The Wailing Canyons did not simply echo; they wept. A low, constant moan vibrated through the very air, a sound that seemed to originate from the grief trapped within the striated rock walls. It had been two days since their narrow escape from Kora and the mechanical walker. Two days of navigating the treacherous, winding passages that cut through the heart of the badlands. The initial adrenaline-fueled rush had faded, leaving behind a gritty exhaustion that seeped into their bones.
Retour's body ached with a deep, pervasive weariness that sleep couldn't touch. It was the fatigue of constant vigilance—not just against external threats, but against the one he carried within. The mist was a caged animal pacing just beneath his skin, and every jolt of fear, every spike of frustration, made it rattle the bars of its prison. The clarity he'd found in the gully felt like a distant dream. In its place was the grim reality of his choice: he had chosen to be a leader, and now he had to bear the weight of that decision, a weight far heavier than the Codex at his hip.
Dean's silence was the heaviest burden. The knight walked a few paces ahead, his posture rigid, his head on a swivel. But his vigilance had a new, unsettling dimension. His glances back at Retour were no longer those of a protector shielding his charge. They were the assessing, cautious looks of a man monitoring a dormant volcano. The trust between them had been fractured, replaced by a tense, professional acknowledgment of mutual need. Retour had proven he wouldn't kill them all in a blind rage. He hadn't proven he was safe.
Ciski tried to bridge the silence with determined optimism, pointing out resilient patches of scrub grass or a rare, clean water seep. "The Valley is close. I can feel it. The air is... changing." But even her spirit was being worn down by the canyon's oppressive lament and her brother's relentless pessimism.
Roty was a storm cloud trailing behind them. "Changing for the worse," he grumbled, kicking a loose stone that skittered into the shadows. "We're walking deeper into a tomb. We should be rallying the outpost clans, gathering steel, not chasing whispers and witch-lore."
"Knowledge is a weapon, Roty," Ciski retorted, her patience thin. "A sharper one than any blade you own. You saw what he did in the library. You saw what he didn't do in the gully. We need to understand that power, not just throw bodies at it."
"Maybe some things aren't meant to be understood," Roty shot back, his voice dropping. "Maybe they're just meant to be buried."
Ile, in stark contrast, seemed invigorated. The canyons were a living laboratory to him. He frequently paused, using a small pick to chip samples from the walls. "The lament is not aeolian," he announced, holding a piece of resonant rock to his ear. "It is a stable, standing wave generated by the specific crystalline structure of the sediment and the canyon's geometry. It is not a symptom of decay, but a permanent, engineered acoustic phenomenon. A remarkable natural defense mechanism."
Retour barely registered the scholar's findings. His world had narrowed to the struggle within. He replayed the moment in the gully, the feel of the mist straining for release, the cold terror of what would happen if he let it slip. He saw the look on Kora's face—not just anger, but a kind of recalculating respect. He had made himself more dangerous in her eyes by showing restraint, and that was a new, complicated kind of fear to manage.
On the morning of the third day, the character of the canyon changed. The wailing grew softer, more melodic, almost like a distant choir. The walls narrowed into a tight, spiraling passage that felt less like a natural formation and more like a corridor hewn by an impossibly large, careful hand. The light dimmed, filtered through a faint, shimmering haze that clung to the dark stone.
Ciski stopped, holding up a hand. "We're here." She gestured to a solid, seamless wall of dark, polished rock that blocked their path. It was featureless, reflecting their tired, drawn faces back at them.
Retour stared, his heart sinking. "It's a dead end."
"Look with more than your eyes, heir of a broken line," a voice murmured, its source impossible to pinpoint. It was a voice like wind chimes made of crystal, both beautiful and faintly unsettling.
From the solid, impassable wall, a figure shimmered into existence. One moment there was stone, the next, a woman stood before them. She was tall and slender, her hair a cascade of living silver that seemed to move in a breeze they couldn't feel. Her eyes were the color of amethysts, deep and knowing, and they settled on Retour with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. Small, intricate tattoos of thorned vines curled up her neck. "I am Ilie. My sister awaits you within the Valley's embrace."
Dean's hand went to the hilt of his cudgel, his body tensing. "What magic is this?"
"The oldest kind," Ilie replied, her smile serene and unreadable. "The kind that remembers when the world was younger, and promises had power." She gestured to the wall, which now rippled like a vertical pool of mercury. "This is the Threshold. The Valley is a refuge for truths too heavy for the outside world. But refuge has a price. To cross, you must each give a whisper to the stone. A secret you have never voiced. A regret that haunts your steps. A truth that burns your tongue. The Valley feeds on what is real, and seals out what is false."
Ciski, without a moment's hesitation, stepped forward. She pressed her forehead against the shimmering surface, her lips moving silently. A single tear traced a path through the dust on her cheek. The wall pulsed with a soft, violet light, and she stepped through, vanishing as if she had never been.
Roty looked deeply uncomfortable, his bravado gone. He shuffled forward, cast a dark look back at the group, and leaned in, muttering a short, guttural phrase. The wall accepted it with a dim flicker, and he stumbled through, relief and shame warring on his face.
Ile approached with the air of a scientist conducting a novel experiment. "A psychometric lock keyed to emotional veracity. Fascinating." He spoke a single, clear word into the silence: "Irrelevance." The wall shimmered, and he passed through, his curiosity satisfied.
Then it was Retour's turn. His mouth went dry. What secret did he have that wasn't already written in the ashes of his kingdom and the fear in his friends' eyes? His life was an open wound. The mist within him stirred, curious, pressing against his consciousness as if listening. He thought of his father's final, determined face. He thought of the soldiers turning to dust. He thought of the terrible, intoxicating freedom of absolute power.
He didn't lean close. He stood straight before the Threshold, his voice low but clear, carrying a lifetime of suppressed terror.
"I am afraid I will come to love the destruction."
The wall didn't just pulse. It seemed to shudder. The shimmering surface swirled, and for a breathtaking moment, Retour felt a profound, unnerving connection, as if the Valley itself had reached into his soul, acknowledged his deepest fear, and found it worthy. He stepped forward into the light.
The transition was instantaneous. The mournful drone of the canyons was gone, replaced by a profound, peaceful silence. The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and rich, damp earth. The Broken Valley unfolded before him, a hidden paradise where gravity seemed a gentle suggestion. Streams of clear water traced lazy, silver paths through meadows of grass that glowed with a soft, internal bioluminescence. Trees with spiraling, silver-barked trunks reached for a sky that was a perpetual, tranquil twilight, dotted with small, gentle stars that pulsed like slow heartbeats.
He turned. Dean stood on the other side of the Threshold, which was now a shimmering window back into the gloomy canyon. The knight's face was a mask of tortured conflict.
"My oaths," Dean said, his voice rough with emotion. "My failures... they are mine to bear. I will not give them to this... place."
"Then your loyalty will keep you out here, alone," Ilie's voice came from behind Retour, not unkindly.
Dean met Retour's eyes through the veil. There was no fear in his look now, only a deep, resolute sorrow. He gave a single, sharp nod—a promise, an apology, a farewell—then turned, drawing his cudgel, and took up a guard position facing back the way they had come. He would keep his secrets and stand his watch. The price of the whisper was a currency he could not, and would not, spend.