The Domini saga

The wind lashes the High Pass, and the wayhouse keeps pulsing amber behind Kynes like a warning heart. A lone wayfarer stumbles out of the whiteout, cloak crusted with snow, and stops short when he sees Kynes and Bren.

Bren shifts half a step closer to Kynes, blade low but ready. The wayfarer keeps his distance, eyes fixed past them toward the bend as if he expects something to answer him from the snow.

A fresh gust tears through the pass, and snow whips sideways around the three of them. Beyond the next curve, the whiteout seems thicker, almost deliberate.

Kynes pulls Bren in close, and a low spill of shadow unfurls around them like a cloak. The wind bites through the drift as their outlines blur to black and white.

The Wayfarer stiffens, then Kynes hooks him by the cloak and lifts him clear of the snow. The man gives a choked gasp, eyes wide with fear.

Void light tears open beside the drift, and Kynes steps through with Bren pressed against his side. Snow snaps in their wake, and the shadow veil frays at the edges.

They land hard beyond the bend, where the track narrows into a shallow white hollow. A figure stands there in white cloth, still as a post, head slightly turned toward them.

Behind Kynes, the wayfarer drops back into the snow with a wheeze. Bren’s blade comes up at once, and the white-clad watcher does not move.

Kynes’s telekinesis snaps tight, and the Wayfarer tears free of the snow in a lurching arc toward the white-clad figure.

The watcher takes the impact without a stagger. White cloth ripples, snow bursts outward, and the hollow rings like a struck bowl.

The Wayfarer hits hard and slides at the watcher’s feet, half-buried and gasping. Bren’s blade stays up, but her stance shifts, ready to move with Kynes.

The wayhouse behind them thrums louder, amber leaking through its beams as if the throw has tugged a hidden cord.

Wind scours the hollow. The white-clad watcher remains planted, now fully focused on Kynes’s position.

The watcher’s head tilts toward the wayhouse, then back to Kynes. Behind them, the amber pulse swells in the timber like a held breath finally noticed.

Kynes reaches out with his senses, finding the hard shelf of the mountain beneath the snow, but the depth is obscured by a shifting, unnatural chill. The ground is there, yet it refuses to be measured.

Kynes keeps his hand on the rock, then tilts his head toward the watcher. The white-clad figure does not move, but its stillness feels deliberate, measured.

The answer lands plain and cold. The figure’s cloth stirs in the wind, and the wayhouse far off answers with a thicker amber pulse.

Bren shifts half a step closer to Kynes, blade low but ready. The watcher’s attention stays on him, as if waiting for what he does with the name it has refused him.

Kynes does not raise his voice. His staff hand stays still in the snow, and his unseen force closes hard on two throats at once.

The white-clad watcher jerks once and goes slack, the cloth collapsing around a suddenly boneless shape. Bren’s blade lifts a fraction as the hollow goes very still.

The figure drops into the drift without a sound. Kynes’s grip releases, and the motionless form lies half-buried beside the scraped rock.

Bren keeps her eyes on the fallen watcher, then flicks a glance toward the bend. The wayhouse’s amber glow swells once, as if something inside notices the silence.

Wind scours the hollow clean again. The path beyond the bend is no longer guarded, but the far light now hangs on Kynes’s position like a fresh eye.