The world rocked like a cradle built by giants.
Caelum felt the sway before he understood it: a slow, relentless rhythm that pressed his shoulder against rough planks, then let him fall away again. Each jolt sent a muted ache through his ribs, a reminder that he was still tethered to pain—and therefore to life.
He tried to open his eyes. The lids obeyed, grudgingly, and the world came in fragments.
A canvas roof, stained with old smoke. A lantern swinging from a hook, its flame guttering with every rut in the road. Beyond the half-lifted flap, a sky the color of iron filings and snow that fell sideways, driven by a wind that wanted everything.
The wagon creaked like an old throat clearing itself. Hooves struck ice in a slow, patient rhythm. Somewhere ahead, a driver's silhouette hunched against the storm, reins taut in gloved hands.
The wagon swayed with a craftsman's stubborn rhythm—axles creaking, lantern ticking, canvas breathing frost. Opposite him, the rescuer sat braced against the lurch, dusk‑colored furs salted white, a steel visor turning a face into a secret. On their lap lay his blades. The pale one drank lantern‑light and gave it back as hoarfrost. The dark one refused light at all, its silver veins pulsing like threads tuned to the Veinweave's low note.
A gloved thumb traced a rune along a spine—once, twice—as if checking for a guild mark or a curse. The steel answered with the faintest hum and fell still, like a bell warned not to speak. He tried to ask who they were. His mouth found only heat and honey and the memory of speech. The flask withdrew. The lantern swayed. The world went soft at the edges.
Caelum's breath rasped in his ears. He tried to swallow and tasted copper. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. He closed his eyes again, but the dark behind them was worse. It had teeth.
A shape moved at the edge of his vision.
The figure from the mountains sat opposite him, braced against the wagon's sway. The same dusk-colored furs. The same steel visor that turned a face into a secret. Snowmelt streaked the plates of the cuirass, tracing veins of water that gleamed like quicksilver in the lantern light.
The figure held something in its lap.
His swords.
They lay across those gloved hands like sleeping beasts, one pale as frozen moonlight, the other black as a starless well. The figure's thumb moved along the spine of the pale blade, slow and deliberate, as if reading a language cut into the steel. For a moment Caelum thought he heard a sound—a hum too low for ears, felt more than heard, like the memory of music pressed against bone.
The hum stopped when the figure looked up.
No words. Just a tilt of the head, a small adjustment of grip, and then the swords were set aside with a care that felt heavier than any oath.
The wagon lurched. Caelum slid, his shoulder striking the planks. A hand caught him before he fell farther. The grip was firm, steady, and warm through the layers of cloth. It held him until the sway eased, then let go without haste.
He wanted to speak. To ask who, where, why. His mouth opened. A sound came out—thin, broken, not a word at all. The figure did not answer. Perhaps it could not. Perhaps it chose not to.
The lantern flickered. Shadows crawled along the canvas like ink spilled in water. Caelum's eyes closed again, not by choice but by gravity. The last thing he saw was the figure reaching for a flask, tilting it to his lips. The liquid burned like fire and honey. He swallowed because his body remembered how.
Sleep took him before he could thank the hand that gave it.
The world swayed.
Not the way a tree sways in wind, but the way a body sways when it is no longer its own. Caelum felt the motion before he understood it: a slow, rhythmic lurch that pressed his shoulder against rough wood, then let him fall away again. Each jolt sent a dull ache through his ribs, a reminder that he was still tethered to pain—and therefore to life.
He tried to open his eyes. The lids obeyed, grudgingly, and the world came in pieces.
A canvas roof, stained with old smoke. A lantern swinging from a hook, its flame guttering with every rut in the road. Beyond the half-lifted flap, a sky the color of iron filings and snow that fell sideways, driven by a wind that wanted everything.
The wagon creaked like an old throat clearing itself. Hooves struck ice in a slow, patient rhythm. Somewhere ahead, a driver's silhouette hunched against the storm, reins taut in gloved hands.
Caelum's breath rasped in his ears. He tried to swallow and tasted copper. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. He closed his eyes again, but the dark behind them was worse. It had teeth.
A shape moved at the edge of his vision.
The figure from the mountains sat opposite him, braced against the wagon's sway. The same dusk-colored furs. The same steel visor that turned a face into a secret. Snowmelt streaked the plates of the cuirass, tracing veins of water that gleamed like quicksilver in the lantern light.
The figure held something in its lap.
His swords.
They lay across those gloved hands like sleeping beasts, one pale as frozen moonlight, the other black as a starless well. The figure's thumb moved along the spine of the pale blade, slow and deliberate, as if reading a language cut into the steel. For a moment Caelum thought he heard a sound—a hum too low for ears, felt more than heard, like the memory of music pressed against bone.
The hum stopped when the figure looked up.
No words. Just a tilt of the head, a small adjustment of grip, and then the swords were set aside with a care that felt heavier than any oath.
