Chapter 10: Voices in the Wind

“Voices in the Wind” charcoal drawing by Chaiga T Cheska

Dream pressed on him like a tide. Nix knew he was sleeping, felt the weight of his body upon the cliff top, the cool stone beneath his shoulders where his wing wounds still ached. Yet he felt himself drifting, unmoored. He sensed his friends close by in their quiet watch, untroubled, unaware of Simi's presence, sharp and relentless, somewhere beyond the ravines. His half-brother tracked him still, near enough to make the dream tremble.

However, Nix chose not to flee the vision. He'd learned, through meditation and from the sea dragon's patient teaching, to sit with difficult things rather than run from them. So, he let himself drift both within his body and above it, gazing down into the gulf of air that yawned below the cliff's edge.

In his dream state, his wings spread from his shoulders, new yet certain. Because this was a dream, he could command them. His feet dangled over emptiness, the sweep of wind beneath unfurling his feathers, and instead of the earlier terror, he found exhilaration. The air held him, became part of him. Each beat of his wings drew him deeper into the threads that bound all living things, reaching beyond this world into other realms, other skies. Each feather thrummed with constellations from places he could not name, patterns his mother had carried, patterns now written into his own feathers.

Light gathered before him. A constellation of marks and lines fell into shape across the ravines, the land they had studied with Captain Sten and Bo. Yet here the path flickered with a design no map had ever shown. Nix understood in that moment, with the slow clarity dreams sometimes offer, that their journey through these ravines would be unlike any taken before by any other traveller.

From further along that luminous path, a single thread pulled taut, leading to Simi. Nix studied it without flinching. He felt no fear at the sight, only sorrow, old and familiar. For the first time, he wondered if there was something he might do for his brother. Not to mend the discord between them, that rift was too deep, too blood-soaked to bridge. But perhaps to ease the pain that drove Simi so mercilessly forward. Maybe that much was possible.

The vision deepened. His sleeping body on the stone began to glow, his healing violet light stitched with silver veins, the sea dragon's ancient gift woven through his own magic. The radiance encircled his companions where they sat around his body. Through the dream, he saw their faces lift, eyes wide with wonder, as the thread moved amongst them in a slow dance of colour, highlighting their own newly acquired elvish features so much so that Nix, in his dream state, saw his friends as truly awakening into their own magic.

Delight rose in him, warm and unexpected. This silver gift was meant for those who might turn the tide and grow into a shared inheritance.

In the dream, he laughed, and the sound carried him back into waking.

He sat up, breath catching, and found his friends, Oren, Tavik, and Bran, seated around him. They were smiling, baffled yet calm, as though an understanding had passed between them that required no words.

The wind pressed sharp and sudden against them, lifting loose strands of hair and tugging at their cloaks. The wind moaning around them broke the hush that had briefly settled on the cliff top, gusts threading through the dense gorse bushes that bordered the ravines. The bushes bristled with yellow flowers and spiky thorns, their scent sharp and honeyed, mingling with the mineral tang of stone and the faint salt carried inland from the river.

Nix rose slowly, brushing dust from his clothes, the quiet smile of his dream still lingering. The afternoon sun slanted low, its light burnished and coppery, gilding the edges of the plateau and catching in the fine grit that swirled across the rock. Shadows stretched long and thin, the ravines below darkening into folds of indigo and slate.

Oren was the first to stand, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "How do you feel?" His voice carried clear above the wind, concern threaded through the words.

Nix did not answer at once. He turned his face towards the horizon, feeling the bite of the breeze against the places where his wings had torn through. The wings had receded, hidden once more, but the ache at his shoulder blades lingered, raw and insistent. He placed one hand over the permanent wound at his chest, the wound that never quite healed, and with the other stretched back as far as he could reach, sending violet light from his fingertips into the torn places he could not touch at his shoulder blades. The glow softened the pain, though it never truly left him.

