The path downward began just past the broken ridge, where once pilgrims had climbed in solemn procession to offer prayers to the stars. Time had stripped the path of reverence, worn it into a scar across the mountain's side—a pale gash almost hidden beneath lichen and frost. The stone steps were nearly invisible now, smoothed by countless feet that had turned to ash centuries ago, their chants and rites now echoes swallowed by the wind.
That wind had changed too. It keened through the pass like a mourning dirge, deep and drawn-out, as though the mountain itself remembered and lamented. Kai felt it brush against his skin—not a chill of weather, but of warning. A hush born from something ancient and watchful, whispering, Turn back.
