By the next morning, the ruined village lay behind them.

No one spoke much as the forest swallowed the old path. Moss and fern closed around it until the broken homes disappeared between the trunks, but Suraia could still feel the village at her back. She remembered the silence, the exposed bones and the way the dead had risen because someone had treated them like amusement.

Elira walked more quietly than usual. Before they left, the Veilwarden had completed what rites she could over the old bones and rotted cloth. Her hands had moved carefully while she spoke words Suraia didn’t know, and the work had taken time. Garrick had muttered about the daylight, Rendall had grumbled and Kaelen had repeatedly rolled her eyes, but Thorn had stood at the village’s edge with his arms folded. Nobody had tried to rush Elira after that.

The group now followed the map north-east towards the mountain. The ground grew steeper beneath their boots, roots knotted over stone and ferns thinned between the taller, more widely spaced trees.

Garrick walked near the front, looking between his map and the forest with growing irritation. “Should be close,” the dwarf muttered.

“You said that yesterday,” Rendall said.

“Aye, and now I’m saying it today,” Garrick grunted.

Kaelen snorted. “Very reassuring.”

The dwarf ignored her and jabbed at the map. “The village. The ridge. The broken stream.” He looked towards a line of stone half-buried beneath ivy. “We’re close.”

Thorn had said little all morning. The Ee’dornil had put his damaged tunic back on, though its claw-torn front hung open beneath his fur pelt. His moss-green hair shifted against his shoulders in the damp breeze. His gaze travelled across the forest, the rocks and the trees leaning away from the rising mountain.

Suraia remained near him, although not as closely as she had during their first days with the hunters. Her thoughts felt heavier than anything she carried.

Vasha walked a little ahead with Darron whenever the path allowed it. The human archer still drifted towards her with the same careful warmth, asking quiet questions about tracks and how she read movement between the trees. The Oakhai answered lightly, sometimes with a grin sharp enough to make him laugh. For a while, she almost seemed to forget Kaelen was anywhere near them.

Almost.

Whenever the half-elven woman’s voice rose behind her, Vasha’s ears angled back before she could stop them.

A little before midday, Malrik stopped so suddenly that Rendall nearly walked into him.

“What now?” Rendall snapped.

The halfling didn’t answer. He stared ahead with one hand hovering over the leather pouch at his belt. At first, Suraia saw only the mountain, its dark stone veiled by ivy and clinging roots. Then she recognised old steps beneath the green, half-swallowed by moss and climbing towards a shadowed opening in the rock.

The temple had been carved into the mountainside rather than merely built against it. Two broken pillars flanked the entrance, their tops lost to age and collapse. Vines hung in thick curtains, and ferns grew from cracks in the stone. Above the doorway, a crescent had been carved deeply into the rock and lay half-hidden beneath lichen.

Suraia’s breath caught.

The place didn’t feel abandoned like the village. That had felt like grief left to rot. This felt older and colder, as though the mountain had closed its mouth around a secret and waited for someone foolish enough to pry it open.

Garrick lowered the map with a slow grin. “There she is.”

Kaelen gave a low whistle. “Well. That looks promising.”

Rendall rolled his shoulders and reached for his sword. “About time.”

Elira’s expression tightened. “Careful.”

“Everything is careful with you,” Kaelen said.

“That is why I’m still alive,” the Veilwarden replied.

Malrik took several eager steps forwards, his eyes shining in a way Suraia didn’t like. “These markings…”

Thorn moved beside him and studied the broken pillars, carved arch and the places where roots had forced the stone apart. “It was most likely a temple to Denday. Or a refuge later used by Night Dwellers. It is old enough that certainty would be arrogance.”

Rendall gave a short laugh. “So there could be Night Dwellers in there?”

“Unlikely,” Thorn said so flatly that Vasha’s ears twitched. He looked towards the entrance. “If this place has been abandoned as long as it appears, any who once lived or worshipped here are long gone.”

Garrick folded the map. “Lovely. Ruins, old magic, and cheerful warnings. Let’s get inside before Denday starts rising.”

They climbed the moss-covered steps, and the air cooled around them. At the entrance, Thorn placed one hand against the stone and closed his eyes. Suraia watched him from beneath her loose red curls, but the mountain gave no visible answer. No leaves stirred and no roots shifted. This wasn’t living forest. It was old, heavy stone holding its silence.