"As though I have been pulled apart and put back together again," he said at last, his words trailing into the open air. "Different, but still myself. Or perhaps more myself than before."

Tavik flexed his fingers unconsciously. The memory of that moment on the cliff lived in his hands still, when he'd gripped Nix's shoulder and felt the transformation tear through the boy's body. Strange, unbidden energy that had sung through the connection between them. The echo lingered even now, a thread he could sense but didn't understand. He caught himself reaching towards that awareness, then forced the thought away. Whatever had happened, whatever that tether meant, Nix seemed unaware of it. Maybe it was best to focus on the living presence of his friend before him rather than puzzle over mysteries.

Bran rose with careful movements, as though his body still remembered the fall even if his mind struggled to accept that he'd survived it. He fished a water skin from his satchel and passed it to Nix. "Here. You should drink." The words came gentle, but his healer's eyes catalogued the pallor of Nix's skin, the slight tremor in his hands, the way he held himself as though bracing against pain.

Nix accepted with gratitude, the water cool and grounding as he drank deeply. The silver threads of magic still hummed beneath his skin, quieter now, but present. He could feel them reaching towards his friends, see the faint shimmer of connection.

The plateau around them was alive with sound. The wind rattled through the gorse and bent the wiry grasses that clung to the cliff edge. A kestrel wheeled high above, its cry sharp and lonely, whilst from the ravines below came the faint rush of hidden streams tumbling over stone. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed thyme and heather, stirred by their boots as they shifted their packs.

Oren knelt, pulling the creased map from his pack. He spread it across a flat rock, the paper flapping under the restless wind, the inked lines tracing the ravines just as Captain Sten and Bo had drawn them. "We need to move on while we still have the afternoon light." He glanced at Nix, assessing. "Are you ready to travel?"

Nix handed the water skin back, then closed his eyes, drawing a slow breath. A ripple of purple light washed through him, mending where rawness lingered, the radiance visible even in the afternoon light. He opened his eyes, meeting Oren's gaze steadily. "You won't need the map today."

Oren's hands stilled on the paper. "The path's already set. We planned our route with Sten and Bo. Don’t you remember?"

"I remember." Nix stepped closer, setting a hand on Oren's arm. The gesture was both gentle and firm. "But I also remember that you have elvish blood in you. Why do you trust the path of men over your own instincts?"

The wind seemed to ease for a moment, as though the world itself paused to listen.

Oren looked down at the map, at the careful lines and notations, then up at Nix. The boy's hazel-green eyes held something deeper than certainty, a knowing that came from places Oren couldn't name. His jaw tightened. Every practical bone in his body insisted on following the planned route, the safe route. But Nix had stopped time itself to save Bran and had pulled them both from death with wings and magic and impossible light.

Who was he to argue with that?

At last, he folded the map with deliberate care, each crease precise. "Right then." He tucked it back into his pack and stood, shouldering the weight. "We follow you."

Tavik caught Oren's eye, one eyebrow raised in question. Following Nix into unknown territory was one thing. Following him without even the map as backup was another entirely.

Oren gave the slightest shake of his head. Trust him, the gesture said. We trust him.

Bran was already moving to Nix's side, his healer's curiosity momentarily overriding the lingering tremor in his legs. "You can sense the path? Through the magic?"

"Something like that." Nix's smile was small, private. "The land speaks. I'm learning to listen."

The four friends gathered their packs in silence, each checking straps and supplies with the automatic movements of those about to descend into uncertainty.

The descent into the ravines was like stepping into a wound that had never healed. Afternoon light fractured against the walls, breaking into shards of copper and violet, whilst the air thickened with the mineral tang of stone. The plateau behind them seemed suddenly distant, a place of ordinary silence compared to the charged hush that lay ahead.

Nix walked first, his stride steady despite the exhaustion still weighing his limbs. His head tilted as though listening to something beneath the earth, some vibration only he could sense. The others followed in single file, Tavik close behind, then Bran, with Oren bringing up the rear.

