Snow flurried against the high cliffs of the Hollow as Kaelin stepped onto the northern watchtower. The wind tasted of ash and salt, a reminder that even peace came laced with memory. From this height, she could see far—beyond the treelines, across the ridges, toward the faint golden glow of distant torches: pilgrims.
They came steadily now. Not just to Armathen, but to outposts, ruins, forgotten groves. Places where fire had once ruled.
Where shards might still linger.
"They walk without fear," Elira said, joining her with a steaming flask. "Even in lands we wouldn’t send scouts."
Kaelin accepted the drink. "Because they think the fire won’t hurt them anymore."
Elira leaned against the stone. "And maybe it won’t. But faith that grows too fast burns itself hollow."
Kaelin nodded. She