The druid opened his eyes. His expression revealed nothing.

“Stay close, Miss Silverbell,” he said.

Suraia nodded.

The passage beyond the entrance descended into the mountain. Light faded quickly between walls carved smooth in some places and cracked in others. Thin, pale roots hung through openings in the ceiling, and somewhere deeper inside, water dripped with slow patience.

Malrik raised a small lantern. Garrick lit another, Rendall did the same and so did Suraia. Their golden light found faded carvings along the walls: crescent moons, flowing lines and figures with long hair and uplifted hands. Some had been scratched away, while others were too worn to understand.

The group moved cautiously at first. Even Rendall remained quiet for several minutes.

The corridor opened into a wide chamber. Suraia stopped so abruptly that Vasha nearly walked into her. She held her lantern high, her face growing pale.

Bodies lay scattered across the stone floor. They weren’t ancient corpses like those in the village. They still held their shape beneath cloaks and other clothing, with packs and boots beside them. One lay near the far wall with an arm outstretched towards something they had never reached. Another sat slumped against a pillar, head bowed as though sleeping.

They couldn’t have been dead for more than two or three Ghor cycles.

Kaelen’s smile vanished.

Garrick stepped forwards slowly. “The other expedition.”

“The one that made the map?” Malrik whispered.

Elira’s face went very still.

Suraia pressed a hand over her mouth. Death had turned the trapped air stale and sour. She looked at the Veilwarden next to her, who had her hands slightly stretched out, her face betraying her concern.

Thorn came up behind the human woman and rested a hand upon her shoulder. Vasha moved to her other side and gently hugged her. Suraia folded her arms around the woman with the fox ears and slowly exhaled.

Rendall crouched beside one of the corpses. “Good boots.”

“Rendall,” Elira said.

“What?” he asked, glancing back. “He’s not using them anymore.”

Kaelen had already begun searching another body’s belt pouches. Garrick didn’t stop her, and Malrik hovered over a satchel with renewed interest.

Vasha’s expression hardened. “You’re looting them?”

“Waste not,” Kaelen said. “Unless you would rather good supplies rot in here for these rats.”

“That was a person,” Suraia said quietly.

Kaelen looked at her. “Exactly. Was.”

The words landed coldly. Thorn remained behind Suraia, his presence like a wall at her back.

Elira walked to the chamber’s centre. “No one touches anything else until rites are done.”

Garrick groaned. “Again?”

“Yes,” the Veilwarden said.

Rendall pulled a knife from the corpse’s belt anyway. “They’re dead,” he said. “Very dead.”

“Do you want them to rise like the others did?” Elira asked.

His hand stopped.

Lantern light caught in the elf’s pale eyes as she surveyed the chamber. “They died afraid, underground, far from any hand that cared for them. They have not been laid to rest. In a place like this, that matters.”

Garrick rubbed his beard. “Yeah, yeah. But make it quick.”

Elira’s mouth tightened, but she knelt beside the nearest body and began. Suraia went to help without being asked. She didn’t know the proper words, but she could fold hands, straighten torn cloth and close the eyes that remained intact. Vasha joined them after a moment, while Thorn stood watch near the chamber entrance, his gaze moving between the bodies and the deeper darkness.

The rites were quiet. Elira spoke softly and traced careful patterns over brow, throat and chest. Purple magic gathered beneath her hands, dim at first and then steadier.

The hunters waited badly. Rendall tapped his boot. Kaelen leaned against a pillar and cleaned beneath her nails. Garrick watched with the strained patience of a man counting every lost moment. Darron stood apart with one hand near his bow, his gaze repeatedly finding Vasha before moving away.

When Elira finished with the final body, her shoulders had lowered with fatigue. “There,” she said. “Now they can finally get rest.”

“Comforting,” Garrick muttered before clapping his hands once. “Take what is useful. We move after.”

The hunters descended upon the dead with practised efficiency.

Suraia looked away. Vasha didn’t. Her blue-tipped ears stood high and her jaw tightened as Kaelen pulled a pouch from a dead woman’s belt.

Kaelen noticed. “What? You going to glare me all day?”

Vasha’s smile disappeared. A low growl escaped her before she scoffed, and Rendall laughed beneath his breath.

