They didn't find the village. The village found them.
After the fight in the ruins, they had limped north for another day. Kael's arm was a throbbing mass of pain, bound in dirty linen. He could feel the infection setting in—a hot, pulsing rhythm that matched the hum of the artifact.
Jaz was practically carrying Elric now. The old Knight was hallucinating, muttering about battles fought twenty years ago.
"We can't... go... further," Jax gasped, dropping to his knees in the dust.
Kael turned. He wanted to scream at them to get up, but his throat was too dry to make a sound.
Then the dust storm parted.
Standing on a ridge above them were three figures. They were wrapped in grey rags that blended perfectly with the landscape. They wore masks made of bleached bone—skulls of large birds or small wolves.
They held bows made of white wood.
"Trespassers," the center figure said. The voice was hollow, distorted by the mask.
"Travelers," Kael croaked, stepping in front of Elric. He reached for his sword with his good hand.
"Dying travelers," the figure corrected. "You smell of rot. And blood. And..."
The figure stiffened. It pointed a gloved hand at Kael's chest.
"...and Old Fire."
The figures lowered their bows. They slid down the ridge with unnatural grace, moving like oil over the rocks.
"We seek sanctuary," Kael said. "We have coin. Gold."
"Gold is heavy stone," the figure said. "Useless. We trade in life."
"We have weapons," Jax offered, desperate.
"We have those too." The figure gestured.
Kael saw more figures emerging from the dust. Dozens of them. They had been surrounded the whole time.
"Please," Kael said, his pride breaking under the weight of exhaustion. "My friend is dying."
The leader tilted its head. "He is already dead. The Ash claims him. But... the Fire you carry. It interests us."
"Help him," Kael said, clutching the pouch. "And I'll give you... something."
"Not the Fire," the leader said. "We do not touch the Old Fire. Whatever you carry, it is cursed. But we will take your service."
"Service?"
"The Grey Village needs strong backs. The season of High Ash is coming. We need walls repaired.
We need the deep wells cleared."
"We can work," Jax said quickly. "We're strong. well, he is." He pointed at Kael.
The leader looked at Kael's mangled arm. "Broken. But perhaps mending is possible. For a price."
"Name it," Kael said.
"One moon of service," the leader said. "You work until the Ash-Storm passes. Then you leave. If you die working... your bodies belong to the kiln."
"Agreed," Kael said.
"Follow."
They were led through a labyrinth of canyons until they reached a box canyon hidden from the world.
It was a miracle.
Houses carved directly into the cliff walls. Bridges of rope and bone sprawling across the gap. Green—actual, pale green—moss growing in irrigated patches near a thermal vent.
Sanctuary.
They were taken to a healer's dwelling. An old woman with eyes like polished obsidian washed Kael's arm with a stinging, pungent liquid. She sewed the flesh with gut-string.
"You have the demon-touch," she muttered, looking at the burns on his skin where the cylinder had rested. "It will eat you."
"Just fix the arm," Kael gritted out.
Elric was given a broth that smelled of earth and mold. He slept, his breathing easing for the first time in days.
Jax collapsed on a pile of furs, weeping with relief.
Kael walked out onto the ledge overlooking the village. It was peaceful. Quiet. A place where people just... lived.
But as he looked down, he saw the leader watching him. And he saw something else.
The villagers weren't just wearing masks. Some of them were the masks. Their skin was grey, hard as bark. They were changing. Adapting. becoming part of the Ashlands.
"One moon," Kael whispered.
He touched the artifact. It was quiet now. Sated.
But for how long?