The air got different north of Stillwater. It wasn't just colder, nipping at you and promising the high peaks that were coming up; it felt… thinner, not just because of the height. The land's colors felt stretched, tight like a drum about to break. The bright green of the grass was quieter, the brown earth felt tired, and the wind sounded sad and lonely. The whole place felt like it was holding its breath.
Lyra got moving faster, always looking around, her purple power humming, ready for anything. What the trapper told us wasn't good – the Greying wasn't some far-off storm; it was a frost creeping in, already blackening the edges of the map.
For three days, we went through hills that turned into rocky foothills. I kept training, but it wasn't about being amazed or feeling a to nature anymore. It was about staying alive. Lyra started teaching me how to sense the feel of the power in the air, to spot the slick, oily stuff the Ash-Singers left behind.
Nasty stuff has a smell, she said as we walked through a pass full of loose rocks. It feels hungry. It tries to eat the song, twist it into some bad music of its own. If you feel that hunger, we go around, no matter what.
I started using my senses like a net, reading what the land was feeling. I could feel a rabbit's quick flash of green as it hid from a hawk, the hawk's slow, hungry yellow. I felt the old, deep sadness of a tree hit by lightning, its gray color a scar that wouldn't go away. The world wasn't just music; it was a story, and I was learning to read it with feelings and vibes.
On day four, we found the first real scar from the Greying.
It was a valley, probably green and alive once, now totally silent. Not the good quiet of a forest, but the loud quiet of a grave. The grass wasn't just dead; it was bleached white and brittle. The trees were like skeletons standing guard, their bark gone, their insides turned to dust. No animals, no bugs buzzing. Even the air felt still and heavy, like the wind forgot it.
But the worst thing was the colors, or what was missing.
I reached out and felt… nothing. Just gone. Not even gray, just empty. Like staring into a hole that never ends. It scared me, like something deep inside was screaming. It wasn't the blank thing I could make with my power; it was a deletion. The Prime Chroma did this.
Don't stare too long, Lyra said, sounding tight. Her own purple light was getting brighter, like a shield. This place is drained. Someone took all the power out of it bit by bit. It's a warning.
A warning of what? I whispered, afraid to break the quiet.
That you can't win. That he's going to do this everywhere. She pointed to the end of the valley. There was a rough black pillar, like the one the first Ash-Singer used. But this one was done, finished. A Siphon. It sucks the power from the land and sends it… somewhere else. To him.
A cold anger started in my chest, cutting through the fear. This wasn't just some argument anymore. It was a slaughter. This valley was dead. Its song, its life, everything stolen to feed some crazy dream.
Can I… can I fix it? Like the Blight? Remembering how the mountain felt gave me a little hope.
Lyra shook her head, looking sad. A Blight is a sickness on living power. You just healed the sickness. This… this is a body. The power is gone. You can't draw on something that's been burned away. She put a hand on my shoulder. That's why we're fighting, Kaelen. Not just to save what's left, but to stop this from happening to every valley, every forest, every heart.
We walked around the dead valley, its emptiness burned into my mind. It made me more determined, a reminder of what we were up against.
That night, we camped in a small bunch of pine trees that still had a weak green song. The silence was heavy, filled with the valley's ghost. I poked at the small fire Lyra made, its red light a brave little spark in the dark.
Lyra, I said, looking into the flames. The Siphon was finished. Does that mean an Ash-Singer has to be there for it to work?
At first, yes, she said, sharpening her crystal stick. They have to turn it on and guide the drain. But after a while, the Siphon starts working on its own, sucking the last bits of power until the place is… finished. She said the word like it tasted bad.
So, there could be Siphons on right now, draining other places?
Probably.
A scary idea started in my head. What if… what if we found one that was still on? Still being guided?
Lyra stopped sharpening and looked at me, her purple eyes shining in the fire. What are you thinking?
I stopped a Blight. What if I could… stop a Siphon? Not give the power back, but stop it from being taken? If it's a channel, maybe I could block it. It sounded crazy, even to me.
