When I returned to camp, the night still clung to the world, the horizon untouched by dawn. We had time—but not a moment to waste.

  The fire had burned low, its embers pulsing faintly. A fleeting warmth in the cold stretch of night.

  I moved through the camp without a word, my steps measured yet firm. The others stirred, some slower than others, blinking the weight of sleep from their eyes as they registered the sudden shift in pace.

  “We move now.”

  No questions. No hesitation. They trusted that if I said ‘now,’ there was a reason.

  Rylas rose first, already tightening the straps on his gear. A soldier to the bone. Selene, half-asleep but quick to adjust, began rolling up her bedroll with practiced efficiency. Mira stood by the horses, whispering something to them—not magic, but the kind of soothing presence that eased their weariness.

  The horses had gotten some rest, but not enough. Their breaths came heavier than before, their ears twitching in irritation as we readied them for another hard ride. There would be no luxury of slow travel—only the urgency of escape.

  Lyrik, stretching, let out a sigh that could have belonged to a man on his deathbed. “What I wouldn’t give for just one peaceful morning.”

  Ewin scoffed, still strapping his quiver over his shoulder. "Peaceful mornings are for people who don’t get attacked in their sleep.”

  Lyrik shot him a grin. “Which is exactly my point.”

  A laugh rose from somewhere in the group. Light. Tense. A pressure valve releasing just enough to keep from breaking.

  I turned toward the brothers.

  Robert and Henry had sat upright by now, the exhaustion still clinging to them, but something else flickering in their eyes—wariness. They weren’t stupid. They saw the shift, the sudden urgency in our actions.

  Robert, always the more cautious of the two, frowned. “Why the rush?”

  I met his gaze, letting a beat of silence stretch.

  Then I exhaled, slow and measured, as if debating whether I should say more.

  “Because the road ahead is not safe.”

  The way I said it—low, deliberate, leaving just enough unsaid—was enough to tighten the air between us.

  Henry swallowed. Robert straightened.

  I've noticed people have this funny habit: tell them not to do something, and it becomes strangely tempting. I can use that. I'm going to set things up so they think they're making their own decisions, but really, I'm just nudging them where I want them to go.

  They were waiting for an explanation.

  So, I gave them one.

  “You’ve heard the stories of the Hollowed Valley, haven’t you?”

  Robert’s brows furrowed, the first glint of instinctual unease settling into his bones. “It’s just land. Nothing special.”

  Selene let out a quiet chuckle—sharp, knowing.

  Ewin, who had been tightening the fletching on one of his arrows, didn’t even look up when he muttered, “That’s what they all say.”

  Robert turned his head sharply. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

  Lyrik, leaning against his saddle, sighed dramatically. "Means every fool who’s ever thought it was ‘just land’ never made it back to tell us otherwise."

  Henry shifted uncomfortably. “Bandits?”

  I shook my head. "No."

  The night air stretched taut around us. The wind stirred the grass, whispering through the valley beyond.

  I let the silence settle—long enough for doubt to fester.

  Then I exhaled, quiet, grave.

  "It's the ones who don't belong there."

  The brothers froze.

  Ewin muttered something under his breath, clicking his tongue. Lyrik busied himself adjusting his saddle, but I caught the smirk threatening at the edge of his lips.

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  They knew what I was doing.

  And they were enjoying it.

  Robert, however, wasn’t. "The hells does that mean?" he asked, voice just a shade too tight.

  I let my gaze drift toward the valley, as if staring at something just out of sight.

  "There are stories. Some old, some new. Of people going into the Hollowed Valley and… not coming back the same."

  Henry blinked. "Not coming back the same?"

  I tilted my head slightly. "Or not coming back at all."

  A flicker of irritation passed through Robert’s face, like he wanted to scoff but couldn’t quite bring himself to. He had seen enough in life to know that sometimes, the old stories held truth.

  I continued.

  "Travelers speak of shadows moving where there should be none. Of voices calling their names when no one is near." My voice remained even, steady—not a storyteller’s flourish, but the weight of something real.

