Raven wasn’t sure if it was the hour or the season that made Ironholt feel quieter than usual—but either way, the city seemed to hold its breath as the three of them passed the last of the lantern-lit homes and stepped into the open fringe of the district.

  To their left, the wolf-sleigh station was winding down for the evening. A few handlers in fur-lined coats moved between sleek, low-built sleds and crates marked for Stormhold. The familiar scents of leather, snow-oil, and direwolf musk lingered in the crisp air. Beyond the station, the city gave way to the forest’s edge—Wintermane’s pale timber sentinels, standing silent beneath the dimming autumn sky.

  Ahead, nestled at the base of the old blackstone watchtower, stood the shrine.

  The tower itself rose like a frozen fang, sharp-edged and narrow-eyed. Its upper windows were slitted and sealed with rune-etched shutters, their grooves catching faint glints of blue as the light faded. Despite its age, the structure bore signs of maintenance—recent stonework patched a fracture near one corner, and narrow sconces along the base flickered with soft blue rune-light, casting ghostly halos on the frost-laced ground.

  At the tower’s root was the shrine entrance, slightly sunken from the road and flanked by two granite figures. One was a knight with her sword planted tip-first into the earth; the other, a direwolf mid-step, head turned toward the forest. Weather had softened their features, but not their presence. They watched in silence, as if weighing whether the living had earned the right to visit the honored dead.

  Three shallow stone steps led to the door—a broad timber slab darkened by years of weather, its surface iron-braced and inscribed with faintly glowing rune-grooves. Even before reaching it, Raven felt the air shift. It was colder here. Still. The kind of cold that soaked deeper than the skin, settling into bone.

  Aira walked ahead, calm and composed, her boots whispering over frost-laced stone. In her hands, she carried a carefully bound bundle of black blossom pins. Raven followed just behind, carrying the boxed candlelits with both arms. Mary walked beside Aira, her hands folded before her, already adopting the reverent stillness that the shrine seemed to command.

  Raven noticed movement in the narrow tower window above the door—a silhouette straightening, a glint of metal as someone adjusted their cloak. A moment later, the door creaked open from within, revealing the soft glow of a rune-brazier and a young knight adjusting their helm.

  As the group approached, the guard gave a stiff salute—likely assuming a surprise inspection. Aira offered a dismissive wave, with the flowers in her hand. "At ease. This is just an off-duty visit."

  The squire nodded quickly and stepped forward, offering her a satchel.

  Aira turned to the others. "Alright, Mary—take the Magems."

  Mary raised an eyebrow, then held up her hand with a mildly annoyed expression, pointing at the runeart embroided into the palm of her glove.

  Aira blinked, her mind catching up. "Right..." She nodded. "Then Raven, pass the candlelit bundle to Mary, and you carry the Magems."

  Raven complied, passing the candlelit cases to Mary and accepting the satchel from the squire. The faint jingle of stone spheres inside reminded him what he carried—potential power sealed in crystal form.

  The guard unlocked the inner door for them. The thick timber creaked open, revealing the shrine’s interior beyond. One by one, they stepped inside—Mary first, Aira following, and Raven last, pulling the door shut behind him. It latched with a quiet thunk, sealing out the last of the twilight.

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  Mary raised her left hand, and a warm, steady glow spread from her runeart. Light pushed gently into the space ahead, revealing a stairwell of worn stone and the faint glimmer of rune-traces in the walls. The air was dry and still—cold, but not biting.

  At the foot of the stairs, they reached a pedestal. Mary’s light made the surface clear. There was a runeart etched into the stone—more refined than Mary’s practical work, but not as intricate as Lilia’s signature designs. Six recessed slots encircled the outer ring like a keyhole pattern.

  Aira turned to Raven. "Place Magems in each of the slots. There should be plenty in the satchel."

  Raven dipped a hand into the bag and felt the cool round shapes within—small, heavy marbles of sealed magic. He picked out six and placed the first into a waiting slot.

  The effect was immediate. The chamber filled with soft light, the stagnant air stirred with faint circulation, and the cold eased from their breath.

  Three obsidian obelisks became visible as the glow spread across the chamber. Their surfaces were carved with names—rows upon rows of them.

  Mary stepped forward, her voice low. "These hold the names of those we recognize as Ancestors... and those who’ve fallen in duty."

  Aira glanced at them but didn’t linger. "I respect their sacrifice," she said, her tone soft. "But I’ve come for different names. Deeper in. Please follow."

  They continued downward, chamber by chamber. Each time, Mary lit the way, and Raven placed Magems into fresh pedestals. For a moment, he worried they might run out—but the satchel proved more than sufficient. The deeper they went, the fresher the air remained, the more refined the runearts became. This section was newer—maintained, carefully expanded.

  Eventually, they reached the final chamber.

  At the center stood an altar flanked by three slender obelisks. Aira approached in silence. She placed the flowers gently upon the stone, then took the candlelit from Mary. With a subtle gesture, Aira summoned her sorcery. A quiet flame bloomed from her fingertips and caught on the candlewicks.

  The flames took, steady and soft, casting warm light that danced gently over the stone.

  Aira stood before one of the obelisks, her eyes fixed on the engraved names. Mary and Raven stepped to her sides, but said nothing.

  Raven tried to read her expression, but couldn’t. Whatever thoughts stirred behind Aira’s eyes, she kept them guarded. Only the candlelight moved—flickering across her face and along the edge of her long coat.

  Silence stretched long enough to settle into the stone itself.

  Finally, Raven spoke. "Did you know them?"

  Aira glanced toward him and offered a small, weak smile. "They are the ones I was proudest to serve with." Her eyes turned back to the names. "And... some of them, I failed."

  She exhaled slowly, her breath soft against the cold air, then took one final look at the obelisk. After a moment, she turned away.

  "Let’s not feed the mice." she murmured—quiet, but steady.

  Her cloak brushed the floor as she walked, the candlelight flickering in her wake.

  They stepped back into the open dusk, the wind brushing gently past them like the breath of something ancient. Aira paused to pull her coat tighter around her shoulders. Mary exhaled visibly, still calm. Raven adjusted his scarf and looked down at his gloves, frowning in thought.

  "Hey," he said, glancing at Mary. "Runearts... they really work just by being drawn? No need for a special ingredient?"

  Mary nodded, lifting her gloved hand. "It’s the shape, not the medium." She tapped the embroidery stitched into the leather over her palm. "Even this works—if the design is stable."

  Aira gave a slight smirk. "You only need to know the design. Watch."

  She knelt by the snow-dusted path and, with her gloved finger, traced a simple rune into the white. A moment later, she plucked one of the Magems from the satchel and gently pressed it into the center.

  The rune flared to life, faint but real—lines glowing softly in the growing gloom.

  Raven’s eyes widened with amazement.

  Mary knelt beside it and casually scooped some snow onto one of the lines. The glow flickered, then went out. "The sturdier the medium, the more reliable the result. If it is disturbed it's done."

  In their head, Shadebinder’s voice chimed in with amused surprise.

  Wait—Aira, you can draw Runearts? I didn't think you would learn it, since you are a sorcerer.

  Aira stood, brushing snow from her gloves. "My uncle hoped I’d turn out to be a wizard," she said with a dry smile. "He stopped after I sneezed fire at the dinner table."

  ...I would like to hear more about that.

  Shadebinder sounded more curious than concerned.

  Aira turned, already heading back toward the town proper. "I’ll tell you somewhere warmer."

  They returned the satchel and all the magems, then they walked on—leaving behind the shrine, and the past, in respectful silence.