The air began to ripple around Nix as he walked forward, a heat haze shimmering that made the stone seem to waver. Tavik frowned, noticing it. "The air's doing something strange."

Then, without warning, Nix screamed.

The sound tore through the stillness, raw and terrible, a cry of such anguish it seemed ripped from the stone itself. He clutched his chest as though pierced by an unseen blade, his knees striking the rock hard enough that they heard the impact. His breath came ragged, eyes wide with pain that went beyond his body, beyond his wounds.

"Nix!" Oren's voice cracked. "What's happening?"

But as they stepped forward into the place where the air rippled, the ravines convulsed around them.

The brothers staggered, reaching for each other as visions surged. Bran's hand found Tavik's arm, Oren gripped Bran's shoulder, the three of them caught in something that pulled them out of the present moment entirely, blind to Nix, blind to everything but what crashed over them like a wave.

Warriors materialised around them, tall and swift, with pointed ears and eyes that burned like stars. Elves, moving with inhuman grace, their weapons singing as they struck at godlike beings, vast and terrible. The brothers could see them as clearly as if they stood there in flesh, could smell blood and burning, could feel the tremor of the earth as bodies fell.

"Gods... do you feel it?" Bran gasped, his fingers digging into Tavik's arm. "A battle. There's a battle here."

Oren's breath came harsh and quick, his warrior's instincts trying to make sense of what couldn't be real yet felt more real than the stone beneath his boots. "Elves," he managed, his voice hoarse. "And something greater. What are they? The clash of weapons, the cries. I can feel them striking, fighting, dying..."

The god like beings the elves fought towered over them, the shape of these beings too unfathomable to comprehend that Oren, Tavik and Bran had to tear their eyes away for the fear of going insane. Magic, wild and untamed, tore through the air in colours that had no names. The elves wielded it like weapons, like shields, like prayers hurled at beings that refused to fall.

Meanwhile, separate from their vision, Nix remained on his knees, caught in his own experience. He felt the land's trauma as though it were his own, the tearing and breaking echoing in the hollow of his chest. The ravines remembered their creation, and through his connection to the threads beneath the earth, they revealed it to him. Not in images but in sensation, pure and overwhelming. The agony of stone splitting. The grief of a wound that would never heal. The violence that had shaped this place, carved it from a cataclysm when two magical signatures from different worlds met. Nix felt stone split and tear like flesh, felt the ravines carve themselves into existence through violence and grief and something ancient beyond reckoning.

He pressed both hands to his chest, violet light flickering weakly as he tried to steady himself, tried to breathe through the pain. The meditation techniques helped, barely, allowing him to remain present rather than be pulled under entirely. But the cost was high, and he could feel the magic draining him, the wound in his chest aching with cold fire.

The vision faded for the brothers like water settling after a stone's throw, the ripples smoothing until only memory remained. They swayed, breathless, hands still gripping each other for balance, for proof they were still here, still whole.

"What in all the Roots was that?" Tavik gasped, his voice rough, shaken. His hand still gripped Bran's shoulder.

Then they remembered. Nix.

They turned as one, and found him still kneeling where he'd fallen, his face pale as winter sky, his breathing shallow. He was alone in his pain, had been alone through all of it whilst they'd been lost in their vision.

"Nix?" Bran moved first, dropping to his knees beside his friend. "What happened to you?"

Nix forced himself upright slowly, each movement deliberate. He said nothing of what he had felt, the tearing of the land itself, the cataclysm that had carved these ravines from violence. Instead, he steadied his breath through careful effort, the meditation technique grounding him, forcing calm into his body one slow inhale at a time.

"The ravines remember," he said quietly, his voice strained but controlled. "How they were made."

Through the connection that had formed on the cliff, Tavik felt an echo of Nix's pain. Not sharp but constant, deeper than the wound in his chest, living in his very bones. The tether between them pulsed with it, and Tavik understood suddenly that Nix was carrying far more than any of them could see. He kept this knowledge to himself, uncertain what to make of it, unsure if Nix even felt the connection from his end.

