Lysaro let out a scoff. Well, if one decides to whisper, I hope it speaks clearly. I'm too tired for riddles.
Night crept over them as they climbed the Ridge of Graves. The name wasn't metaphorical. Half-buried stones and carved bone markers jutted from the cliffs, etched in languages long dead. The wind howled differently here, not like storm or breath, but like teeth.
Finally, Kaelith raised a hand.
They stopped at the edge of a plateau, the sky split wide above them. Two moons hung overhead, pale and watching. Below, nestled against the cliff wall, sat a half-collapsed stone structure. A shrine. Its roof had fallen in, but its walls held. At the center, a dais rose slightly from the stone floor.
Kaelith dismounted.
"This is it."
Hale followed, eyes cautious. Elion and Lysaro moved more slowly.
As Kaelith approached the dais, something flickered across its surface. Not light. Not movement. A pressure, like breath without breath.
He knelt and laid the flute across the stone.