The wagon lurched. Caelum slid, his shoulder striking the planks. A hand caught him before he fell farther. The grip was firm, steady, and warm through the layers of cloth. It held him until the sway eased, then let go without haste.
He wanted to speak. To ask who, where, why. His mouth opened. A sound came out—thin, broken, not a word at all. The figure did not answer. Perhaps it could not. Perhaps it chose not to.
The lantern flickered. Shadows crawled along the canvas like ink spilled in water. Caelum's eyes closed again, not by choice but by gravity. The last thing he saw was the figure reaching for a flask, tilting it to his lips. The liquid burned like fire and honey. He swallowed because his body remembered how.
Sleep took him before he could thank the hand that gave it.
Outside, the storm thickened. Snow erased the wagon's tracks as fast as they were made. Behind them, in the hollow where a boy had lain, the frost still bore a mark: a thread of light, thin as a hair, running in a perfect circle.
It pulsed once.
And vanished.
The Storm's Voice
The storm had a voice.
It spoke in the groan of the wagon's axles, in the hiss of snow scouring canvas, in the hollow boom of wind striking the mountainside and rolling back like distant drums. Every sound pressed against Caelum's skull, muffled by the fever-heat that clung to him like a second skin. He drifted in and out of it, a leaf caught in a current too wide to see.
When he surfaced, the world was white and gray and iron. The wagon crawled along a road that was not a road at all, only a guess traced through drifts that rose like dunes. Hooves punched holes in the snow and filled them with steam. The horses' flanks gleamed wet, their breath pluming in ragged bursts that vanished before they could frost the air.
The figure at the reins did not falter. Cloak snapping like a torn banner, it leaned into the gale as if daring the wind to take more than warmth. Each time the wagon lurched, the driver's shoulders rolled with the motion, steady as a tide. The steel visor caught a shard of lantern light and threw it back like a cold star.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of leather, wet wool, and something sharper—oil, maybe, or the ghost of steel drawn too often. Caelum's fingers twitched against the blanket. He felt the grain of the wood beneath, the tremor of wheels biting ice. His body remembered weight and cold and the ache of muscles stretched past reason. His mind remembered nothing.
Not his name. Not the path that had flung him into this storm. Only the swords.
They lay within reach, their presence louder than the wind. Even sheathed, they hummed—a sound too deep for ears, a pressure in the bones, like the hush before a bell tolls. The pale blade seemed to drink the lantern's glow and give it back as frost light. The black one swallowed it whole, leaving only the silver veins that pulsed faintly, like threads under skin.
Threads.
The word snagged in his mind and would not let go. He saw them when he closed his eyes: lines of light running through darkness, weaving and unweaving, binding and breaking. He reached for one and felt it cut him without pain.
The wagon jolted. His breath hitched. The vision tore like wet paper, leaving only the rasp of his lungs and the taste of iron on his tongue.
He tried to speak. The sound that came out was not a word but a ghost of one. The figure opposite him did not answer. It only reached for the flask again, tilting it to his lips with the same calm as before. Fire and honey burned down his throat. He swallowed because his body remembered how.
Sleep dragged him under like a tide.
Outside, the storm thickened. Snow erased the wagon's tracks as fast as they were made. The mountains leaned closer, listening.
And far above, behind the storm, the sky still watched.
The Gate of Quiet Bells
The first thing Caelum felt was stillness.
The wagon had stopped. The sway was gone, replaced by a silence so deep it rang in his ears. He opened his eyes to darkness pricked by points of light—lanterns, dozens of them, swinging from iron hooks along a wall that rose like a cliff. Snow clung to its stones in ragged veils. Between the lanterns, runes glimmered faintly, their lines pulsing with a rhythm that was not wind or flame.
A gate loomed at the wall's heart. Its arch was carved with sigils that seemed to shift when he tried to follow them, as if the stone itself were breathing. Above the arch hung a bell the color of old bronze. It did not move. It did not need to. Its silence was heavier than sound.
The figure lifted him from the wagon as if he weighed nothing. The cold bit through the blanket, sharp as teeth. Caelum's head lolled against a shoulder that smelled of steel and snow. He glimpsed the swords strapped across the rescuer's back, their hilts crossing like a broken star.
The gate opened without a hand touching it.
Light spilled out—warm, gold, and soft as breath. It brushed his face and sank into his skin, chasing the frost from his bones. For a moment he thought he heard something beneath the wind: a low, patient hum, like a thread drawn through cloth.
The figure carried him inside.
Stone gave way to wood, wood to warmth. The air smelled of cedar smoke and crushed herbs. Voices murmured somewhere beyond the walls, too distant to shape into words. Caelum's eyes closed, not by choice but by gravity. The last thing he saw was a woman's silhouette framed in the glow of a hearth, her hair a spill of silver fire, her hands outstretched as if to catch him.
Then the dark took him.
Behind him, the gate closed with a sigh like snow sliding from a roof. The bell did not ring.
But the silence it kept was full of promise.