The wind screamed through the Teeth, as if the mountains themselves were cursing Vaelreth's name. He led the way down a crumbling trail, his cloak a tattered shadow against the frost. Jorath staggered behind, his face pale, while Kaelith's steps were sharp, her dagger still drawn, eyes flicking to every shadow. The Starvein's hum clung to Vaelreth, not just in the rock but in his veins, a pulse that wasn't his. His smile was a flicker, half-thrill, half-warning. He didn't like players he couldn't see.
"Move, heretic," he snapped at Jorath. "Or I'll leave you for Lyssa's dogs."
Jorath's glare was all storm, no words. His silence was louder than the wind, heavy with secrets Vaelreth itched to crack. Kaelith caught his eye, her voice low. "He's trouble, Vaelreth. You heard him. The Starvein *knows* you."
"Everything knows me," Vaelreth said, his grin sharp as a shard. "I'm memorable."
She snorted, but her grip on the dagger tightened. The Veiled Order's ambush had rattled her, and Vaelreth didn't blame her. Lyssa's runes were old, precise, not the clumsy wards of House Varn. The Starvein wasn't just a prize—it was a player, and that made the game deliciously unsteady.
The trail dipped into a ravine, where the air grew still, thick with the scent of pine and something sharper—blood, old and faint. Vaelreth's fingers brushed a boulder, feeling for runes. Nothing, but the Starvein's hum was louder here, a whisper in his skull. He stopped, head tilted, listening. It wasn't a sound, not really. It was a pull, like a hook in his chest.
"What now?" Kaelith hissed, her patience fraying. "We're exposed."
Vaelreth didn't answer. His eyes caught a flicker in the ravine's shadows—not torchlight, but a glow, faint and green, like a dying ember. A rune, buried in the earth, older than Blackspire, older than Eryndor. His scholar's mind stirred, recalling forbidden texts: the Starvein wasn't just power; it was a wound, bleeding magic into the world. He wanted to laugh. A wound that knew his name? Now *that* was interesting.
"Vaelreth," Jorath said, voice rough. "You feel it, don't you? The Starvein's call."
Vaelreth turned, his smile a blade. "Careful, heretic. I don't like being read."
Jorath stepped closer, unafraid. "It chose you, Shadow. The keepers fear you because you're not bound to it. Not yet."
Kaelith's dagger was at Jorath's throat in a heartbeat. "Enough riddles. Speak plain, or I carve you."
Jorath's eyes didn't leave Vaelreth. "The Starvein's alive. It picks its players. The Veiled Order serve it, but you—you could break it. Or it breaks you."
Vaelreth's laugh was soft, dangerous. "I don't break. I rewrite."
But the hum in his blood said otherwise, a pulse that felt like a warning. He turned to the glowing rune, kneeling to trace its edges. It was alive, tied to the Starvein, and it wanted something. Not obedience—hunger. He whispered a word, tasting ash, and the rune flared, green light spilling like blood.
The ground shook, not collapsing but shifting, revealing a hidden path into the ravine's heart. Vaelreth's grin returned, wilder now. "See? The world's never boring when you listen."
Kaelith grabbed his arm. "You're mad. That could've killed us."
"Could've," Vaelreth said, pulling free. "Didn't. Let's go."
Jorath hesitated, his eyes on the path. "You don't know what's down there."
Vaelreth's smile was a dare. "Exactly."
As they descended, the Starvein's hum grew louder, and Vaelreth felt the game shift. Lyssa was out there, Varn's men too, but the real player was the Starvein itself. And for the first time, he wondered if he was playing it—or it was playing him.