The first pale light of dawn filtered through Owl's Perch, painting the Canyon of Bones with a mournful gray. Lyra-Cade awakened to the soft hiss of wind rattling the sandstone overhang. Beside her, Malach of the Vale lay in a restless half-sleep, clutching Cairn's ward token to his chest. Ashen hovered nearby, its runic core emitting a wan blue glow, alert against the creeping desert chill.
Lyra pressed her own ward token against her palm, feeling the hum of protective magic within. She swallowed, steeling herself: today they would reach Silverreach and wrest the final fragments of Elysion Veritas's binding sigil. If they failed, Azrael's heart would loom unbound, and Ironhaven would fall.
She rose, stretching stiff muscles, and shook Malach's shoulder. "Malach, dawn approaches. We must move."
Malach blinked, wincing as the cold air bit at his shoulders. He sat up, rubbing Queen's-Warden Scars—faint ridges along his brow. "Aye," he murmured, gathering scrolls and fragments from the small satchel. "Ashen—status?"
Ashen's runic eye widened. "No patrols within ten leagues. A gentle breeze drifts from the north—will not blow sand into your path. We have safe passage until just before midday, when desert currents strengthen."
Lyra exhaled. "Good. Let's not waste a moment."
They crossed a narrow ledge beneath Owl's Perch, stepping onto hardened desert clay littered with bleached bones. Each skull and ribcage underfoot—remnants of creatures long dead—testified to the canyon's grim name. Lyra shivered but kept moving.
Overhead, high sandstone walls rose pale and forbidding. A few hardy shrubs clung to cracks where dew had collected on cool mornings. Lyra noticed faint scratches on the canyon walls—ancient runes half-buried by wind-blown sand. Malach paused to translate one:
"Beware the shifting dunes—only the guided pass."
He sealed his scroll. "These runes mark the old smugglers' corridor—an alternate path into the dunes. We follow their markings to bypass open sands."
Lyra nodded, scanning the canyon's far end. Through a narrow break in the rock, the first dunes emerged—a landscape of rolling hills and silent windmills in the distance. Already, the sun's rays warmed the horizon: a blood-red glow spreading across undulating sands.
Malach pointed to a faint runic inscription carved into a low boulder: a three-pointed star with a trailing tail. "That's our marker. We follow it until it turns to twin chevrons. Then we climb the ridge and cross the desert flats toward Silverreach."
Lyra glanced at Ashen, who shimmered as it hovered. "Lead the way."
Ashen drifted forward. Its runic core brightened to a soft azure, casting pale shadows on canyon walls. Lyra took Malach's satchel and strapped it firmly to her back. Inside lay the binding fragments in protective cloth: three runic tablets inscribed with shards of Elysion's star sigil and a damaged scroll detailing how to merge them.
Sigfrid, still recovering from the desert's cold nights, trudged behind them. Toren and Harkin followed, carrying the remaining provisions and tools. They moved in staggered formation: Malach in front consulting maps, Ashen guiding with its glow, Lyra guarding from behind with her wrench, Sigfrid flanking left, Toren and Harkin on the right, weapons at the ready.
They entered the smugglers' corridor—a shallow tunnel carved by smugglers generations ago. Runic glyphs, half-eroded by sand, lined the walls. Ashen's runic light flickered over them, briefly illuminating lines that read:
"Sand shifts its face—three steps, then two—dune's teeth await the bold."
Lyra frowned. "Dune's teeth?"
Malach traced a finger along the wall. "A warning: quicksand pits between twin ridges. We must step precisely." He crouched and counted footsteps, tapping his boot on the ground: one—two—three. Then two more. He rose, nodding. "We're aligned."
They ducked beneath a low lintel and emerged onto a narrow ridge: smooth, wind-blasted sands stretched both east and west. To the west lay the shallow entrance to the open dunes—rolling hills of sand. To the east, a ragged sand pit gaped like a wound.