Kaelen’s eyes narrowed as she looked Vasha over from ears to tail. “Careful, fox. Claws are not flattering for someone pretending to be ladylike.”

The chamber quietened.

Vasha went still. Darron lowered his gaze, and Suraia’s stomach twisted.

Kaelen smiled, apparently pleased that she had struck something. “What? Did I say something wrong? It’s like you weren’t born a woman or something?”

For a heartbeat, even the dripping water seemed to stop.

Vasha’s ears angled back, and her tail became motionless. Then she lifted her chin and met Kaelen’s stare.

“Yes,” she said. “I was not born a woman. And?”

Her words were steady and clean, sharper than any arrow she carried.

Kaelen blinked and, for once, said nothing. Darron simply stared at Vasha, frozen.

The ebony-skinned woman didn’t look at him, but Elira did. The Veilwarden slowly rose beside the final body, her face pale with anger held tightly beneath her discipline. “It changes nothing of who she is,” she said.

Kaelen gave an ugly little shrug without taking her eyes from Vasha. “Didn’t say it did.”

Thorn’s gaze settled upon the half-elf. He didn’t move, but the air around him seemed colder.

Rendall cleared his throat. “We done with the tender feelings? Because some of us came here for treasure.”

Vasha turned away first, refusing to give Kaelen a staring match.

They continued deeper into the temple. The next passage was narrower, and the ceiling dipped low enough that Thorn had to bow his head in places. Cracked and uneven rocks covered the floor. Malrik carried his lantern out in front as he muttered over the walls, while Garrick looked around with interest and held his own light high.

“Watch your footing,” Elira warned.

Rendall snorted. “We’re watching.”

He wasn’t.

His boot pressed down upon a flat rock that sank with a soft, ancient click. Thorn’s head snapped towards the sound.

“Move,” he ordered.

Rendall barely had time to curse before darts hissed from the wall. He threw himself backwards, and the first line sliced through the space where his chest had been. One dart grazed his sleeve, another struck the stone and shattered, and a third buried itself in the opposite wall.

Kaelen swore and dragged Rendall farther back by his tunic. For once, real fear showed on her face. Rendall stared at the darts and then at the sunken rock before giving a shaky laugh. “See? Missed.”

Elira stared at him. “Because Master Thornwing warned you.”

“Still missed,” Rendall said with a grin.

Garrick pointed at him. “Pay attention, you fool. The next trap may not be so generous.”

Rendall opened his mouth, reconsidered and closed it again.

Vasha’s attention had remained upon Darron since Kaelen’s remark. He still avoided looking directly at her, his fingers gripping his bow until his knuckles paled.

Suraia wanted to say something. Then she felt it, so faintly at first that she thought she had imagined it. It wasn’t a sound, scent or warmth. Something beneath the stone, or perhaps beyond it, tugged softly at the edge of her awareness.

The healer stopped.

The others took several more steps before Thorn noticed and turned. “Miss Silverbell?”

Suraia didn’t answer immediately. She blinked several times, lifted her hands slightly and allowed her own senses to grow still as she reached out with her magic.

“Suraia?” Vasha asked.

The curly redhead swallowed. “I feel something,” she whispered.

Kaelen gave a short laugh. “Of course you do.”

“She is not lying,” Thorn said.

The weight in his voice silenced Kaelen.

Malrik had also stopped. The halfling held up one hand with his palm outwards, his eyes unfocused and his amusement gone. “There is magic here.”

Garrick turned sharply. “What kind?”

Malrik frowned. “Old.”

“That’s not an answer,” the dwarf growled.

“It’s the only one I have,” Malrik replied. More serious than Suraia had ever seen him, he looked towards her. “Clearly she feels it more strongly than I do.”

Suraia wished he hadn’t said that. Every gaze turned towards the curly redhead, and her fingers curled into her sleeve as the pull came again. It was soft but insistent, leading somewhere deeper within the temple.

It didn’t call in words. It called as though something buried in the darkness had recognised her.

Thorn stepped closer, his expression grave. “Do not follow it.”

“I don’t even want to,” Suraia whispered. She lowered her gaze, and the lantern dipped in her hand.

Vasha approached the redheaded woman, concern clear in her eyes. Suraia’s gaze moved uneasily around the passage before she shivered, the lantern shaking slightly in her hand. Thorn noticed at once.