"Names endure. More than breath. More than blood."
— From the Whisper Codex, Unknown Author.
Dawn did not rise.
It lingered.
A dull haze pressed itself against the sky, like a wound that refused to close. The light that came was not born from the sun, but from the slow forgetting of night. No gold. No warmth. Just the color of things that had died too many times.
They did not wake.
They simply stopped pretending to sleep.
Exhaustion had long ago ceased to be a state—it had become a shape. Something they wore beneath the skin. Something that clung to the joints and whispered at the edge of every breath: enough.
But there was never enough.
Sion sat hunched by the grey remains of the fire, his blade across his knees, not out of readiness but ritual. His eyes were open, but they did not search. He was beyond vigilance. Beyond fear. He stared as one does at a grave—knowing what lies beneath, yet staying to remember.
Thaan slept with his mouth half-open and blood dried beneath his nose. He hadn't laughed in his dreams. Not last night. Not since the chamanes.
No one had spoken of them since.
No one had to.
Laereth curled into herself as if mourning her own soul. One hand clutched a strip of cloth stained with the sigils she carved during the night. Her cheek bore the faint trace of dried tears—or perhaps it was blood. It was hard to tell, now.
Iralya's eyes opened without transition, like a blade drawn from its sheath. She lay still, her hand already on her staff. Her breath was steady, but shallow, like someone who had learned to breathe through pain and make no sound.
Veyra did not sleep.
She hadn't for days. Perhaps weeks. She simply sat, beside a puddle that reflected no sky. The water was still, too still, and her face within it was not her own.
She whispered something.
It might have been a prayer.
Or a name.
And the puddle rippled.
No one asked.
They had learned not to ask when magic misbehaved. Especially after the chamanes.
Sion flexed the fingers of his sword hand. He had crushed a man's skull two nights ago—not with a spell, not with steel, but with stone. He could still feel the softness. Not of the bone. Of the breath that left it.
—We're ghosts wearing skins that don't fit anymore, he muttered.
—You were always dramatic, said Iralya, her voice hoarse with old smoke. —Even before we died.
A thin smile ghosted across his face. Not joy. Just the memory of it.
—Do you think they'll be waiting? he asked, not looking at her.
She knew he didn't mean the enemy city.
—The chamanes? she said. —No. I think they're already inside.
She tapped the side of her head.
—In here. Waiting for us to dream.
Sion nodded, slowly.
They had seen a man tear off his own arm to summon the sky to scream.
They had felt their crystals tremble in fear.
They had watched Veyra force a soul to weep itself to death with a gesture.
There were no sides in this war anymore.
Only different methods of losing.
They gathered in silence.
No one called them.
No one said it's time.
But the wind changed, and something in their bones answered.
Iralya and Veyra returned first, eyes drawn but steady. Laereth stood already, brushing dirt from her robes with slow, deliberate strokes, as if removing ghosts. Thaan cracked his neck with a grin that didn't touch his eyes. Sion simply nodded, sword already strapped to his back, as if he'd never taken it off.
They walked.
The path sloped gently downward, toward what once had been farmland. Now it was only husks and stone. No trees. Just grey stumps like fingers clawing at the sky.
Once, there had been orchards here.
Veyra remembered the scent—warm earth and ripe plum. Now, the only thing the wind carried was iron and ash.
—I used to think the crystals were alive, Thaan said suddenly.
No one replied.
—I mean, not just humming or glowing. Alive. Breathing. Thinking.
—They are, Laereth said, her voice calm. —Just not in ways we understand.
Iralya brushed her fingers over the pouch at her side, where her crystal slept. It pulsed faintly against her palm—soft, but insistent.
—They don't grant power, she said. —They remember it. They shaped it.
Sion nodded. —We don't use them. We speak, and they answer.
Veyra's gaze drifted to the edge of the broken path, where shattered crystal veins peeked from the ground like fractured bones. Pale blue, drained of light.
—This field bled for years, she whispered. —The mines ran dry before the war even began.
—They didn't care, said Thaan. —They just carved deeper. Always deeper. Until the land screamed."
They stepped over a cracked stone marker, half-buried in soot. Letters etched in the Old Script, barely legible.
—Laeren's Hollow, Sion read aloud. —My uncle was born here.
Thaan looked around. —Hope he left early.
No one laughed.
That morning, there had been two silences.
One shared between them all.
The other... carved gently in the space between Iralya and Veyra.
While the others readied their weapons and wrapped dry bread in cloth, they sat together near the edge of the cliff where the city first became visible—nothing but fog and broken spires.
Iralya knelt beside Veyra. No words at first. Just presence. The kind that isn't offered. The kind that simply is.
—You didn't sleep again, she said, softly.
—I did, Veyra replied. —Just not all at once.
—They're still with you, Iralya said.
—They're not with me, Veyra whispered. —They're in me. Like frost in wood. You don't see the crack until it breaks you.
Iralya reached out and tilted her face gently.
No tears.
Just the silence of someone who had run out of ways to scream.
—I need you whole, she said.
—Then you should've chosen someone less honest.
—I chose the one who still listens to ghosts, Iralya said. —The rest of us only hear ourselves.
They leaned in.
Foreheads met.
No kisses.
Just breath. Just presence.
—I keep seeing the one who bowed, said Veyra. —The chamán.
—I know.
—He pitied me.
Iralya didn't answer.
She placed Veyra's hand against her own chest.
—Stay here, she said. —Even if the rest of you wanders.
And the wind, for once, felt like a hand brushing through hair instead of a blade at the neck.
They walked.
The ground changed beneath their feet. Stone turned to sand. Sand to ash. Ash to memory.
The mana in the air thickened. Not hostile—yet. But attentive. Curious.
Their crystals began to vibrate again.
Each in their own way.
Sion's buzzed, low and steady, like an old song half-remembered.
Iralya's pulsed sharply, like a heartbeat pressed too hard.
Veyra's shimmered—silent, glowing from within.
Thaan's hummed in fractured chords, unresolved.
Laereth's bled light. Just a little.
The road narrowed.
No more side paths. No more places to run.
Below them, the city awaited.
Not with swords.
But with silence.