The monastery sat high on the cliffs—ancient, carved into the mountain like the bones of a forgotten god. Its bell tower had long since stopped tolling, its bronze tongue split by frost and war.
Northen stood at its base, staring up at crumbling stone.
Behind him, Kestrel adjusted her cloak. “You're sure the answer is here?"
Avril, pale and wrapped in thick furs, leaned heavily against his side. “The monks kept blood-curses in scripture. Old knowledge. Not empire-twisted doctrine."
Kestrel sighed. “Then let's hope whatever miracle you're chasing is buried in the right ruin."
Inside, the air was colder than outside.
Ritual sigils were etched into every pillar, faded with age but still humming faintly. A monk approached, his eyes blind but his movements confident.
“We heard her breath
