Chapter 31 — Rest Among Ruins

Merlin lay curled by the fire, chest rising slow, glow faint and steady now. He'd eaten, drunk, and even wagged his tail once, but his body still sagged with exhaustion. Every instinct in me screamed to move, to put more miles between us and the Caller's shadow.

But when Elira stirred the fire back to life, I asked quietly, "If we stay here a day or two—will it kill us?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Depends what you mean by kill. The forest has teeth, but so does exhaustion. He needs rest." She nodded at Merlin. "And so do you."

I didn't argue.

We spent the day in the ruins. Elira walked the broken temple with a collector's eye, brushing moss from carvings, humming to herself as she traced the circles and lines. I sat with Merlin, sharpening my club with a stone, the relic sword resting close at hand.

At dusk she sat across from me, pulling dried herbs from her basket and grinding them between stones. "You want history," she said without looking up. "But history here isn't one story. It's a hundred, and they don't agree."

"Give me one."

She blew the dust away. "The temples belonged to the First Weavers. They saw the world's bones—lines of power, patterns of stone, breath of beasts—and thought they could hold them in their hands. Some say they did. Built relics. Shaped rivers. Spoke with storms. Others say it broke them, scattered them like ash."

I thought of the Caller's halls, the lattice I'd seen, the threads I'd pulled. My stomach tightened.

"And the Caller?" I asked.

Her lips pressed thin. "He calls himself the last Weaver. Claims the rest were lies, that only his line held true sight. But power like his doesn't come without roots. He didn't make himself. Something gave him that grip."

Merlin whined softly, curling tighter against me. I stroked his fur, watching Elira as the fire painted shadows across her face.

"And the sword?"

She glanced at it once. "A relic chooses its own moment. You pulled it—that's enough for now. Don't rush to make it more."

We ate smoked grask, bitter and stringy, with her bread to soften it. Above, the stars drifted in their slow, strange dance.

Merlin's breathing grew deeper, steadier. For the first time since the summoning, I let my shoulders drop. The world was vast, dangerous, absurd—but here, for one night, it held.

— Thirteenth day, resting among ruins —