Even Ghosts Need Shelter Sometimes
The road was gone before they even stepped onto it.
Ashkore didn't bother with paths anymore. Roads meant maps. Maps meant predictability. And predictability got you a spear through the back in Umbraterra.
So they took the long way. Through the fractured woods and half-dead bramble trails where shadowbeasts used to nest before the Council purged the local dens. Even the trees looked like they didn't want to be seen.
Ashkore moved without sound, Luna tied to his chest with worn cloth that smelled of herbs and smoke and old nightmares. She was light. Lighter than she should've been.
He hated how easy it was to carry her. Like the world hadn't weighed her down yet.
Grim shuffled behind, muttering to himself and coughing phlegm that had bone fragments in it. Ashkore didn't ask. Boneclaws aged weird.
They were headed for the eastern pass, where an abandoned Thornheart outpost might still hold supplies, maybe even a working Veil-beacon, if it hadn't been gutted for essence. Every step deeper into the Thirteenth Territory was a step away from the Order and the Council both. It wouldn't be enough. But it would buy them days.
And days were everything now.
The shelter was half-collapsed and overgrown. Thorn-vines crawled up the stone walls, twitching if you looked too long. Inside, ash still lined the corners like old blood, and the scent of something long-dead clung to the rafters.
Perfect.
Grim set about making a fire from a resin bundle he pulled from his robe. It flared green, smelled like mint and sulfur. Kept the minor things away, moss-wraiths, hungerflies, whisper-crows. Not the big ones, but those rarely struck first.
Ashkore unwrapped Luna. She blinked up at him like he was a mountain. No recognition. Just quiet watching.
He set her down in a nest of dried blankets, careful not to jar her. She didn't fuss. She just looked around like she expected the shadows to talk.
And then they did.
Not loud. Not words. Just movement. Coiling toward her without touch. The firelight dimmed a little as they hovered near her outstretched hand.
Ashkore stepped forward. "Don't."
But the shadows didn't strike. They shivered. Like prey, not predators.
Grim turned to look. His expression shifted, less grimace, more awe.
"She's not pushing them," the old medic murmured. "They're folding to her. Like vines to sun."
Ashkore's stomach twisted.
"She shouldn't be able to do that."
Grim nodded. "She shouldn't be breathing either. But here we are."
That night, the wind scratched the walls like claws, and Luna laughed in her sleep.
Ashkore didn't know how to sleep near laughter. It put him on edge more than screams ever had. Screams had rules. Laughter had teeth.
He sat by the fire, staring at the flicker of it.
"She'll change everything," Grim said softly.
"That's the problem."
"You still think she's a weapon."
Ashkore didn't answer.
Grim leaned back against the stones, unwrapping a flask of something thick and glowing. "You think mercy was the first mistake. But I watched you carry her through a warfront, bled yourself hollow to keep her warm, and now you're scared of what that means."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified."
Ashkore stared at the fire. He hated that Grim was right. The truth had been chewing at him since the moment Luna blinked at him from that bone-cradle. He knew what it meant when things looked at him without fear. It meant they didn't live long enough to learn better.
Morning didn't come, not really. Just a paler kind of night.
The Veil had thinned again. You could tell because the shadows moved wrong, too fast, or not at all. The colors bled together. Birds called in reverse. The kind of day that made you question if time still had rules.
Ashkore stepped outside to scout. Grim stayed with Luna, carving a protective ward into the dirt with a knucklebone.
And that's when she found them.
Lyara.
No fanfare. No blade drawn. Just silence, broken by the crunch of old leaves under her boots.
Ashkore turned when she was already halfway across the clearing.
"I told you to run," she said.
"You didn't tell me how fast."
She stopped a few feet from him. Didn't reach for her sword. She looked like she'd been walking for days. Her eyes were rimmed with that pale, sickly ring of someone who hadn't blinked enough.
"You left a blood trail," she said.
"I wanted you to find it."
"Why?"
"Because you hesitated."
Her jaw clenched. "Don't mistake a moment of clarity for mercy."
"I'm not. I'm mistaking you for someone I might not have to kill."
Silence fell between them again. Not sharp. Just tired.
Lyara looked past him, toward the hut. "She's alive."
"She is."
"And she's… like that."
"Yes."
She let out a breath. Half sigh, half curse. "They'll never let her live."
"I know."
"You going to try anyway?"
He nodded.
Lyara turned away. Took a slow breath. "Then you'll need help."