The River of Ash was a wound in the world.
They crossed at dawn, the grey particulate water clinging to their fur, leaching warmth and sound. The twenty-three survivors moved in grim silence, too exhausted for words, too haunted for comfort. Behind them, the smoke of Stonehaven's burning stained the sky. Ahead, the Vale's twilight waited.
But Kael did not lead them toward the Heartstone spire.
Instead, he veered east, following a path only he could sense a thread of ancestral memory pulling him toward something ancient, something hidden. The amulet pulsed against his chest, not with warning, but with recognition.
"Where are we going?" Thorne demanded, his voice a low growl. "The heir is that way."
"There's something closer. Something we need first." Kael's eyes scanned the bleak lands
