Ashwalker:Blood in the Wind

They crossed into the Stoneveil Pass by morning.

A narrow cleft between sheer cliffs, barely wide enough for two travelers side by side. The walls pressed in, like fingers around a throat. The girl didn't like it.

"Too quiet," she muttered.

The Ashwalker agreed. But they had no choice. The long route would take days they didn't have.

Behind them, the Nullbrand crawled — not on the road, but through thought. He could feel it now.

Like a tickle behind the eyes.

A weight in his dreams.

Not screaming. Not gnawing.

Remembering.

And when it remembered clearly enough… it would bleed into the world.

At the center of the pass, they found an old stone gate carved with the seal of the Creed.

A broken eye above a kneeling man.

The girl stared. "It's watching."

"It always is," he said.

He approached, hand brushing the stone — then paused.

His fingers came away red.

"Blood?"

"No," he said. "Ink. Ritual paint."

She frowned. "Someone marked this recently?"

He nodded. "Ashwatchers. This gate's still active."

She stepped back. "Active how?"

He looked up at the eye.

"If we pass through uninvited, it remembers us."

She crossed her arms. "So what, we go back?"

"No," he said. "We erase the memory."

She blinked. "What does that mean?"

"It means we blind the eye."

He drew his dagger and approached the gate. Not the blade he used in battle — a smaller one, ceremonial.

With a deep breath, he carved a sigil into his palm.

Blood flowed, thick and dark.

He smeared it across the seal, crossing the eye from corner to corner.

Then he whispered something in the old tongue.

The air shuddered.

Not with sound.

With absence.

Like something had been watching — and now turned away.

The girl stared. "That was… effective."

He wiped his palm, wrapping it tight.

"It was a lie," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"I didn't blind the eye."

"I told it what to see."

The gate sealed behind them.

Not with stone.

With air.

A sudden collapse, like the cliffs exhaled — and the way they came crumbled shut under a spray of shale and ash.

The girl cursed, heart pounding. "That wasn't natural."

"No," the Ashwalker said. "It was the toll."

"What toll?"

"The eye saw us. It always demands something in return."

He turned.

And pointed at a narrow split in the rock ahead.

A tunnel.

Not carved by hands.

Eroded. Twisting.

Breathing.

The air that came from it wasn't foul — it was clean. Too clean. Like it had never touched lungs before.

She hesitated. "We're going in there?"

He nodded once.

"We have no choice."

She clenched her fists.

"I hate when you say that."

"Then learn to make the choice yourself," he said flatly.

And walked into the tunnel.

The walls grew tighter after twenty steps.

Moisture beaded on the stone — not water, but condensation from something warmer deep inside.

She stayed close behind, watching his shoulders.

Then the tunnel opened again — into a chamber shaped like a tear, curved upward, a domed roof covered in moss that shimmered blue in the dark.

In the center stood a single monolith.

Cracked. Slanted.

Covered in dozens of names etched deep.

Not with honor.

With urgency.

Like someone was trying to remember.

"What is this place?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he walked to the monolith, stared at it, and slowly knelt.

She blinked.

"You're… praying?"

"No," he whispered.

"I'm apologizing."

He placed one hand against the stone — and the names began to shift.

Letters moving. Realigning.

One of them changed.

A new name formed.

The girl's.

She stumbled back. "What the hell?!"

"You stepped into the toll," he said calmly.

"This place records who comes through. It does not forget."

She stared in horror as her name solidified into the ancient granite, glowing faintly.

"But… I never agreed to this."

He stood.

"You never do," he said. "That's the deal."

A low hum echoed through the chamber.

Something stirred beneath them.

Stone. Metal. Memory.

Something watching.

The girl gritted her teeth.

"No," she muttered. "Not this time."

And then — for the first time — she stepped ahead of him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm making a choice."

She reached into her satchel, pulled out a piece of flint and a glass shard.

Kneeling before the monolith, she etched a new line.

One more name.

Not her own.

His.

He stepped forward. "What have you done?"

She stood.

"I shared it."

The humming stopped.

The glow faded.

The monolith quieted.

She smiled.

"Now it remembers both of us."

The chamber quieted.

No more hum. No more movement.

Just breath.

Just presence.

The girl stood beside him now, arms crossed but gaze soft.

"You don't always have to carry it alone," she said.

He didn't answer.

But he looked at the monolith — at the two names glowing side by side — and gave the faintest nod.

Not approval.

Not gratitude.

Recognition.

They walked in silence after that.

The tunnel bent twice more before it opened to the outside — an overlook of the black valley below.

The Woundscape.

It stretched like a scar in the earth, jagged rock and long-forgotten rivers dried to ash. Far in the distance, towers leaned as if in mourning. Broken fortresses. Forgotten chapels. Graves that had never been filled.

The Ashwalker narrowed his eyes.

"They've already passed through here."

She followed his gaze. "The Ashwatchers?"

He pointed to a flagstone sigil buried halfway in the dirt, still pulsing faint red.

"No," he said. "Worse."

They set camp beneath a stone overhang that night. No fire.

Only flintlight — a soft chemical glow from a cracked orb he crushed between his fingers.

The girl leaned against her pack.

"So what's worse than the Ashwatchers?"

He didn't look at her when he answered.

"The ones who made them."

Far behind, within the monolith chamber, the two names still glowed faintly.

And from the corners of the chamber, dust lifted.

Spiraled once.

And flowed toward the east.

The Nullbrand had learned their names.

Now it had paths to follow.