Ashen hovered above the sand. "First pit lies 30 paces east. We must cross at the ridge's narrow spine—eight feet wide." It pointed its mechanical arm to a slender crest that would bridge the pit. "One misstep, and the sand's teeth swallow you whole."
Lyra swallowed, positioning herself. She stepped carefully, counting each footfall: one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight. Behind her, Sigfrid followed, leaning on a runic rod for balance as a gust swirled sand at his boots. Toren and Harkin crossed in unison, eyes down.
Malach came last, clutching the satchel close. His boots barely sank. As he stepped off the crest, the ground shivered beneath him—a cascade of sand slips. He froze, one boot halfway off the crest. Lyra lunged forward, grabbing his arm.
"Careful!"
He yanked his foot back. "I thought I lost my footing." He placed a ward tablet on the sand: a quick circle of protective glyphs. The sand around it hardened, forming a stable platform. "That holds."
Lyra slid over the crest and landed with a soft thud. "Better be cautious." She placed another ward. "These wards hold minor tremors, but not more."
They continued east, each placing ward tablets to stabilize a narrow path. After two more pits, they reached firmer sand—dunes that gave only a little beneath each step. Dusty winds now blew from the south, sand stinging exposed skin.
Lyra wrapped a strip of cloth around her lower face. "We'll need to cover our mouths soon. The winds will grow stronger at midday."
Malach checked his compass. "Silverreach lies slightly north of east—about three miles. These dunes will test us."
Ashen drifted forward, scanning with a faint hum. "Third pit south of the twin dunes. If we cut north across that ridge, we reach a rocky outcrop past the dunes' crest. From there, we drop into Silverreach's southern wall sector."
Lyra nodded. "Let's move."
They climbed a small crest, the salty wind swirling at their feet. Each breath drew sand into their lungs. Sunlight filtered weakly through thick dust—a sickly orange haze. The dunes stretched forever: rippling slopes, sun-bleached lines where wind etched patterns.
After a half-hour's climb, Toren's boot sank into a depression. "Quicksand!" he shouted, lifting his foot as sand gushed around his ankle. He stumbled, nearly falling.
Harkin rushed forward, grabbing one elbow; Lyra seized his other arm. Together, they yanked him to solid ground. As Toren scrambled away, Malach placed a ward tablet directly over the pit, sealing it. The quicksand glimmered violet for a heartbeat, then hardened.
"Thank you," Toren gasped, brushing sand from his hair. "I almost—"
Malach patted his shoulder. "Stay alert. These dunes shift continually. We rely on Ashen's light and my fragments to guide us."
Lyra squinted ahead. A steely silhouette rose on the horizon: a line of stone battlements faintly visible beyond the dunes. Above them hung Silverreach's runic lanterns—tiny beacons in the dusty light.
Malach consulted the map. "That is Silverreach's Guardwall—southern bulwark. If we reach the guard drop, we may enter through the servants' gate."
Lyra felt adrenaline surge. "We're close."
Ashen's glyph pulsed. "Fourth pit ahead—cover two steps left, one right." It projected a faint runic arrow onto the sand.
They followed its guidance. When a sudden wind raked across the ridge, sand whisked around their ankles. Ashen's runic lantern flickered but held strong. Sigfrid gulped a breath through his cloth mask, his eyes stinging. "This wind… cuts like blades."
Lyra halted, tossing more fabric around her head. "We build a temporary shield." She pulled a ward tablet and pressed it into the sand. A pale dome of energy flared, blocking the wind's worst force. Malach and the others huddled behind it.
Malach pressed his hand to the tablet's surface. "Hold. We wait until it subsides."
Minutes passed like hours. The wind roared, whipping sand into a frenzied swirl. Inside the ward, dust settled more gently, but visibility dropped to mere paces. Malach traced a quick binding rune on the ground around the dome, reinforcing it with his scroll.
