The northern wind came like an untamed beast, plunging down the steep cliffs with claws of wet, biting cold.
The rock faces, worn smooth by years of mist and erosion, gleamed like polished bone. A thin layer of gray dust covered the ground, and beneath it, deep fissures stretched like the veins of a buried skeleton.
Alan moved silently at the front, Shadow close behind. They were like two silhouettes slipping through the fog, and only the faint crunch of gravel underfoot proved their existence.The fire pouch pressed tight against Alan's chest gave no warmth—it wasn't calm, but a coiled, restless stillness waiting to stir.
They had been walking through the dense fog all night. The salt sack was half-empty, the water skin nearly dry.
Shadow's feet had long since blistered and bled; the dried blood crusted dark along her boots.When Alan suddenly stopped, the endless roar of the wind turned hollow. He listened carefully to the subtle shift in the current—northward, a ravine cut through the mountain, and the wind poured downward like a tide.
"There." His voice was hoarse as he pointed.
Shadow lifted her head. The dark rings under her eyes stood out sharply against her pale face.She said nothing, but from the pouch on her chest, a faint flicker of light pulsed—weak and rhythmic, like shallow breath.
Alan's gaze locked on it. "It moved?"
"It just... felt warm," she whispered.
"Warmth means unrest." His tone left no room for doubt.
Shadow pressed her lips tight and said nothing more.
At the edge of the ravine, the gale was wild enough to tear a body from the rock.Below them, only a thick swirl of fog, endless and black.Alan tied one end of the rope and tossed it down. He silently counted eight beats before the echo returned from the depths. It was deeper than expected.
"Do we go down?" Shadow asked. The wind tore her words apart.
"We have to," he said, fastening the buckles. "The upper path is all wind. No road ahead."
The pitons sank deep into the stone. The rope pulled taut. They descended, one after another. The wind slammed against the cliff, tossing their bodies side to side. Every few meters, Alan scattered a pinch of salt; the grains hissed faintly in the damp.
Halfway down, the pouch against his chest began to tremble—heat flaring through the fabric, burning into his skin.
"Behave," he muttered, tapping his chest with two knuckles.
The movement ceased instantly. Below, Shadow called out, "What happened?"
"Nothing." He steadied his breath and kept going.
The lower they went, the thicker the fog became until sight itself vanished. Shadow's shape blurred—and then split. One body real, the other weightless, drifting half a step behind.
"Don't move," Alan whispered.
She froze. The false image lagged a heartbeat before melting back into her form.Alan flicked a coarse grain of salt toward it. The air rippled like water, then burst and vanished into the mist.
"Echo wraith residue," he said quietly. "Don't retrace your steps."
"I didn't move," Shadow said, her voice shaking.
"It did."
Rusted hooks and frayed lines jutted from the rock ahead—relics of an older expedition. Alan touched one half-buried hook; the metal's chill stabbed through his glove. He pried it loose and stowed it away. Might be useful later.
The ravine floor was flat, layered with a thin frost of dull salt. Footprints from all directions converged here—then vanished at the center. Alan crouched, rubbed a bit of salt between his fingers, and tasted its bitterness.
"Someone's been here," he said.
"How long?"
"A day or two."
The salt crust cracked faintly beneath their steps. After ten more paces, the ground turned black—scorched to glass, forming a warped circle. Alan knelt to inspect it. Within the ash, a deep mark twisted across the ground.
Shadow leaned in, her voice tense. "It's a 'return' mark."
Alan shook his head. "No. It's 'two knocks.'"
Her breathing quickened. "Then whoever came before—"
"Could've been the fire itself," he said flatly, rising to his feet. "We go around."
They turned toward a slope on the right. At its peak stood a half-buried stone door. The sun sigil of the old Empire was carved into it—weathered, but still visible. Alan pressed his hand to it; the stone didn't move. He struck it with the hilt of his blade. The hollow echo came back deep and long.
"A furnace substation," he said. "It might still be alive."
Shadow's gaze darkened. "It can still run?"
"There might be salt inside," Alan said quietly. "Or corpses.The dead don't move. Fire does."
They camped before the door. Alan traced the salt lines while Shadow lit a small fire. The flicker danced across the stone, making the faded carvings seem alive again. Alan watched long enough to realize it wasn't illusion—the slab was radiating faint warmth. He pressed his palm to his chest. The fire pouch answered, pulsing in rhythm.
"Dim the flame," he said.
Shadow scattered the coals. The fire shrank to a thin red glow, and the air cooled.
Alan leaned against the rock and closed his eyes. But the warmth inside him didn't fade.It grew sharper—like invisible fingers tapping through his ribs.
—"Cold?"
The voice didn't come through his ears but from the marrow itself.Alan didn't open his eyes. He only pressed the pouch tighter.
—"I'm cold too."
His eyes snapped open.Shadow sat across from him, her lips unmoving, firelight soft against her face.Not her.
The voice came closer, brushing against his ear.
—"I see you."
"You shouldn't." Alan murmured.
A faint crackle followed, like a laugh breaking in the embers. "I'm waiting."
Alan rose sharply, pulling the strap tight until the pouch twisted under his grip.The voice went silent.
Shadow lifted her head. "What is it?"
"It woke."
"Will you put it back to sleep?"
"I'll make it… forget."
A draft slipped through the crack in the door, carrying the scent of ash.Not the dead kind, but faint, smoldering living grey.There truly was a furnace burning beyond that wall.
Alan stared at the stone. "Tomorrow, we go in."
"For salt?"
"To see what kind of fire still burns."
Night deepened.The dying coals painted the stone door with trembling light. For a moment, shadows seemed to move behind it. Alan's hand never left his knife. The fire within his chest beat like a second heart—slow, steady, relentless. Shadow leaned back and drifted into shallow sleep.
Alan didn't sleep. He carved new rules into his mind:
One — all shadows in the mist are false. Trust salt, not sight.Two — if the fire whispers, it tempts. Answer with pain.Three — before the grey furnace, speak no word of fire. Still your thoughts.Four — if a sound comes from beyond the door, it's a test. Don't move. Don't look. Don't listen.
Wind moaned through the crack of the door, as if something alive paced behind it. The heat in his chest leveled—neither rising nor falling. Alan's eyes never left the stone.
Then, in the darkest breath before dawn— Two sharp knocks came from behind the door.
Knock. Knock.