The second day didn't begin with a sunrise. On the Shadow-Shelf, the only way to tell time was the shifting temperature of the stone. When the obsidian under Kiron's cheek turned from freezing to a dull, damp cold, Vahn's foot was already nudging his ribs.
"Up. The dead don't wait for the sun," Vahn grunted.
Kiron's body felt like it had been crushed under a landslide. Every joint was stiff, and his palms were a mess of dried blood and grit. Beside him, Taz was still deep in a feverish sleep, his face pale. Nyra was nowhere to be seen, likely scouting the perimeter.
"We aren't lifting the wood today," Vahn said, walking toward the center of the dark hall. He held a small, jagged piece of flint and a bowl of thick, black oil. "Today, we strip the skin from the soul. Sit."
Kiron sat, his legs trembling. Vahn dipped his fingers into the oil and smeared a thick line across Kiron's forehead, then over his eyes. The oil was freezing, smelling of ancient rot and bitter herbs.
"Close your eyes," Vahn commanded. "The 'Blood-Prayer' inside you is a flood. If you keep the gates open, you'll drown. I am going to teach you how to build a dam."
As Kiron closed his eyes, the oil seemed to seep through his eyelids. The darkness of the Oru-Gate vanished, replaced by a sudden, jarring clarity. He wasn't sitting on the floor anymore. He was back in the red-stained dirt of Koda.
But it was different. He wasn't watching from afar. He was standing right in the center of the circle of villagers.
The gore was more vivid than before. He could hear the wet squelch of boots in the mud—mud that was actually a slurry of blood and ash. To his left, he saw a young girl, no older than seven, clutching a doll. A Mist-Ghoul loomed over her, its bone-blade clicking as it extended.
"Help her!" Kiron screamed, lunging forward.
His feet wouldn't move.
"They are already dead, boy," Vahn's voice echoed in the vision, sounding as if it were coming from the sky itself. "This is not a dream. This is a record etched into your very cells. If you try to save them, the memory will consume you. You must watch. You must feel the blade, but you must not let it cut you."
Kiron watched in horror as the Ghoul's blade went through the girl. He didn't just see it; he felt a sharp, phantom sting in his own chest. His heart rate skyrocketed. The heat in his palms began to sizzle, the gold light threatening to burst out and incinerate the vision.
"No!" Vahn roared in his mind. "Build the dam! Swallow the scream! If you flare now, the Zen-Zun will see the light from across the sky!"
Kiron choked back a sob. He watched a father beheaded. He watched mothers thrown into the fire. He watched the elders slice their own veins, their faces contorted in a mix of agony and holy ecstasy. The smell of burning hair and iron was so thick he gagged.
Every death sent a shockwave through him. He felt like his soul was being beaten on an anvil.
Swallow it, he told himself, his teeth drawing blood from his lip. Hold it in.
He began to visualize the blood of the villagers not as a tragedy, but as a thread. A single, crimson line connecting his heart to theirs. He stopped trying to fight the images. Instead, he let them wash over him, cold and heavy. He accepted the weight of their deaths.
The heat in his hands stopped burning. It turned into a dull, heavy throb—a reservoir of power that sat quiet and dark behind a wall of sheer will.
When Kiron opened his eyes, he was back in the Oru-Gate. He was gasping for air, tears carving tracks through the black oil on his face.
Vahn was nodding, his sightless face grim. "The dam is built. You've learned the first lesson: A weapon doesn't feel pity. It only feels its purpose."
Suddenly, Nyra burst through the heavy stone doors, her face covered in soot.
"Vahn! Get them into the deep tunnels!" she hissed, her voice tight with panic.
"What happened?" Kiron asked, wiping his eyes, his hands still shaking from the visions of the massacre.
"The sky," Nyra pointed upward.
Kiron looked out through the cracks in the ceiling. The violet clouds hadn't just changed color. They were curdling. High above, a massive, golden shape began to pierce through the mist—a foot the size of a cathedral, clad in armor that wept black tears.
Juro-Gai had arrived. And he wasn't sending guards.
The very mountain groaned under the weight of the God's descent. The "Stripping" was over. The hunt had begun.