Finally, the wind sighed down to a low howl. Ashen's glyph brightened, and the ward's dome flickered and dissipated. Lyra exhaled. "Well done."
Malach lowered his scroll. "We cross now—low and fast."
Lyra nodded. They dashed across a narrow stretch of exposed dune, boots slipping in soft sand. At the far rim, they ducked behind a boulder—an oculum marker of Silverreach's boundary. Beyond, in the lowlands where the dunes gave way to strewn gravel, they glimpsed the base of Silverreach's walls: gleaming white stone carved with concentric runic circles.
Lyra traced the runes with her fingertips. "If we can reach that servants' gate—"
Ashen's runic glyph flickered violet. "Patrols—three guards with hounds—two hundred paces east. They scan the dunes for trespassers. Avoid that path."
Lyra and Malach exchanged glances. "We circle west," Malach said. "Stay low."
They skirted along the wall's base, the wind easing as they dropped to lower ground. The air smelled of cooled stone and distant greenery from the irrigated fields near the city. A faint hum of life drifted toward them: the murmur of water wheels, the clank of distant factories, and the soft murmur of sleepers waking in Silverreach's wards.
Lyra's heart thudded. "We made it."
Malach allowed himself a brief smile. "Now, we find the Founding Pillar."
They pressed southward along the wall's base. Through a small, rusted grating—half sunken in gravel—they spotted the flicker of torchlight inside: the servants' entrance. A wrought-iron door, pitted by sandstorms, bore a faint insignia: a phoenix rising from gears—a sign of Ironhaven's artisans, used as a discreet channel for refugees. A slender slot at eye-level served as a peephole; a hush of voices drifted from within.
Lyra approached and peered through the slot. Inside, a pair of guards in silver-etched leather armor eyed her warily. She turned to Malach, gesturing: "Need to communicate?"
Malach nodded, stepping forward. He drew a small strip of runic chalk and traced a diplomatic sigil on a scrap of parchment—two entwined phoenixes signifying refugee status. He slid the parchment through a narrow mail slot. A moment passed; the guards retreated, voices hushed.
Then, faint scraping echoed as the door rolled open. A slender maid wearing nondescript gray livery peered out, eyes wide. Behind her, a small waiting area—stone benches and clay lanterns—offered basic shelter.
Lyra raised her palms. "We seek refuge—and permission to learn from Silverreach's Archive. We come on Ironhaven's behalf. My name is Lyra-Cade. This is Malach."
The maid scanned their faces. At last, she exhaled, stepping back. "Enter—quickly. Guards will scan you for runic tags."
Lyra and Malach ducked inside, hearts racing. The door closed with a hollow thunk. They found themselves in a dim hallway lined with cedar-scented torches. Two more maids—eyes flicking—led them to a waiting room. Within moments, a door at the end opened, revealing a distinguished figure: a middle-aged man wearing plain but immaculate robes, scored with faded runic symbols. His silver hair was neatly tied; his eyes, pale as moonlit water, regarded them shrewdly.
"Welcome, refugees of Ironhaven," he said, voice calm. "I am Chancellor Myrrha of Silverreach. You seek archival assistance?"
Malach bowed, kneeling. Lyra followed. "Chancellor, we come bearing binding fragments crucial to seeding Azrael's awakening. If we do not reforge Elysion Veritas's sigil tonight, Ironhaven falls. We humbly request access to the Founding Pillar records."
Myrrha's eyes narrowed as he studied the cloth bundle Malach bore. "Your cause is grave indeed. Silverreach cannot risk harboring emissaries who carry Azrael's sigils—bound to bind, or unbind, a living god. But if your intentions are true, we may aid you."
He motioned to a curtained door. "Wait here. I will confer with the Order of Rune-Wardens. If they consent, you may access the Founding Alcove."
Malach nodded, head bowed. Lyra's pulse hammered as they waited—two strangers in a foreign city on the brink of war. Outside, a faint breeze carried the promise of victories and tragedies yet to come.