Page 21 of Beyond the Fracture

Deyar turned back to the scribes. “Have you ever heard a real story about the Umbralyn? Not the ones in your books?”

Julen tensed. “True? Or tavern-told?”

Deyar’s grin flashed beneath his beard. “What’s the difference?”

Caelith cleared his throat. Maia could have sworn he rolled his eyes as Deyar began.

“When I was younger, old enough for ale, too young for a blade, I drank in Eryssan’s underways. Dark halls where the sea seeped through stone. They came there sometimes. Not as Guardians. Just men, with thirsts.”

He looked at Caelith. “I’ve seen them drink, seen them with women. There’s never tenderness. Always distant, as though nothing mattered.”

Julen muttered, “Monsters.”

“Perhaps,” Deyar said evenly. “But they never broke their Vow. Not once. Some drank. Some fought. Some lay with others. But at dawn, they always went back to their post.”

Caelith did not move. Even his horse seemed to sense the weight of Deyar’s words, keeping perfect pace.

Rhelas snorted. “And that makes them noble?”

“No,” Deyar said flatly. “Not at all. But from what I’ve seen, it makes them bound. True to their word. So far.”

Maia glanced at Caelith, waiting for him to bite. His silver eyes remained on the road ahead, untouched by the conversation.

***

Mist rose between the hills as the day thinned. The rhythm of hooves slowed, and even birds fell silent.

She had been watching for them since the cliffs. There were gulls over the harbour every morning, wheeling and shrieking above the boats. Out here there was nothing at all above the ridgeline, as if the sky had a border she couldn’t see.

“They don’t go over it,” Julen said, following her eyes. “Nothing does. My father says that anything that crosses the Fracture comes down dead.”

“Really? Has anyone seen that happen?”

Julen opened his mouth and then closed it again.

Maia drew her cloak tighter. “It feels colder,” she murmured.

Rhelas tilted his head, eyes sharp. “Colwyn, isn’t it? Master’s favourite girl. Tell me, what keeps you scribbling at your age? Nineteen?”

“Twenty-two,” she said tightly. “And I’m a scribe. Not a girl who scribbles.”

Rhelas’s brow lifted, mildly amused. “Still unwed?” He smirked. “I’d have thought a village daughter would have someone waiting in the fields.”

Julen shot him a glare. Maia met Rhelas’s eyes with quiet defiance. “I had someone at home,” she said softly.

His lips twisted. “And you left? He wasn’t good enough?”

She exhaled slowly. “He was good enough. But I wanted more than waiting for death in a cottage I’d never leave. My father was a scribe, too. He taught me there’s more to life than that. That’s why I was called here.”

Rhelas smirked faintly. “And that keeps you alive?”

“Better than submission,” she snapped.

The road fell quiet. Caelith let out a small noise, almost a chuckle. Maia almost lost her grip on the reins. Their eyes met briefly, and she caught something almost like approval in his. But it was gone before she could be sure she hadn’t imagined it.

***

Soon after, they made camp, the sky bleeding violet. A fire was lit, sparking against the dark. Deyar doled out bread and dried meat while Rhelas sharpened his knife, Julen muttered over notes, and Maia stretched stiff fingers.