Dawn crept over the land, pushing back the slow weight of night. The storm had passed, leaving only pale mist curling between the stones. The faint crack of melting ice stirred Elios awake from uneasy sleep. The fire had long gone cold. Tarth and Orin still lay tangled beneath their cloaks, dead to the world.
Last night, for the first time in years, no one had stood watch. They’d been too drained to care—battered, bleeding, exhausted. Even their spirits were on edge.
But not hers.
Elios’s eyes found Noct—the name she’d offered the night before, though he doubted it was real. There was steel in her bearing that unsettled him — the sort that was rare in women, or in anyone at all. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, not by her look, yet she’d endured their calamity with unnerving composure. She hadn’t wept. She hadn’t complained about spending the night alone among strangers. She hadn’t pleaded, or pried, or asked what they were after. And she did all that naturally, as if there was nothing strange about it.
He wondered—not for the first time—if they’d dragged something out of that cave that wasn’t meant to walk beside them.
As if sensing the sharpness of his gaze, her eyes opened.
“It isn’t very polite,” Noct said softly, tying her hair back, “for a man to stare at a sleeping woman.”
Elios didn’t flinch at the remark.
“I don’t see a woman,” he said. “I see a subject of inquiry. Do you know who we are?”
Her hands stilled. Slowly, she met his eyes.
“I can guess,” she said. “But what I can’t guess is what more you think I’m hiding. I already told you everything last night. I’m a spice merchant. The caravan was bound for Azequiz before that demon’s voice lured it underground and tore it apart. I nearly died in that pit—you saw it yourself. If you want a full report, at least take me somewhere with ink and paper.”
The bright morning light bounced off the snow and brushed across Noct’s pale face, yet it couldn’t chase away the cold indifference settled there.
Elios studied her eyes. “Your story holds together well enough,” he said. “But you don’t.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“I saw how you deflected Orin’s sword yesterday,” Elios said at last. “With your bare hand. That kind of skill is too much for a mere trader.”
Noct tilted her head, mouth twitching lightly as though amused. “And I later saw you bring down a leviathan with nothing but a stick. We’re both full of surprises. So what? Does it bother you more because I’m a woman?”
The words hit sharper than she likely meant—or maybe that was exactly her intention. There wasn’t an answer that wouldn’t sound like an excuse.
“Your accent,” he said, not finding the words to argue, so he changed his approach. “Yesterday, it was northern. Now it slips to southern Mundor. Where did that come from?”
She gave a short, sharp laugh. “I’m a merchant, remember? Speaking to locals in their tongues is a part of my job.”
“But you’re now speaking to me with a southern tongue,” Elios pressed. “And mine isn’t southern. Why?”
“Because you’re not a customer,” Noct said evenly. “This is my native speech. I’m southern-born. I showed my guts to you, and this is what I get for it?”
“So you changed your voice yesterday, then?”
“You didn’t see me half-buried in snow all day?” she shot back. “I was lucky I could speak at all. Now, can you please give me some warm water and my throat a rest? Talking this much is setting it aflame again.”
Elios nodded, cursing inwardly at himself for underestimating her.
She had cut the thread neatly, steering the talk away with very reasonable reasons. She even managed the look of irritation, just enough to sell it.
Slippery.
Behind him came the rough scrape of movement—Tarth stirring awake. The man rolled onto his unhurt side with a grunt, face half-buried in his cloak.
“Gods… tell me that smell isn’t our breakfast,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.
Elios answered without looking back. “No breakfast. Fire’s dead.”
Tarth propped himself on one elbow, squinting through the mist. “Then the world’s still cursed. I thought maybe the gods would take pity on us after what we had been through.”
“You’ll live,” Elios said.
Further back, Orin groaned and pulled his hood over his face, annoyed.
“Shut up, Tarth,” he mumbled. “Since when have you believed in gods?”
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“Yesterday. If that cursed thing could exist right beneath us, so could the gods above.”
Noct took a brief look outside their makeshift hut, then chuckled.
“Be grateful to your gods then,” she pointed out. “The snow stopped last night. Or else this is as far as we could get.”
They had made camp about four miles away from the cave. Despite all the risks, nobody had wanted to spend the night in that hellhole, where the walls breathed screams. From where they rested, it looked buried now — sealed under a crust of fresh ice, as if the mountain itself was ashamed by the vileness inside.
“Lucky indeed,” Elios said, touching the wet ground with his bandaged fingers. “Easier to tread. Easier to see. If Azen stayed where he was, we would find him soon enough.”
Noct took the canteen from Elios’s pack, poured a measure into her cupped hands, and sipped slowly.
“When will you leave?” she asked without looking.
“As soon as the mist clears,” Elios said.
Then realizing the meaning behind Noct’s words, he turned to her. “You’re not coming?”
She didn’t hesitate. “There are matters I need to settle quickly. The caravan’s gone, my trade’s in ruin. I have to reach my partners before the loss devours everything.”
Orin, who had been half-dozing nearby, lifted his head. “You’re going alone? Here? In this weather?”
“I’ve seen her manage worse,” Tarth muttered, pulling on his gloves. “Reminds me of myself once.”
Elios narrowed his eyes at Noct. “You’re the last witness to what happened in that cave. We still have to investigate.”
She tilted her head, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. “Then I assume you’ve a spare horse for me?”
“You can ride with me,” Elios said.
“How convenient,” she said dryly. “Though not for me—or the horse, I’d wager.”
