Forty paces down the defile. There, the sheer dark rock cliffs gave way to the pine-clad spurs of the southern mountains, a dry scree slope climbed gently toward the ridge.
It was an open, clear exit.
There were no glass-like beasts on that gravel path. There was no falling stonework. The wind blowing down from the ridge smelled of wet moss, fresh resin, and the vast, peaceful emptiness of the southern forests. A man with sound boots, light leathers, and an agile step could sprint up that slope in thirty seconds, melt into the dark mountain timber, and be three miles away down the Blackwater valley before dawn broke over the burning mountain.
Every neuron in Ren-the-Cinder’s brain—twenty years of finely sharpened, survival-tested, weaponized cowardice—was screaming at him to take that path.
His boots were already turned toward the scree. His hands were tucked deep into his greasy coat pockets. His fingers grabbed his beloved sixteen brass skeleton keys. He had already taken four rapid, silent steps into the shadows beneath a dripping cedar.
He was safe. He was out. The promise of his survival was satisfied.
Then, through the howling wind and the roar of the waterfalls, he heard the wet, sickening crunch of Brother Ren’s ribs shattering beneath the crystal blade.