  Henry swallowed. Robert’s hand twitched slightly toward his belt.

  I wasn’t done.

  "Some say the valley is cursed, that the land itself rejects the living. That those who stay too long hear whispers in the wind—whispers that tell them things they shouldn’t know. Things they never wanted to know."

  Henry licked his lips. "What… kind of things?"

  I glanced at him.

  "The way their parents are going to die. The moment their lover will betray them. The hour of their own death."

  The brothers paled.

  Ewin, still twirling an arrow between his fingers, added lazily, "Or worse. Some don’t hear whispers at all. They hear singing."

  Robert’s throat worked through a swallow. "Singing?"

  Lyrik’s grin was slow, amused. "A woman’s voice. Low, soft. The kind that crawls inside your bones and makes you forget why you were running." He adjusted his bridle strap. "Not that running does much good after that."

  Henry was rigid now, hands clenched into the fabric of his tunic. Exactly where I wanted him.

  I sighed, turning away. "Forget it. It’s just an old tale."

  And that, of course, made it worse.

  Robert was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said, "You’re lying."

  I looked at him.

  And smiled.

  “Then go see for yourself.”

  Henry inhaled sharply. Robert stiffened.

  And just like that, the idea of ever stepping foot into the Hollowed Valley was gone.

  Selene, finally done securing her gear, swung up onto her horse. "Enough ghost stories. We ride."

  The camp was gone in minutes—bedrolls tied, weapons checked, straps tightened. The horses, though rested, were still sluggish from exhaustion, their ears flicking back in mild protest. But they would run. They had to.

  As I mounted, Robert finally found his voice again.

  "Good luck," he muttered, forcing himself to sound indifferent, but the unease still clung to his words.

  "We make our own luck," I replied, flicking the reins.

  And with that, we took off, leaving the brothers behind—pale, wary, and very, very unwilling to test the truth of my words.

  ***

  The Hollowed Valley stretched before me, vast and indifferent, its silence swallowing the last tremors of the stampede. The sun had yet to crest the horizon, but its ghostly light bled into the sky, turning the dust-choked air a muted gold. The heat had not yet come, but it would. And when it did, it would be merciless.

  Beneath us, in the ravine, the Rumblehorns thundered past like an endless tide, their massive bodies crashing against the earth, hooves tearing deep scars into the valley floor. Not one looked up. To them, we did not exist—just ghosts standing on the edge of their world, watching as they surged forward, driven by whatever madness had set them running.

  We had crossed before they came. That was the victory. The cost?

  I glanced at the horses.

  They stood, flanks heaving, bodies trembling from exhaustion. The smarter ones had already sunk to their knees, heads low, knowing they would not be ridden again. They had given us everything they had. And now, they had nothing left.

  I exhaled slowly. The rest of the journey would be on foot.

  Lyrik let out a long, exaggerated groan, rubbing a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

  "Well, that was spectacularly terrible. Someone reminds me never to try outrunning a stampede again."

  Ewin, sitting on a nearby rock, plucked at his bowstring absentmindedly. "Damn shame, too. Was starting to think my horse and I had a future together." He glanced at the barely-breathing beast, then added, "Brief, tragic romance."

  Mira, kneeling beside one of the collapsed horses, placed a gentle hand against its neck. "They did well. Better than they should have."

  Selene stretched, wincing as she rolled out the tension in her shoulders. "It could have been worse."

  "Could it?" Ewin raised an eyebrow. "We’re in the middle of the Hollowed Valley with no mounts, no shade, and a whole day’s walk ahead of us in the heat. Feels fairly bad."

  Lyrik threw an arm around Ewin’s shoulders, grinning. "Look at it this way—you get to complain the entire way. I know how much joy that brings you."

  For a brief moment, it almost felt normal. The lighthearted ease of men and women who had survived something impossible. A breath of relief.

  But it didn’t last.

  "We could’ve waited," Vyk said.

  The words cut clean through the moment.

  I didn’t turn, but I felt the shift in the air. The momentary ease hardened, like cooling iron.

