Kael had always trusted weight.
Steel in his hand. Armor on his shoulders. The solid resistance of an enemy blade meeting his own. Weight was honest. It told you where you stood and whether you were strong enough to remain there.
What walked beside him now was not honest weight.
They moved through a narrow pass where stone walls rose like clenched jaws on either side. The wind howled unevenly, cutting out without warning, then returning twice as hard. Kael led by instinct, eyes scanning for ambush points, loose rock, anything that could be used against them.
Behind him, Aerin walked in silence.
Too quiet. Too careful.
Kael adjusted his pace without looking back. Whenever Aerin drew too close, the air seemed to resist him, like the world needed a moment to decide whether Kael was still allowed to occupy that space.
It made his skin crawl.
"You're limping," Kael said at last.
"I'll manage," Aerin replied.
That answer irritated him more than it should have.
Kael stopped.
Lyra nearly walked into him. "What—?"
"We're slowing," Kael said. "And pretending that's not happening won't help anyone."
Aerin met his gaze. There was no defensiveness there. No pride. Just a strange, distant patience—as if pain had become something theoretical.
"I don't feel it the way I should," Aerin said quietly. "That's the problem."
Kael frowned. He didn't like that either.
Veyrin cleared his throat. "We are approaching a region of contested influence. If the Covenant is wise, they'll keep their distance."
"And if they're not?" Kael asked.
Veyrin's eyes flicked to Aerin. "Then they'll test him."
Kael's jaw tightened.
They'll test us, he thought.
The pass opened suddenly into a wide plateau. Old watchtowers dotted the landscape, most collapsed, a few still standing by stubborn refusal alone. A road ran through the center—cracked, uneven, but unmistakably manmade.
Kael raised a fist.
Tracks.
Booted. Organized. Recent.
"We're not alone," he murmured.
As if summoned by the words, figures stepped out from behind the nearest tower. Six of them. Light armor, no insignia Kael recognized, weapons worn but well-maintained.
Mercenaries.
One of them raised an open hand. "Easy. We're not here to fight."
Kael didn't lower his blade.
"You're blocking a road," Kael said. "That's usually a choice people regret."
The man chuckled nervously. "Fair. But you're worth more to us breathing."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Us?"
Another mercenary stepped forward. "Word travels fast. A man who breaks magic by standing near it."
Kael felt the familiar heat rise in his chest.
"Keep talking," he said.
"We've been paid to confirm," the mercenary continued, glancing at Aerin. "Not kill. Not capture. Just… see."
Kael stepped slightly to the side—subtle, deliberate—placing himself between Aerin and the mercenaries.
"Then you've seen enough," Kael said. "Walk away."
The leader hesitated. "Orders are orders."
The first arrow flew.
Kael moved without thought.
Steel rang as he knocked the arrow aside. He charged before the second could be loosed, boots pounding stone, blade flashing in a clean, brutal arc.
The mercenaries reacted fast—too fast for amateurs. They spread, flanking instinctively.
Kael grinned.
Good.
A blade met his, sparks flying. Kael twisted, slammed his shoulder forward, and drove the man back. Another came from the side—Kael turned just in time to block, the impact numbing his arm.
Then the air shifted.
Not violently. Precisely.
Kael felt it like pressure on his spine.
The mercenaries did too.
One stumbled mid-swing, his weapon suddenly too heavy. Another cursed as the edge of his blade dulled visibly, metal graying as if years passed in seconds.
"Aerin!" Lyra shouted.
"I'm not doing anything," Aerin replied.
Kael believed him.
That was the problem.
Kael pressed the advantage. He moved through the disoriented fighters with practiced efficiency—disarming, striking joints, ending resistance without killing when he could.
Within moments, the plateau fell quiet.
Two mercenaries lay unconscious. One crawled backward, terror etched across his face.
"Who paid you?" Kael demanded.
The man swallowed. "Didn't say a name. Only said the still places are spreading. Wanted eyes on the source."
Kael glanced back at Aerin.
Still places.
"Go," Kael said. "Tell them what you saw."
The mercenary didn't argue.
When they were gone, Kael sheathed his blade with more force than necessary.
"That's going to keep happening," Lyra said quietly.
"I know," Kael replied.
He turned to Aerin.
For the first time since they'd met, Kael didn't see a companion.
He saw terrain.
Unstable. Dangerous. Unavoidable.
"You didn't ask for this," Kael said slowly. "But people are going to die because of it."
Aerin nodded. "I know."
That calm acceptance snapped something in Kael's chest.
"Knowing isn't enough," Kael said. "You don't get to just endure while others pay the price."
Aerin met his eyes. For a brief moment, something old flickered there—regret, perhaps. Or resolve.
"Then tell me what you'd have me do," Aerin said.
Kael hesitated.
The honest answer rose unbidden.
Leave.
Disappear.
Or die.
Kael swallowed it down.
Instead, he said, "We keep moving. We don't stay anywhere long enough to rot the ground."
Veyrin watched him closely. "You assume responsibility quickly."
Kael didn't look at the old man. "Someone has to."
As they resumed their march, Kael felt the truth settle into his bones.
This was no longer about protecting Aerin.
It was about managing him.
And one day—Kael knew it with cold certainty—managing wouldn't be enough.
When that day came, the weight would be his to carry.
Whether the world forgave him or not.