The mockery in her tone dug under his skin.
Convenient, she’d called it.
Convenient was her vanishing the moment suspicion turned her way.
“Then I’ll travel with you,” Elios said. “At least until you’ve settled your most urgent matters. That’s the best compromise I can offer. Refuse, and I’ll have a writ sent down every month to suspend your guild’s trading rights for inspection. Let’s see how your merchants fare then.”
“I know the laws,” Noct gave a small shake of her head. “A Seeker’s duty ends at finding, observing, and reporting. Investigation and judgment belong to the Inquisitors. I can share what I know, but don’t mistake that for weakness. The Merchant Guild has ties in high places, too.”
Tarth snorted, amused. “Normally, that’d be true. But this one’s different. Lord Viltar himself gave Elios the right to pursue any case that felt too shady. A few nobles have lost titles—and more—under his work. So I’d take his words seriously if I were you.”
Noct’s eyes collided with Elios’s, her brows drawing tight. For a split moment, the look she gave him was pure frost. Elios thought she might actually lunge at him, drive a blade through his throat just to end the argument.
But just as quickly, the fury slipped away. She exhaled once, and her tone turned calm again.
“No need to bare fangs, Seekers,” she said. “Your enemy’s down there, not here. You saw it yourself—whatever that thing was, it is beyond humans’ influence. A brutal force of nature. Like the snowstorm, it doesn’t need reasons. It just happens.”
“Pardon him, lady,” Orin chuckled. “Elios here has a fierce faith in truth and justice. He wants…”
“Orin,” Elios cut in, his voice grim. The young man stopped and turned away, rubbing a hand through his dark hair.
“Three days,” Elios turned to Noct, his voice softer. “That’s all I need from you. The filth buried under that mountain often carries lingering threats—curses, plagues, sometimes worse. I’ve heard of things that can wear a human face for weeks before rotting apart. Once the scholars of the Tower confirm you’re clean, I’ll personally see you home.”
He paused, then added, “Or I’ll arrange a carriage if you prefer.”
Half-truths, half-kindness. Every word was reasonable enough to stand on its own. Still, he caught it—a flicker in her eyes, so brief he might have missed it. A decision made behind that calm mask, though she pretended to still be weighing her options.
“So that’s what’s been gnawing at you,” she said lightly. “Fair enough. I have partners in that direction anyway—it would save me the trouble of sending word through the Guild. But tell me, Seeker… can you even enter the Tower?”
Elios’s expression didn’t shift. He understood where the woman’s doubt came from.
There was only one tower in all the world that needed no name.
Simply the Tower—and every soul from the frozen North to the burning coasts of El Tagido knew which one it meant.
The Grand Tower of Dawn.
Sanctum of sanctums. The most solemn and hallowed ground in all kingdoms. Its influence stretched beyond crowns and borders. Titles or gold meant little to nothing before its gates. You either belonged there, or you didn’t. Once, a mere Seeker like Elios would’ve never had a chance. But things had changed since Chancellor Viltar had risen to the post of Archon.
Elios owed him for that.
“As Tarth said,” he replied. “I have my way.”
Noct looked at him over once more, as if reassessing his worth.
“It seems you’re not just another cog in the machine, are you? Let me guess—you work directly for them, not through the Seeker Outpost?”
Tarth gave a low whistle, impressed by her intelligence.
Elios said nothing.
It wasn’t that her guess brushed against classified ground; it was the way she said it—light, curious, perfectly baited. He was afraid that if he let his guard down, sooner or later, something would slip.
“It’s time,” Elios said, turning to Tarth and Orin. “Pack up. We move.”
His hands were still wrapped in bandages, stiff and clumsy, so he offered a shoulder for Orin to use as leverage. As the younger man rose, Elios leaned close, his voice no louder than breath.
“Mind your tongue. This girl’s appearance here was hardly a coincidence. I’ve reason to believe she’s from the North—and maybe not as a friend. Tell Tarth, quietly.”
Orin straightened, favoring his injured leg, his face wincing lightly due to the pain. He didn’t glance at Noct, didn’t react at all. For all his youth, when the need arose, Orin could mask his feelings as well as most veterans.
They didn’t have much to carry, and what little they had was ready within minutes. Noct stamped out the fire pit, sweeping snow over the ashes until nothing remained. Then she handed the canteen back to Elios without a word.
Tarth grumbled under his breath about marching on an empty stomach, but his hands didn’t slow. He slung his pack over one shoulder and bent to help Orin walk.
Elios caught the faint twitch of Orin’s lips—barely a movement, but enough. The message had been passed.
They began to move.
Elios led again. Tarth might have been the better scout, but he had Orin leaning on him now, and the young man’s wounded leg slowed them both. More than that, only Elios could map the world they’d crossed beneath the mountain and match it to the terrain above.
No academy could teach that—not even the Tower. It wasn’t even a skill; it was primal instinct. Something deep in his bones told him where to step, where to hold. It was the same instinct that made him indispensable to the Seeker Corp, and set him apart from them.
Noct followed at the rear, her steps unhurried, almost fluid. Like a cat that had learned to survive among wolves.
Irony.
Of them all, she’d spent the longest time in that hell beneath the mountain, and yet she bore the lightest injuries. Even the damage to her ear hadn’t dulled her at all—she still caught every word, every glance.
He wondered if she truly heard them… or if she simply read the shape of what they meant.