The Veinlight no longer traced the ground like ribbons.
Here, it rose in slow arcs—shimmering threads drifting into the air like strands of breath pulled from the earth itself. It didn’t glow with intensity, but with presence. The way an old song hummed through the bones. The way grief lingered in the corners of rooms long after the people had gone.
Dain walked slowly now, more aware of every step. The pack on his back felt heavier, not from weight, but from what it carried—hope, memory, the consequences of belief. The air was thicker here, not with magic, but with memory. It wasn’t a battlefield. Not exactly. But he could feel it in the dirt.
Something had happened here.
Something final.
“Was it here?” he asked quietly.
Thalen didn’t need to ask what he meant. He looked around the valley, his expression unreadable.
“Yes.”
Dain stopped. “Where they turned on her.”
Thalen nodded once. “She brought them the truth. And they demanded certainty. When she couldn’t give them that, they brand
