The wind tasted of grit and regret. Lysara cursed, picking bits of shale from her braid. Below, the valley sprawled, stitched with silver rivers. Not the view she’d anticipated. Not at all. She’d pictured a graceful landing, a triumphant return. Instead, she’d face-planted into a scree slope, courtesy of a crumbling rock and her own hubris.
“Seriously?” a voice drawled from above.
Lysara glared up at Kaelen, who leaned against a granite spire, arms crossed. He hadn’t moved a muscle since she’d launched herself off that ridge.
“Funny. Real funny,” she snapped, brushing dirt from her leather jerkin. “I almost got skewered.”
“Almost being the operative word.” He pushed off the rock, sauntering toward her. “You know Vorpeak Pass isn’t known for solid footing. Especially not for… acrobatic arrivals.”
“I miscalculated,” Lysara admitted, though her jaw still felt tight. “The moss looked… stable.”
“Moss *always* looks stable. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you.” Kaelen offered a hand, pulling her upright. “So, you made your grand entrance. Now what?”
“Now we find them,” Lysara said, her gaze sweeping across the Runekarved peaks. Each spire held ancient glyphs, worn smooth by centuries of wind and ice. “The others.”
“Seven ghosts, lost to time,” Kaelen countered, his voice flat. “Legends. You really think they’re just… waiting?”
“The prophecy isn’t vague. They return home. To the Runecarves. And the bloom will answer.” She traced the pattern of a carved rune with a gloved finger. “Something stirred when that talus fell. Something…woke up.”
“You felt it, huh?” Kaelen’s eyes narrowed, studying the peaks. “The mountain remembers.”
“It does.” Lysara started toward a narrow path winding deeper into the range. “And it’s been waiting for us to ask the right questions.”
“Just try not to break your neck while doing it.”
