-Ruik-
I woke to the hiss and crackle of flame.
A small fire burned low at the center of the cavern, embers pulsing like a dying heart. My breath caught. The space beside me was cold.
I was alone.
Panic sliced through the fog of sleep. I pushed myself upright too fast, pain flaring down my spine, my vision blurring at the edges as the cavern walls warped, shadows bending like they wanted to swallow me whole.
“Rivulet?” My voice came out rough. Too small.
No answer.
My pulse hammered. She wouldn’t just leave. She wouldn’t—
Unless she’d decided I was more burden than worth.
Unless the hunger had driven her away.
Unless—
I staggered to my feet and made for the cavern mouth, one hand brushing stone for balance. Cold air struck the moment I stepped outside, sharp as a blade.
I froze.
Rivulet knelt at the cliff’s edge, both knees pressed into stone. Moonlight carved her silhouette—long hair drifting in the wind like a dark banner. The rising moon hung heavy behind her, silver spilling over the mountainside until it reached the distant lights of Torrain.
Her hands were lifted high above her head.
And her voice—
I had never heard it like this.
Soft. Reverent. Shaped for something older than language itself.
“Blessed Mother of All,” she whispered. “Moon, reflection of Your wisdom… presence of Your sacrifice… my tether in the night.”
Her breath trembled, as though the words cost her something.
“May my worship be Your glory,” she continued, “and the Veil be Your hand outside the Mountain.”
I stood in the shadow of the cavern mouth, unable to move.
I had never seen the Veil pray.
Had never imagined it could look like this.
Beautiful. Haunted. Desperate.
Holy enough to make the back of my neck prickle.
She remained bowed, hands raised, as moonlight washed over her and turned the cliff to silver.
I forgot how to breathe.
I wasn’t sure whether I was intruding—but the raw struggle threaded through her voice rooted me in place.
It felt like witnessing something sacred.
Something private.
Something I was never meant to see.
Her hands trembled. Just barely. If I hadn’t been staring, I might have missed it—the slightest falter in her raised arms, the strain beneath her composure.
I stepped forward slowly, careful not to break whatever fragile thing this was.
She spoke again before I reached her.
“Mother of All…” Her voice cracked, reverence splintering into something rawer. “Remind me of Your shape. Remind me of Your voice.”
The words hollowed.
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As though she were calling into a place she feared might be empty.
“Bind me to Your truth,” she whispered. “Bind me to what is Yours…”
Her hands lowered, fingers curling into fists, as if trying to hold onto something slipping through them.
“…and unbind me from what is not.”
A shiver ran down her spine.
My breath caught. I didn’t know what I was witnessing anymore.
She bowed her head, moonlight cutting a harsh line across her cheekbone. For a long moment she didn’t move at all.
Then—
Her shoulders shook once.
Barely.
But unmistakably.
I took a step toward her.
“Rivulet?”
Her back stiffened. She lowered her hands with deliberate composure, but the echo of that tremor lingered. When she spoke, her voice was controlled—but stretched thin.
“You shouldn’t be awake.”
“You were gone,” I said.
“I needed a moment.” Her gaze stayed fixed on the moon. “The Veil keeps prayers in solitude.”
I studied her in silence.
She wasn’t just praying.
She was reaching.
Yearning.
Searching for something she wasn’t certain still wanted her.
When I opened my mouth to ask—anything—she finally looked at me.
Her eyes were shadowed. Not empty. Not cold.
Troubled.
“Go back inside,” she said quietly. “I’ll follow in a moment.”
I didn’t move.
“Rivulet… are you alright?”
Something bitter flickered at the corner of her mouth. Almost a smile. Not one born of humor.
“I am of the Veil,” she said. “We do not speak our fears aloud.”
My brow knit.
She exhaled sharply. Weary.
“And we do not share them.”
She rose before I could answer, cloak whispering in the wind. Her gaze slid back toward the moon—haunted, conflicted.
I stepped aside as she passed, but my eyes never left her.
Because she wasn’t the same woman who brought me here.
Something inside her had cracked.
Or awakened.
Or been remembered.
I didn’t know its shape.
But I could feel its gravity.
She slipped back into the cavern, the faintest ripple of air trailing her. I stood alone on the cliffside as the moon climbed higher, silver light stretching across the stone like it was reaching for something it could no longer quite touch.
I followed her inside.
The cavern felt smaller now. The shadows heavier.
She moved with sharp, purposeful motions, gathering bindings, a spare tunic, a folded scrap of parchment—tucking each into her satchel with a precision that bordered on agitation.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“There is a place I need to see.”
Her voice was steady. The edges were not.
“Where?”
She cinched the satchel shut, fingers lingering on the strap as if it anchored her.
“A place I refused to go,” she said softly. “Until now.”
The air tightened.
I didn’t know at the time.
The Temple.
Where Therys died.
Where she buried silence instead of grief.
I crouched and gathered my own belongings. My ribs burned when I reached too far, but I didn’t stop.
She noticed instantly.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“To what end?”
I swung my cloak over my shoulder, biting back a hiss. “To go with you.”
“No.”
The word cut clean through the cavern.
I met her eyes. They gleamed with something fierce—fear shaped into command.
“You need to stay,” she said. “Your wounds haven’t closed. Your body is failing. You can barely stand.”
“They’ll heal.”
“You were in agony when we reached this cavern.”
“Not anymore.”
“You will be if you push yourself.”
I straightened slowly, breath tight, but I didn’t look away.
“My wounds will close,” I said. “They’ll leave scars. I can live with that.”
Her jaw tightened.
I took a step toward her.
“But whatever’s hurting you…” My voice softened. “You can’t see it. You can’t touch it. It won’t fade with time.”
She looked away too quickly.
“You said the Veil doesn’t speak their fears aloud,” I continued. “Fine. But I see them. They’re surfacing whether you want them to or not.”
Her breath hitched.
“You’re not going alone.”
“You don’t understand what waits there.”
“Then show me.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
“It isn’t a place meant for you.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But it isn’t meant for you alone either.”
Something in her expression fractured—just for a heartbeat. Grief. Longing. Fear.
She turned away, pacing once, cloak brushing stone with restless agitation.
“I don’t know what I’ll find,” she whispered. “Answers… or something worse. Something that should have stayed buried.”
I steadied myself against the wall and stepped closer.
“Then you shouldn’t face it without someone who cares what happens to you.”
That stilled her.
She inhaled slowly. When she exhaled, something in her posture softened—not surrender, but acceptance of something inevitable.
She didn’t turn, but her voice reached me unguarded.
“If I let you come… you might see things that change the way you look at me.”
My heart thudded.
“I doubt that.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I’m going with you.”
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, she closed her eyes. The tension in her shoulders eased—not in defeat, but in reluctant peace.
“Then gather what you need,” she whispered. “We leave before the moon breaks the ridge.”
I nodded once.
She turned away, hiding her face in shadow.
But I’d already seen enough to know—
Whatever waited at that temple,
it wasn’t just a place she feared.
It was a truth.
One she’d been running from long before she found me.