"We need to keep moving." Oren's voice came steadier than he felt, the eldest brother holding his brothers and Nix together through will alone. "Stay close. Watch each other."

They pressed on, more cautiously now, bodies still trembling from what they'd witnessed. The ravines deepened, walls rising high and jagged on either side, narrowing until they walked in near-twilight though the sun still burned above. Streaked through the dark stone, veins of crystal glimmered with their own faint light.

Viridane Strands shimmered green-blue in the cracks, humming softly, a sound like distant singing that soothed even as it unsettled. The glow was gentle, dream-touched, making Bran want to press his palms against the stone and sleep.

Obrath Quartz gleamed like smoke caught in crystal, sharp and clear, its facets throwing back light in patterns that hurt to follow too long. Tavik found his thoughts growing sharper in its presence, more focused, his tactical mind cataloguing paths and dangers with unusual precision.

Ferrith Gleam pulsed rust-red in broader veins, lending strength to tired limbs but stirring something restless beneath the skin. Oren felt it most, a heat in his blood, an urgency that made him want to move faster, to reach the end of this place and escape its weight.

Bran touched the stone with reverence, his healer's senses overwhelmed by the magic waking fully within him. Each crystal sang with different purpose, different power. He could feel them reaching towards the elvish blood in his veins, recognising something in him that had lain dormant until the sea dragon's gift had awakened it.

"Everything's alive," he whispered, his fingers brushing a patch of lichen that glowed faintly in the shadow. The texture was velvet-soft, warm despite the cool air. "Even the smallest thing. I can feel it singing."

"Keep your focus, Bran." Oren's words came sharper than intended, worry making them harsh. His own senses were spiralling outward in ways he didn't understand, memories rising that didn't feel entirely his own.

But even as he spoke, he stumbled, catching himself against the wall. His palm pressed flat against smooth stone, and for a moment he was elsewhere. A different ravine, or perhaps this same one but years ago, decades, centuries. His father's voice, calling his name. His mother's laughter, bright as bells. Images that couldn't be memories because he'd never been here before, yet they felt real as breath.

"Oren?" Tavik glanced back, worry creasing his brow. His brother stood frozen, one hand on the wall, expression distant. "Stay steady. Don't let it pull you under."

Oren shook himself, forcing his hand away from the stone. "I keep remembering things. Or almost remembering. Something about Father and Mother. It's as though the ravines want me to recall something I've forgotten, that I ought to know."

The air was restless. Pebbles tumbled from unseen ledges, their clatter echoing strangely in the narrow space. Water trickled faintly through hidden fissures, the sound too clear, too close. Above, a Skathen wheeled, its cry sharp as flint, the note lingering far longer than natural. Shadows shifted across the walls, lengthening as the sun dipped lower, and the ravines seemed to breathe around them, alive with memory and hunger and ancient, patient waiting.

Nix walked ahead, cautious now, feeling the trauma of the land in his bones. Each step vibrated through him, the earth remembering its own breaking. He pressed his palm against his chest, steadying his breath, and glanced back at his companions.

"The ravines are doing something to us." His voice came quiet but certain. "I don't know what, but it's more than stone and shadow."

Oren's jaw tightened. "I know. Something doesn’t feel right. We need to keep moving.”

At last, they reached a narrow stream, its water clear and cold, winding through the ravine floor like a silver thread unspooled by careless hands. The walls rose high around them, enclosing sound so that every ripple and trickle took on strange resonance, echoing back and forth until simple water became music.

The stream sang as it moved, notes rising and falling over smooth stones. The wind threaded through cracks in the stone above, adding its voice. A distant bird, perhaps a thrush, called from somewhere high on the ravine's edge, the sound sweet and questioning.

And through it all, woven between water's song and wind's whisper and bird's bright note, a name began to form.

