Clerinto Highlands, several days after the Veil split
Tavian woke to motion.
The world rocked beneath him, uneven and rhythmic, like a long breath caught between land and sky. Cold clung to his skin, the kind of cold that seeped into bone. His breath came in shallow pulses. Each inhale made his ribs ache.
Above him, mist rolled across a pale sky. Not clouds, not quite. More like smoke that had forgotten the fire.
He was on a sled. Wood and sinew reinforced with beastbone, dragged by two thick-legged draft beasts whose Pulse shimmered like coiled Echo. Paladins flanked him. Riders in muted armor etched with sacred geometry, faces hidden behind mirrored helms. No emotion, no eye contact. They looked like they had been carved from silence itself.
At his side, something snorted.
He turned his head.
Three beasts followed the sled.
One was long and low, its body like a frost-serpent, translucent fins rising from its back like crystalline sails. The second was a mammoth tusked brute, fur the texture of old stone moss, hooves striking the ground in a rhythm too even to be natural. The third was a birdlike creature with feathers of burnished metal and eyes that shimmered with reflective gold. It kept its wings folded close, claws gripping the mountain path like a sentry.
Tavian tried to sit up. Pain bloomed across his ribs and shoulder.
"You will remain still," said a voice beside him.
A boy walked there. Young, maybe a year older than Tavian. He carried his helm tucked beneath one arm. His hair was cropped short, skin pale with undertones of dust. His eyes were sharp, the color of cooling iron.
"You fell unconscious near Kaltrava's southern grove. Your Phoenix protected you. Barely. We found you alone in a storm-wound crater. The others were gone."
Tavian blinked.
"…Sariah?"
The boy's eyes flicked toward the mist. "None remained."
Tavian's throat tightened.
He pressed his palm to his chest, searching. The bondmark still glowed faintly beneath his skin.
"Raijara?"
There was a pause. Then a thrum inside his ribs, soft as embers stirring.
"I am here," came her voice. Hollow. Worn thin. "The storm burned too long. I held it to shield you. Let me sleep. I will wake when I am needed again."
Tavian exhaled slowly. Relief cracked him open.
The path narrowed into a shelf of dark stone. The sled jostled and groaned. Strange black roots clawed from beneath the rocks, their edges glowing faintly with latent Pulse. Not alive. Not quite dead either. The frost-serpent hissed at one as they passed.
"This is your first time in Clerinto," the boy said. It wasn't a question.
Tavian nodded.
"We are nearing the outer tier of the Reverent Bastion," the boy continued. "Few from your lands make it this far. Even fewer return."
Tavian shifted. "Why did you bring me?"
"You carry a Phoenix. And a wound shaped like the Veil. Neither can be ignored."
Ahead, the frost-serpent raised its long neck. It sniffed the air and turned one gleaming eye back to Tavian.
"This one carries Veilstorm filth," it said in a dry, musical voice. "He smells of echo-blood and rebirth. Dangerous. Ugly."
"He is under Bastion judgment," the boy replied. "You may not taste him."
"I do not want to taste him. I want him gone."
The hawkbeast glided closer, its feathers shifting like sheets of hammered silver.
"You say ugly, but I smell something ancient," it said. "Old pain. Old power."
Tavian frowned. "You can talk?"
The boy raised a brow. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know," Tavian muttered. "Growls. Body language. Something simpler."
The bull-beast rumbled behind them. Its voice was low, full of bass and wisdom.
"Simplicity is a luxury of the unbonded."
They passed under a crag where stone columns leaned together. Runes had been carved into them, not just written, but shaped to bend Pulse. Tavian felt each glyph like a whisper pressed against the inside of his ears. The road curved and revealed a half-buried monument ringed with wide slabs of grey-black rock.
The boy pointed. "Memory-stones. They house the Echoes of those who chose to die with remembrance. Each holds a moment. A price. A vow."
Tavian saw it now. The stones were humming.
Faint, but unmistakable.
The Pulse in them had not faded. They were still speaking.
He reached toward one, fingers brushing the air.
The frost-serpent hissed again.
"Do not touch our dead," it said. "You have not earned their memory."
Tavian pulled his hand back.
The sled rounded a final bend.
The Bastion rose into view.
It was not a keep. Not a monastery. But some strange, deliberate combination of both. The stone curved inward in concentric rings, layered like ripples frozen mid-motion. Thornvine lattices ran across the outer walls, their thorns glinting like etched glass. At the main gate, two statues stood taller than any beast he had seen: one with wings spread like blades, the other horned and veiled. Each statue bore a bell carved from Veilsteel, and those bells rang without sound, vibrating the air itself.
As they approached, Tavian's Pulse recoiled.
The Echo here was too strong. It pressed in like the weight of a thousand memories, all trying to speak at once.
"Your Bastion is made of ghosts," Tavian murmured.
"Not ghosts," the boy replied. "History that refuses to die."
The sled slowed.
Paladins on high platforms turned in unison. Glyphs flared in the air. Tavian felt himself scanned. Measured.
Judged.
Raijara stirred faintly.
"They will try to cage what they cannot name," she whispered. "Stay awake, stormheart. Even in silence."
The gates opened. And Clerinto took him in.