The cave at the base of the West Ridge was a narrow, jagged wound in the side of the mountain. It smelled of damp limestone and the sharp, lingering ozone of Isole's restoration spell. The mana-heater hummed in the center of the cramped space. It cast a rhythmic, orange flicker against the walls that made the shadows dance like frantic ghosts. Outside, the wind had died down to a low, mournful whistle. It sounded like something was searching for them in the dark.
Vane sat near the entrance. He was stripped to his basic grey tunic, his reinforced leather armor laid out on a flat rock beside him. He was methodical. He didn't look like a man who had just had his radius snapped and mended in the span of a minute.
He held a whetstone in one hand and his spear in the other. The rhythmic sound of stone against star-steel was the only constant in the room.
Shhhk. Shhhk. Shhhk.