Uuuuuuullll... sang the water, drawing the sound out long and liquid.

...lllllllaaaa... breathed the wind through stone cracks, soft as a lover's sigh.

...aaaaaaaa, finished the bird's call, the syllable floating down like a feather.

Ula.

The name hung in the air between them, neither quite spoken nor quite imagined, sung by the ravine itself in a voice that was water and wind and wings all at once.

They stopped as one, glancing at each other, uncertain. The sound had been too clear, too deliberate, to dismiss as mere chance.

"Did you hear that?" Bran's whisper barely disturbed the air. His eyes were wide, searching his brothers' faces. "Tell me you heard that."

Oren's hand had moved unconsciously to his belt. "The wind. It's just the wind moving through the rocks." But his voice lacked conviction, and his eyes tracked the ravine walls as though expecting something to emerge from the shadows.

"That wasn't wind." Tavik's words came clipped, definite. He'd heard the song-name as clearly as Bran had, the three distinct elements weaving together. "A girl's voice. Or something like a voice and calling out."

Nix stood very still, his head tilted, eyes closed. He was listening not with his ears alone but with that deeper sense, the one that felt the threads beneath the earth, the connections between all living things. His runes on his arms flickered and he felt a strange connection to this name on the wind. The name resonated through those runes and threads, ancient and deliberate.

When he opened his eyes, his voice came calm, certain. "Why is the name, Ula so familiar to me."

Silence followed, heavy and anxious. The stream continued its song, innocent now, just water over stone. But the four of them stood frozen, waiting, listening for the ravine to sing again.

They moved on slowly, the sound of the stream mingling with the tumble of loose pebbles and the distant cry of birds. But each step came more cautiously now, each glance sharper, all of them watching the ravines as though the stone itself had eyes.

The afternoon light, thin and golden, slid down the ravine's sheer sides as if reluctant to touch the earth. Each beam fractured upon veins of obsidian, casting restless gleams that flitted around their boots, across their faces, never settling. The air grew sharper, every sound magnified: Nix's careful breath, Bran's shuffling steps, Oren's boots crunching on gravel. Even the call of a distant bird rang out with unnatural clarity, lingering in the hollow spaces longer than it should.

The wind gathered itself, twisted through the jagged cracks overhead, and began to sing again.

Uuuuun... moaned the wind, low and mournful, the sound drawn out like an ache.

...diiiii... whispered the water below, tumbling over stones in quick, bright syllables.

...nnnne, sighed the leaves of a stunted willow clinging to the ravine wall, their rustling breath finishing the name.

Undine.

The name washed over them like cold water, and Oren stiffened, his gaze darting upwards to the crack where wind poured through. His hand tightened on the hilt at his side. He remembered old stories, half-forgotten tales their father had told them by the fire when he was just a boy. Water spirits. Warnings about rivers and streams and things that lived in the deep places. The name stirred something in him, some ancestral memory that made his skin prickle.

"That one felt colder," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Did you feel that?"

Tavik nodded, his jaw clenched. His warrior's instincts were screaming at him that they were being watched, hunted perhaps, though he could see nothing but stone and shadow. His hand moved unconsciously to rest on Nix's shoulder, seeking both to steady his friend and to ground himself through that strange connection that had formed between them. Through the touch, he felt Nix's pain, constant and deep, and something else: the boy's awareness of the names, his recognition of them as something deliberate, something with purpose.

They pressed on, and the ravine seemed to tighten around them, walls leaning closer, shadows deepening despite the sun still burning somewhere high above.

The wind shifted again, bringing with it a scent of crushed leaves and distant rain. From high on the ravine's edge, where scrubby bushes clung to impossible ledges, came the sound of branches stirring. Not the random movement of breeze through wood, but something rhythmic, deliberate, almost like breathing.

Aaaa... sang a thrush, hidden somewhere in the sparse vegetation, the note pure and bell-like.

...dooo... rustled the leaves in perfect time with the bird's call, a whisper of green against stone.