She was quiet for a moment, thinking. It would be really risky. A Siphon on would be guarded. And the kickback… trying to stop that much power… it could break your head, Kaelen. Like trying to hold back a waterfall with your hands.
I have to try! I blurted out, remembering the dead valley. I can't just walk by and do nothing! You said I'm the cure. So let me be one!
My yelling echoed in the trees, scaring a bird. Lyra looked at me, not like a teacher, but like a soldier. She saw the anger, the sadness, and how much I wanted to do something.
Okay, she said, quietly. If we get a chance. A small one. A Siphon that just started, with only a few guards. We watch first. We don't just run in. Got it?
I nodded, my heart beating fast with worry and excitement. Got it.
Two days later, our scouts got lucky. Or unlucky.
We went over a hill and looked down into a little valley. It was alive, but dying. The colors were going from the flowers, the green grass turning yellow-gray. In the middle was another black Siphon, and this one was working. There was a shimmering heat, invisbily draining the power from its vicinity. The color in the air was screaming, being sucked into the pillar.
And there was a guard. An Ash-Singer stood facing the Siphon, his black armor looking nasty against the dying land, one hand on the Siphon, guiding it.
Lyra told us to get down. One guard. Not a strong one, it seems. This is our best shot. She turned to me, looking serious. You wanted this. Your plan. What's the move?
I took a breath, looking over the ridge. I could feel the Siphon pulling from here, a scary swirl of power. I wanted to run. But I looked past the hunger, to the channel. I could feel the Ash-Singer, a single, focused mind acting as the Prime Chroma's tool.
I don't hit the Siphon, I said, making up a plan. I hit the connection. The Ash-Singer is the channel. I use my silence on him. I break his focus, cut him off from the Siphon. No channel, no drain, at least for a bit.
Lyra thought about it, looking like she approved. Smart, but risky. I'll make a fuss. When he gets distracted, you hit. Make it count.
She moved before I could answer. She ran along the ridge, then stood, holding up her crystal stick. A beam of bright, powerful purple light shot down, not at the Ash-Singer, but at the ground in front of the Siphon, making dirt and rocks fly.
The Ash-Singer spun around, surprised and angry. He raised his hand, and some kind of energy, like mine but stronger, shot at Lyra.
My turn.
I closed my eyes, blocking everything out – the sight, the sound, the fear. I pushed my senses down, just one tiny thread of awareness. I found the Ash-Singer, felt his mind connected to the hungry Siphon. It was a tight line of nasty energy.
I didn't push a wave. I didn't try to shut down the whole area. I turned my will into a needle. One tiny, quiet, completely neutral point.
And I stabbed it into the line.
It happened fast and hard.
The Ash-Singer screamed, a rough, shocked sound. The link between him and the Siphon didn't just break; it shattered. The shimmering heat around the pillar flickered and died. The yelling of power stopped, the sudden silence as shocking as a bomb.
The Ash-Singer stumbled, holding his head, his control messed up. He was open.
Now, Lyra! I shouted, but she was already going.
She was a streak of silver and purple, jumping from the ridge and closing in. The Ash-Singer, confused and mad, swung his black sword, but he was slow, off-balance. Lyra ducked, and her crystal stick flashed, not as a beam, but as a blade of purple light. It cut through his armor at the shoulder.
He yelled, dropping his sword. Lyra didn't kill him. She hit the flat end of her stick against his helmet, and he dropped.
I slid down the hill, shaking, my head spinning. The valley was quiet. The drain had stopped. The flowers, though pale, weren't dying anymore. The Siphon was dead.
I did it.
Lyra stood over the Ash-Singer, breathing hard. She looked at me, gave a quick nod. Clean. Precise. You saved this place.
I looked around, at the grass that now had a weak, but steady, green vibe. It wasn't some huge win. It was just a small sign of hope in the shadow of a big, awful scar. But it was a start. I didn't just run from the Grey. I pushed back. And that little victory tasted better than anything.