Landon had never believed in miracles.
He believed in steel.
In the way it broke through flesh.
In the sound bone made when it cracked.
In weight, in sweat, in the simple law that if you outlast your enemy's heartbeat, you live.
Yet as he walked across the snow behind Kel von Rosenfeld, past the fading borders of the barbarian camp, he found himself no longer certain where steel ended… and something else began.
The boy walking ahead of him was no longer dying.
That, by itself, defied what Landon understood of the world.
Kel's coat fluttered behind him as the wind shifted—slowly, rhythmically, like breath. The ends of his hair, still damp from mountain frost, clung to his cheek. His spine, once tense from constant internal strain, was straight. No shallow gasps. No hidden tremors.
Just quiet steps.
Landon watched them. Counted them, almost.
Still walking.
That was new.
They had left the barbarian camp three days prior. Their packs were light, the mountain before them fierce and unsympathetic. Snow fell, sometimes like whispered warnings, sometimes like attempts to erase them.
Kel walked in the lead, as if drawn by some invisible compass only he could read.
Reina tracked left flank, alert and sharp, her posture tense in that familiar way—not of fear, but of constant readiness. Sera mirrored her opposite, quiet as frost, eyes sometimes drifting to the horizon where, she whispered, an ancient lake called out to cursed blood.
Landon was the anchor.
Not the one who decided. Not the one who dreamed.
Just the one who made sure their feet remained on ground long enough for choices to matter.
He had been raised for such roles. A mountain. A steady sword. A shield.
So why, then, did he feel now like he was struggling to keep up with the footsteps of a boy who spent most of his life unable to breathe properly?
They fought beasts.
In the snowstorm on the second day, something with too many eyes lunged from the drifts. Landon moved first, breaking through white blur and claw. Blood stained the ground like spilled ink. Kel gave instructions—not loud, just certain. Sera's curses warped through winter air, lungs burning. Reina's spear moved with sharp grace.
And when it ended, Landon realized something.
Kel no longer staggered after giving orders.
He stood.
He observed.
He planned ahead.
The boy who once spent his strength surviving his own heartbeat… now spent it considering theirs.
It unsettled Landon more than any monster.
The lake found them through mist, not sight.
The cave's descent was slow. Each step deeper made the air colder, yet Landon felt something warming inside his bones, tension loosening at the edge of his stance.
He suppressed the thought.
Only one thing had ever felt like this before.
When his constellation awakened.
Mountain that cannot fall.
But now…
This did not feel like foundation.
This felt like… the earth exhaling beneath him.
The trial in the mist would have broken him, once.
He faced himself—not the self that wielded a sword, nor the one that carried an oath, but the one that stood outside his family home, watching the door close when his weakness was no longer worth their resources.
He saw the look in his father's eyes.
Calculating.
Dismissive.
Not cruel.
Worse.
Indifferent.
Weakness is waste.
He saw himself training alone until his fingers bled, until breathing hurt worse than broken ribs, because if he could not become unbreakable, he had no right to exist among those born stronger.
He faced that version of himself.
Not with defiance.
With honesty.
"I was weak," he said to the mist. "I was left behind." He clenched his fists. "But I kept walking."
He looked forward through the fog.
"To walk behind someone worth following is not weakness."
The version of him vanished.
And the mist allowed him through.
Scarder Lake waited like silence made visible.
It did not reflect him.
It did not reflect any of them.
The water was still, too still—like the world held its breath around it.
Sera tried to walk into it.
Kel stopped her.
Landon did not move.
He watched Kel's back as he did something no one else would have done.
Questioned the lake.
Called the guardian.
Stood his truth before an ancient being as if it were equal to hers.
That was when Landon finally understood:
Kel was not strong because he had survived the curse.
He was strong because he never asked the world for permission to exist.
He didn't wait for it.
He carved out the space himself.
When Kel spoke of his curse, Landon felt the words like a blade across his knuckles.
Worthless cursed boy.
Kel had survived breath by breath under pain so constant it had become invisible.
Landon felt shame for every moment he had assumed the boy weak.
When the guardian allowed their bathing, Landon said nothing.
He simply followed Kel into the lake.
The first touch of water felt like pressure against his scars—the ones no blade had made, but training had. His joints eased. His lungs filled. Old stiffness in his wrists and shoulders softened. His body, always overly grounded, felt… refreshed.
For someone not cursed, the lake still changed him.
Not with dramatic weight. Not with power.
With alignment.
Like a stone rebalanced in river flow.
He watched Kel beneath the surface—eyes closed, fingers shaking as something shattered within him. The instant he knew the curse lifted, Kel nearly collapsed.
Landon reached—then stopped.
Kel remained afloat.
He breathed.
He smiled.
Landon looked away.
Not from discomfort.
From reverence.
That moment did not belong to him.
He never expected what came next.
Kel could have walked away.
Should have.
Instead, he turned back.
Landon recognized the silence in his posture then.
Not the quiet of pain.
The quiet before negotiation.
When Kel asked how long the guardian had watched the lake, Landon's hand moved to his sword without conscious command. Ancient forces were not meant to be questioned casually.
But Kel did not treat her as a force.
He treated her as someone caged.
And when he offered her the contract—not as servant, but equal—
Landon's grip loosened.
And he saw, truly saw, what Kel was building.
Not power.
A network.
A future.
A way forward where no one was forced to kneel to keep living.
The guardian's fury was immense. Landon's instincts screamed to react.
Kel stood still.
Like winter itself could lean on his spine and not bend it completely.
Equal contract.
Freedom clause.
Landon had never heard such an arrangement, even among nobles and summoned entities.
When Kel swore his life as collateral, Landon's throat tightened.
Not from fear.
From understanding.
True strength is not wielding chains.
It is offering your back to the weight of another's shackles.
Sera whispered: "Do you always walk so calmly on death's edge?"
Kel: "I don't know any other road."
That was when Landon realized something.
Kel was not only worth following.
He was someone whose death Landon would not accept.
Even if it meant denying the mountain's silence itself.
They left Scarder Lake.
The mist parted.
Snow returned.
The air tasted alive.
Kel paused once, looking back. His eyes went distant for a heartbeat.
Landon did not know then that he was asking for the guardian's name.
But he saw the shift in his posture when she answered.
A faint elegance, somewhere between winter and water.
Sairen.
Landon committed the name silently to memory.
Not as something divine.
As a person he would now accept watching Kel's back when he himself could not.
Now, as they stepped back into the open world, frost settled gently on Kel's coat. The boy walked ahead, every step steady—not because he had strength enough to stand…
…but because the earth had finally stopped trying to pull him down.
Reina took her place beside him.
Sera's gaze lifted to the mountain wind.
Landon walked half a step behind.
Not out of habit.
Out of oath.
Not following the boy who broke fate.
Guarding his footsteps.
Like a mountain learning, at last, that even stone could move forward.