The stair waited, but Draven could go no further. Not tonight.
He found a hollow alcove near its base and collapsed against the wall, lungs ragged. Blood still seeped from cuts along his arms, though Feyra's warmth dulled the sting. Stonehide crouched nearby, flanks heaving, erald veins in its plates flickering faint.
Silence pressed in.
For the first ti since entering the Ruins, there were no whispers. No chains rattling, no phantom screams. Only stillness, so deep it felt wrong, as though the world itself held its breath.
Draven tore strips from his cloak, bound his wounds with trembling hands. He chewed the last scrap of dried at, then broke it in half — one piece to Feyra, one to Stonehide. Both ate, then leaned against him as though tethered by exhaustion.
He rested his head against the stone. The stillness sank into his bones.
His thoughts strayed to Branthollow. Mira's smile. The fields. The illusion of peace he had been offered.
He clenched his jaw. Too perfect. Too empty.
Feyra stirred, nudging his side, as if sensing his doubt. Stonehide shifted closer, a rumble vibrating its chest. Neither beast had strength left, yet both pressed against him, guarding even in their weariness.
Draven exhaled, voice a whisper. "We made it this far… together."
Sleep dragged him down like a tide.
He dread of vines. They burst from his chest, curling upward, glowing faint green. They spiraled into a lotus of light, petals blooming and withering in endless cycle.
Around it, pages spun — not paper, but fire and glyph, forming the outline of a great to. Its words unreadable, yet alive.
A voice pressed against his skull, vast, echoing from beyond stars:
"One seed blooms. Eleven remain."
The vision flared, and he gasped awake.
Sweat soaked his skin. His chest burned faintly, though no wound marked it. Feyra stirred, eyes glowing soft, tail twitching. Stonehide raised its head, growling low — as if both had dread the sa dream.
Draven wiped his face, forced himself to stand. The beasts rose beside him, battered but ready.
Ahead, the stair glowed. Not bright, but steady, pulsing in rhythm with his own heartbeat.
He gripped Feyra's fur, rested a hand on Stonehide's plated back. His legs trembled, but his voice did not.
"When he opened his eyes," he whispered to himself, "the stair waited, glowing like the breath of sothing alive."
And so he began the descent.
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