Mark of the assassin - a Shadowbane tale

The ridge tears loose behind Slaan. Snow and shale roar down into the pass, and the black vapor vent spits harder beneath it. Ahead, the slope drops toward the lowlands, but the iron scroll case jolts in the drift like something trying to wake.

Slaan braces on the frozen lip and drags the case free. The Sun-Eater records are still with them, but the ground shudders again, and a crack of light leaks through the snow behind the collapsing stone.

A second tremor slams through the ridge. The iron case skids to Slaan's boots, and the black vapor thickens into a pulsing vein under the ice. Below, the pass is becoming a furnace under snow.

Slaan reaches the crest with the records in hand. Behind her, the Chapel's trap and the awakening Chaos node are now one danger, and the only path forward is the lowlands.

Bram yanks his gaze from the snow-choked slope and points downhill, where the way narrows between black rock and drifting ash.

Behind them, the rupture gulps light and hisses louder, but ahead the lowlands lie open, a thin route through the storm.

Above the ridge, a dark shape shifts against the snow, high enough to watch the pass without touching it.

Slaan gets the answer she needs, and the group snaps into motion toward the eastern drop, records secured against her side.

Slaan turns on Dravin in one clean motion, hooking his leg low and pulling him off balance. He hits the snow hard, and she lands over him before he can recover, the iron scroll case still tight against her side.

Bram’s warning cuts across the slope as loose snow sifts from the ridge. The shadowed figure above shifts again, and a second plume of black vapor coughs from the widening fissure.

Dravin lies pinned, one shoulder buried in ice, ash still dusting his glove. Beneath them, the pass groans open another handspan, and the air fills with cold smoke.

Slaan’s hand slides over Dravin’s coat, quick and precise. From an inner seam she finds the marked scroll, thin as a blade and stamped with fresh ash. She draws it free before he can twist away.

The scroll gives once under her fingers, as if something inside it still has weight. Dravin’s eyes snap to it, then up to Slaan, concern tightening into alarm.

Bram shifts at the edge of the drift, still staring toward the ridge. Above them, the shadowed figure remains half-lost in snow haze, and the black vapor thickens along the split earth.

The pass groans again. Snow sloughs from the slope, and the eastern drop opens into view through the smoke, a hard line leading down toward the lowlands.

Bram lowers his bow a fraction, listening instead of watching the ridge. The black vapor keeps crawling from the fissure, but the three of them hold a tight little circle around Slaan and the ash-stamped scroll.

Slaan leaves Northern Highlands mountain pass behind and arrives at Dragon Scale.

Dragon Scale opens around them in a hard ring of stone and wind, a bare landing above the lowlands. Slaan drops in with the scroll tucked close, and the air feels thinner, colder, cleaner.

Bram and Dravin catch themselves at either side of her, boots skidding on grit. Lord Markul steadies one hand on the rock, then turns to scan the broken horizon behind them.

Below them, the lowlands lie open under a pale strip of sky. Behind them, black vapor bruises the mountain pass, but no pursuers crest the ridge yet.

The ash-stamped scroll sits in Slaan’s hand as the others wait on her answer, all three looking to her for the next move.