...eeeett... hummed the wind through a narrow fissure, drawing the sound into something between music and speech.

...tttte, finished the stream, its voice bubbling bright over a cascade of small stones.

Adoette.

The name settled over them like leaves falling, soft yet heavy with sorrow. Tavik's heart thudded hard against his ribs, as if the name itself summoned memories of loss he couldn't quite grasp. His breath caught. The sound burrowed into his chest, stirring something old and aching, grief that had no face, no story, yet felt utterly real.

He reached out instinctively, his free hand finding Bran's arm, gripping tight. The touch grounded him, reminded him where he was, who he was. But the ache remained, persistent as the names themselves.

"This isn't right," he managed, his voice rough. "The ravines are doing something to us. Making us feel things."

Nix walked ahead, silent, his pale face drawn with concentration. He could feel the names resonating through the threads beneath his feet, through the stone, through the very air. They were being called, but not randomly. There was pattern here, intention. The ravines were speaking to them, or through them, showing them something, they needed to see, needed to remember.

Bran's hands trembled as he walked, his healer's senses overwhelmed. The names weren't just sounds. They carried weight, emotion, memory and perhaps premonition. Each one that sang through the ravine pressed into him, made him want to weep, though he couldn't say why.

The wind came again, colder now, threading through the narrow space with urgency. The walls seemed to lean closer still, listening, waiting.

eeeefff... cried a kestrel overhead, its voice sharp with longing.

...fffaaii... moaned the wind through a hollow in the stone, the sound rounded and full of grief.

...aiiiie... whispered the lichen on the walls, barely audible yet distinct, as though the stone itself had learned to speak.

...eee, sang the water one last time, the syllable bright and clear as morning.

Aoife.

The name bloomed between them like a flower opening, lilting and bright yet edged with such sorrow that Bran flinched as though struck. His eyes darted from wall to wall, searching for the source, for an explanation. His hands squeezed together, fingers lacing and unlacing in a nervous habit.

"Why are they calling names?" His voice came thin, stretched. "What do they want from us?"

Oren shook his head, but he had no answer. His own heart was racing, his warrior's training warring with the strange pull he felt towards these sung names, as though they were meant for him, for all of them, as though the ravines were trying to tell them something vital, and they were too blind to understand.

"We must keep moving." His words came out harsher than intended, fear sharpening them. "Don't stop. Don't listen."

But how could they not listen when the ravines themselves were singing?

Step by step, they pressed deeper into the narrowing passage, shadows lengthening around them, the weight of unseen attention pressing down until each breath felt like an effort. The names hung in the air behind them, echoing faintly, four threads of sound woven into the fabric of the place itself.

Ula. Undine. Adoette. Aoife.

Beneath the veined stone and slowly fading gold light, they found a hollow pressed into the heart of the ravine. A shallow alcove, shielded from the wind and crowned with interlaced roots that had somehow found purchase in the rock. The space was small but defensible, the stone walls curving protectively around it.

Oren gestured with clipped authority, his movements sharp with tension. "Bran, Nix, clear the alcove. Tavik, with me." His words scraped the hush, heavy as iron.

The group moved to their tasks with reluctant precision. Bran and Nix began to sweep away pebbles and brittle leaves, their hands moving mechanically. Every sound they made echoed louder than it should: brushes against stone resounding like distant thunder, the shuffle of boots snapping through the brittle dusk like breaking bones. The ravine amplified everything, turning ordinary movements into something ominous.

Oren and Tavik slipped away into the deeper shadows, gathering fragments of driftwood and fallen branches. Each crack of wood, each snap of twig rang out sharp and unnatural, as though the ravine itself resented their presence. The air felt charged, pricked with unease, pressing into the silence until it became something physical, something that made breathing difficult.

As the last rays retreated, pulling the light back up the stone walls like a slow exhalation, a gust of wind funnelled through the hollow. Colder than before, it carried with it the scents of deep earth and ancient water and something else, something that tasted of secrets.

