The Witherwind Pass

Chapter 6 – The Witherwind Pass

The trees whispered of danger.

Every rustle of leaf, every creak of branch overhead, carried tension like a taut bowstring. Aurther moved through the tangled underbrush with deliberate steps, boots crunching frost-hardened leaves. Lysaria walked ahead—silent, a blur of silver and green in the gloom.

They had escaped Elsera'Veyr—barely. Their breath still carried the burn of running. The fight at the gates played over and over in Aurther's mind: the shimmer of steel, the burst of wind as spells flew, the shouts of guards crying his name like a curse.

Criminals.

Branded. Hunted.

And yet, what haunted him most wasn't the blades or the threats—but the way his power had erupted. The way shadow had spilled from his skin. Not flame. Not light. Not earth or air. But a suffocating darkness that pulled heat from the world and stilled sound. It had curled around his fingers like ink in water, rippling with whispers no one else seemed to hear.

It hadn't felt like casting magic.

They traveled north, toward the mountains that divided Elsera'Veyr from the rest of the world. Few dared cross the Witherwind Pass in midspring—its paths were unpredictable, carved by avalanches and shifting rock, haunted by ghosts of wars long dead. But it was the only route unguarded.

"How much farther?" Aurther asked, voice barely above the wind.

Lysaria paused, glancing up the slope. The trees here thinned, traded for jagged stone and thorn-brushed paths.

"Three more days to Mossglass—if we live that long," she muttered. "The Pass is sacred. And cursed."

He frowned. "That's comforting."

She gave him a tight smile. "It should be. Sacred things don't like liars."

They climbed in silence. Above them, clouds drifted like bruises across the sky. Cold wind howled through crags, biting exposed skin. At night, they made camp in crevices between boulders, wrapped in stolen cloaks and warmed by spells Aurther barely understood.

On the second evening, they rested near a crumbled stone arch—remnants of a war-age road once used by elven armies. Moss covered the stones now, but faded runes still pulsed faintly when Aurther brushed them.

"What are these?" he asked.

"Ruins," Lysaria said. "Ancient ones. From the Blood War."

She sat beside him, fingers tracing symbols he couldn't read. "They used to keep out what you've already let in."

He swallowed hard.

"You mean my magic."

She hesitated, then nodded.

"You're tied to something that was forgotten on purpose. Something the Twelve never wanted found."

"The Twelve? What are they? Who are they?"

She met his gaze as she spoke. "They were gods. Gods of the old world. It's said all magic came from them…"

"…But we don't know anymore."

"Why?"

"Because something happened. Something no one knows about—or no one can speak of. That's all I can tell you. That's all that's left of them. But we might get answers from the Seer. She may be the only one who truly knows what happened in the old world."

That night, while she slept, Aurther lay awake, thoughts gnawing at his mind.

"Ahh… fuck. I killed them. But how? Why did I take that necklace? Hey, I mean… I don't have to see that shit family of mine again. What is the Blood War? I'm going to get to the bottom of this—one way or another. There's more at play. Okay, okay… I've got two things I need to figure out: how magic in this world works, and who the Twelve are. Gods, this thatch bed is so uncomfortable."

The next morning, they stumbled upon firelight.

Smoke curled between the rocks like a serpent. Lysaria held up a hand, and they crouched behind a slope. Down in a sheltered basin, five figures gathered around a low fire. Travelers, maybe. Or mercenaries.

Aurther's breath caught. Their gear was battered. Their faces tired. But they didn't look dangerous—just… lost.

A dwarf polished a blade. A girl no older than Aurther strummed a lute with fingers wrapped in bandages. An old woman stirred a pot over the fire. Two others—twin brothers by the look—argued quietly over a map.

"They're just travelers," Aurther said softly.

"Or bait," Lysaria replied, not moving.

But something inside Aurther pulled him forward.

"They're part of this," he said. "I don't know how I know. But I do."

Lysaria hesitated. Then rose.

"Fine. But if they turn on us, I'm cutting throats first."

They stepped into the clearing with hands raised. The travelers stiffened—one twin reached for his dagger—but when they saw Lysaria's elven garb and Aurther's human face, something shifted.

Not recognition.

Resignation.

The old woman motioned to the fire. "You've come far to reach this cursed place."

"We're not staying long," Lysaria said.

The dwarf grunted. "No one stays long in the Witherwind. Not alive, anyway."

Introductions came after that.

The dwarf was named Hadrik, once a stone-singer of the Eastern Holds.

The girl with the lute was Kaelien, a runaway bard whose songs could still the air.

The twins—Cor and Cyr—claimed to be sons of a fallen king.

And the old woman was called Mira, though the way she spoke made Aurther think she had worn many names.

"What are you doing here?" Aurther asked.

"Running," Mira said.

"From what?"

She looked at him across the flames. "Same thing you are, I'd wager. Fate."

They camped together that night. Talk was sparse. The fire popped and hissed as wind howled through the pass. Above, stars blinked like wary eyes.

Lysaria kept watch on the ridge.

Aurther sat beside Kaelien, who plucked at her strings and sang low, haunting notes that curled through the dark.

"You're different," she said softly, not looking at him.

"How do you mean?"

"You've been touched by something that doesn't love the light. I can hear it in the way your shadow moves."

He blinked. "My shadow?"

"It follows behind you… even when there's no sun."

Aurther turned to ask what she meant—but the wind shifted.

Something was wrong.

Too quiet.

Then it came: a scream.

Not human.

Aether rippled. The fire snuffed out.

A figure burst from the trees—bloated, eyeless, shrieking. Its body was made of bone and ash, stitched by tendrils of crimson smoke.

"A Bloodborn!" Hadrik roared, raising his blade.

The battle was chaos. Magic lit the clearing. Cyr was flung into stone and didn't rise. Cor screamed his brother's name. Kaelien tried to sing—a ward-song—but the creature silenced her with a screech that tore the sound from her throat.

Lysaria fought like a storm, her blades burning like lava.

Aurther stood frozen—until Mira turned to him, blood running from her mouth.

"HELP!!"

Her head was severed clean from her body, blood splattering around and onto Aurther's face.

He screamed. "What the HELL?!"

"Don't just stand there! Unleash whatever you did back in Elsera'Veyr!"

"I—I don't know how!"

Before he could say another word, he froze. A gurgling pain erupted inside him—like he was being ripped limb from limb and set on fire.

Then the shadow within him broke free.

Darkness rippled out in waves.

The Bloodborn screamed as it withered, its form unraveling in the air like thread pulled from a wound.

Everything went still.

The fire relit itself.

But only Aurther remained standing.

Around him: ash, blood, silence.

They buried the bodies at dawn.

Aurther said no words. He had none left.

"At least we aren't dead. Unlike them," said Lysaria.

"I don't know what happened. I was there one minute… and the next, I wasn't. I ki… I killed them. I killed them all."

Tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks like rivers.

"Come on," Lysaria said gently. "We still have a long way to go."

[End of Chapter 6]