poetic," Texan said.
"Sounds useless," Recon shot back. "I wanted a teacher, not a philosopher."
Himmel looked amused. "Didn't he help you get better?"
"Sure," Recon said, "but I didn't know it at the time. Feels like he spent more time talking me down than building me up."
Texan grinned. "Sounds like he just wanted to make you earn it."
"Yeah? Well, I'd rather he just taught me straight up. Not everyone needs a life lesson in patience."
Texan chuckled and leaned back on his pack. "You could've used one, though."
Recon threw a pebble at him. Texan dodged easily, still smiling.
Then Texan's grin softened. "Thorakk wasn't like that," he said, quieter now. "He taught with his hands, not his words. Never yelled, never cursed, just watched until I got it. Felt more like a brother than a master."
Himmel nodded. "You miss him."
"Yeah," Texan admitted. "But he'd tell me not to waste the time missing him when I've got the road in front of me. So that's what I'm doing."
Gumbo let out a deep, rumbling growl that might've been approval—or hunger. Texan laughed and fed him another strip of meat.
The fire hissed. For a long while, that was the only sound.
By dawn, the wind carried a strange stillness. Even Gumbo's fins twitched nervously.
"Something's off," Himmel murmured.
Recon scanned the horizon. "I don't see—"
A shadow cut across the sunlight, vast and circular. It rolled silently over the peaks.
"What the hell is that?" Texan whispered.
"At first I thought it was a cloud," Recon said, but his voice faltered. The shadow grew darker—closer. The air pressed heavier.
"Move!" Himmel shouted.
They scattered in three directions, snow kicking up under their boots. The ground trembled. Gumbo bolted downhill with terrifying speed, his body slamming through stone and ice like a landslide.
Then the sky cracked open.
The object struck the ridge where they had stood seconds ago, the impact so immense it split stone like paper. The sound wasn't thunder—it was the world gasping. A windwave rolled outward, flattening everything within sight.
Himmel threw himself behind a boulder, grit burning across his arms. Recon hit the ground and covered his head. Texan stumbled, but Gumbo's tail swept around him protectively like a living wall.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing—just ringing ears and white light.
Then, impossibly, the shadow moved again.
The crater shifted. The "object" rose, its shape breaking the clouds—a being so colossal that its wings eclipsed the sun. What they had mistaken for smoke was breath, curling through the mountain air.
And then it was gone. One wingbeat and it was miles away, vanishing into the horizon like a storm retreating into memory.
Texan was the first to speak. "That… wasn't a cloud."
Recon coughed dust from his lungs. "That wasn't anything I ever want to see again."
Himmel looked at the massive crater, his expression unreadable. "That was a beast. A living creature."
"A god," Texan whispered.
They stood in silence, staring at the gouge in the world. It was so large that entire mountains seemed to curve around it like guards around a throne.
Recon let out a shaky laugh. "We're still alive. I'll take that as a win."
"Thank whatever gods are left," Texan muttered. "One step slower and we'd be fossils."
They gathered what little the blast hadn't scattered and started walking again—slower now, more careful.
That night, under a quiet sky, they made another fire.
Texan broke the silence. "So… Himmel. You said something before about finishing your 'ultimate'?"
"Yeah," Himmel said. "It's ready."
Recon raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you say it would only take a month? It's been a whole year."
"I had to perfect it," Himmel replied. "With everything I've learned lately, I realized it could be better—stronger. I didn't want to settle for good enough."
Texan smirked. "You're becoming a real perfectionist."
"I have to be," Himmel said quietly. "What's coming next won't forgive mistakes."
The fire popped, sparks dancing into the dark.
They stayed awake late into the night, talking about everything they'd gained and lost, about the forge, about their teachers, about the strange comfort of knowing they'd finally become something more than wanderers.
And when the morning came, the mountains gave way to rolling plains. In the far distance, under the rising sun, the white walls of the capital shimmered like a promise.
Their long path had come full circle.
"Looks smaller than I remember," Texan said, shading his eyes.
Recon smiled faintly. "Maybe we just got bigger."
Himmel adjusted the sword at his back and started walking again. "No," he said. "We just finally know what we're walking toward."
They followed him down the path—three warriors, a full-grown beast, and the weight of ten months' worth of fire still burning quietly in their bones.