The wind began to sing once more.

Oooorrrr... moaned the wind through the highest crack in the stone, the sound stretched and yearning, reaching.

...rrrrre... whispered the roots above their heads, creaking and sighing as they swayed, the sound woody and ancient.

...llllli... sang the stream far below, its voice rising from the depths, liquid and eternal.

...aaaan, breathed the evening air itself, the syllable settling over them like dust, like ash, like the weight of years.

Aurelian.

The name rippled through the hollow with strange finality, folding the night around them. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It resonated in bone and blood, in the stone beneath their feet, in the very air they breathed.

Oren recoiled as if struck. His hands flew to his chest, clutching at nothing, at everything. He staggered backwards, his armful of kindling scattering across the stone with a clatter that seemed impossibly loud. His eyes went wild, searching the shadows, the walls, the darkening sky above, looking for the source, for the throat that had spoken that name.

"Who are you?" His voice tore through the ravine's fragile shell, raw and desperate. "Show yourself! Who's there?"

The echoes threw his words back at him, mocking. Who are you... show yourself... who's there...

He spun, searching every shadow, every crack in the stone. "How do you know that name? WHO ARE YOU?"

The shout cracked on the last word, breaking into something between rage, grief and terror.

Tavik lunged forward, catching his older brother, halting his panic completely. "Oren! Stop! There's no one there!" Fear flooded through him. Oren never acted like this. Never. Their eldest brother was stone, was steel, was the steady hand that held them all together. And now he was falling apart, shouting at shadows, shaking like a leaf in a storm.

Oren struggled against Tavik's grip, still searching the ravine walls. "They know. Someone knows. That name, how do they know his name?" His legs gave out, and Tavik went down with him, both sitting hard amongst the scattered kindling.

Bran scrambled over, his face white with shock. He'd never seen Oren like this. Never. Not when their father died two years before, not in the worst moments of grief or fear or hardship. Oren was always strong and always in control. This frantic, wild-eyed stranger wearing his brother's face terrified him more than any of the names, any of the visions.

He pressed a water skin into Oren's shaking hands. "What's wrong? What is it? Oren, please, talk to us! What does that name mean?"

Oren's breathing came in harsh, ragged gasps. His hands trembled so badly that water sloshed from the water skin. He stared at nothing, at everything, his jaw working as though the words wouldn't come, as though speaking them would make something tangible that he'd kept locked away for two years.

Finally, Oren spoke barely above a whisper: "Aurelian." The name seemed to cost him something to say it aloud. "That was our father's real name. His true name." His voice broke. "The last thing he ever said to me. Before he died, I never told anyone. No one could know."

The words fell into silence thick and mournful. The ravine seemed to lean closer, listening, its stones heavy with the burden of their secrets.

Tavik's grip on Oren's shoulder tightened, shock written across every line of his face. "But how? Father's name was...Anders" He couldn't finish. They'd called him Father, always just Father. They knew his name, which he gave to others as Anders. This new revelation cracked something open, showed them depths they'd never suspected. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I’m your big brother, Tav." Oren's voice shook, reaching out for Tavik and Bran. "How could I burden you both with that? I kept it to myself and we looked after each other and that’s all that mattered.”

Bran felt tears on his own face, grief rose bitter and raw, the loss of their father suddenly fresh again, sharp as the day he'd died. "We’re your brothers, Oren, you don’t have to protect us all the time."

Nix watched from the hollow’s edge, his expression unreadable. He studied Oren’s face, the way the name had broken him open, the way his brothers gathered close to hold him together. As the sound of it lingered, Nix felt a chill coil through him. He recognised the name. Aurelian. In that moment, fear rose within him, for he began to wonder if his friends were truly half-human as they believed, or something else entirely.

Around them, dusk gathered with ominous intent, shadows pooling in the corners of their makeshift camp. The wind continued its restless movement through the stone, but it sang no more names.