  Vyk wasn’t looking at the valley anymore. He was looking at me.

  "We could’ve waited," he repeated, sharper this time. "Let the stampede pass. Then crossed after."

  Selene sighed, already knowing where this was going. "No, we couldn’t."

  Vyk didn’t even look at her.

  "Why?" His voice was level, controlled. "What was stopping us from waiting?"

  I met his gaze. "Stragglers."

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  Selene took the explanation instead. "Rumblehorns are territorial. Even with the herd gone, the ones left behind won’t be in a hurry to move on. They’ll fight to the death over their land. We'd have had to kill our way through."

  "And now," Ewin muttered, "instead of dying by stampede or goring, we get to die from heatstroke. Fantastic."

  But Vyk wasn’t done. His gaze flicked to me again, sharp as a blade catching sunlight. "One thing doesn’t add up."

  I waited.

  "You didn’t know about the stampede when we made camp." He let the words settle. "So, tell me—when did you figure it out?"

  The ground beneath us was solid, but it might as well have been shifting sand.

  The others were looking now.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  "Does it matter?" Selene cut in.

  Vyk’s gaze snapped to her. "Yes." His expression unreadable, but his words cut deep. "Yes. And you know it does."

  The wind stirred dust between us, dry and restless. The scent of churned earth and sweat clung to the air, but it was nothing compared to the weight settling over the group.

  Ewin exhaled sharply; arms crossed. "You always take his side." His voice lacked its usual lilt of amusement. "Every time."

  Selene’s expression remained neutral, but the tension in her shoulders told a different story.

  "Because the results speak for themselves."

  Lyrik let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Do they? Or are we just leaves caught in the current, drifting wherever he wills it—without knowing where we’re going, or why?"

  No one answered.

  Selene’s fingers curled into her palm. "We’re alive." The words came out measured, controlled. "That’s what matters."

  Mira, seated on a nearby rock, lifted her gaze from the valley. "No." She spoke as if stating a simple fact. "It matters that we never know the path—only the destination, once we've already arrived."

  The silence stretched, a slow tightening around the throat.

  Ewin shifted his weight, shaking his head. "He doesn’t give us a choice. He gives us the illusion of one."

  He turned, looking directly at me now.

  "Let’s be honest—when have any of us truly made a decision that mattered?"

  I listened. They were right, of course. But that had never been the point.

  I watched them, their irritation, their quiet resentment.

  They wanted me to explain. They wanted justification, some assurance that I did not see them as pieces on a board.

  But they were.

  I had made the decision the moment Cordelia told me. Had I told them, they would have debated. Questioned. Argued. And in that time, the Wraiths would have set their plan into motion, the valley would have become a death trap, and we would have been caught in it.

  They did not need to know. They only needed to move.

  They speak of choice as though it is owed to them.

  Choice is a luxury for those who do not bear the weight of consequence.

  I do not give them choices because choices lead to doubt. And doubt leads to failure.

  I exhaled slowly, my gaze still on the valley. When I finally spoke, my voice was as even as ever.

  "You’re all alive." I turned, meeting each of their eyes. "That is what matters."

  A pause.

  Vyk held my gaze for a long moment. Then, he exhaled sharply, nodding—but it was not agreement.

  It was acceptance.

  For now, at least

  Selene sighed, rubbing her temple, before giving a half-smile. "Let’s move before another disaster finds us."

  They began walking.

  The tension hung in the air like the weight of an impending storm—silent, heavy, charged with the promise of a downpour that had yet to break.

  Cracks had formed. Not yet wide enough to break, but deep enough that, given time, the weight of their own doubts would shatter them.

  This group would not last. Sooner or later, the pressure would splinter them apart like stone exposed to the creeping frost—each drop of doubt seeping in, waiting for the inevitable freeze to tear it open from within.

  I knew it.

  I simply did not care.

  They had already served their purpose. Like torches burning too fast, their light had guided me through the dark, but soon, they would flicker and die.

  That was all that mattered.