Chapter 20 - Thin Air

  Night had not yet fully claimed the horizon.

  A faint, lingering twilight clung to the sky’s edge, casting just enough light to define the cabin’s silhouette. Its timber walls were dark and massive, pressed into the precipice, the seam between wood and stone hard to tell.

  Zio stood before the entrance.

  The atmosphere here differed from the trails they had traversed. Denser. Colder. He drew a breath and felt a sharp constriction in his chest before it eased. His next exhale came slower, misting faintly before fading.

  A gust of wind swept around the structure, slamming into the planks and leaving behind a low, persistent thrum.

  Zyon stepped forward first, moving toward the door. Zio observed from a pace behind, his gaze sweeping over the walls, the steep pitch of the roof, and the rugged joinery, unrefined, yet clearly built for endurance. There was not a single ornament to be found.

  “Inside,” Zyon said, pulling the door open.

  Zio gave a sharp nod and followed. He paused momentarily at the threshold as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. The main chamber was compact.

  A narrow, unyielding cot sat in the corner beneath a window. A stool, a table, and a wardrobe stood flush against the far wall.

  A mana lamp mounted to the wood stirred to life. Its radiance didn’t flicker with the amber warmth of a torch; it was flat, even. Zio’s gaze lingered on the unwavering light longer than it should have.

  The door clicked shut behind them. The roar of the wind was instantly muffled, reduced to a faint vibration that hummed through the timber.

  His shoulders lowered halfway. The rest of him didn’t follow.

  He moved further into the room. The wooden floor felt frigid beneath his soles, though the surface was rough and sure. He came to a brief halt.

  Zyon had already crossed to the other side of the room. He flicked open a low cabinet, scanned the contents for a heartbeat, and snapped it shut.

  “You sleep there,” Zyon said, gesturing toward the small cot beneath the window.

  Zio approached the bed without haste, testing the surface with the weight of his palm. He sat, hesitated for half a second, and then let his full weight settle. The wood groaned under the burden, a short, sharp protest.

  The cold from the floor began to climb his calves. Zio drew a shallow breath and slowly released it. He peeled off his gloves and set them neatly beside the frame.

  Zyon paused at the threshold of his own room. He glanced back briefly. “Recover your strength for tomorrow.” Then the door closed behind him.

  Zio leaned his back against the timber wall. The surface was coarse and thick against his spine. Outside, the wind struck the cliffside with a steady roar.

  Shadows within the cabin shifted slowly, almost imperceptibly. The color of the wooden walls flattened into a uniform grey as night finally took hold.

  Zio sat motionless. His breathing went on by itself, shallow, even, barely lifting his chest. The air caught briefly at the back of his throat before slipping out again.

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  He reached down and removed his shoes, tucking them beneath the cot. His left hand lingered on the laces for a moment before finally letting go.

  From behind Zyon’s door, there was only silence.

  The wind outside softened to a whistle, and the cabin creaked as it settled into the cold. Zio opened his pack and retrieved a piece of bread and a bottle of water provided by Martha. He ate and drank with measured, quiet deliberation.

  Night settled over Greyhollow, quiet and unhurried.

  Trod’s smithy was barred. The heavy doors were shut tight, but a dim light glowed from within, just enough to illuminate the bench outside. The forge had long since cooled, leaving behind the familiar scent of iron mingling with the damp night air.

  Trod sat on a low bench, his spine pressed against the workshop wall. He held a metal cup; a faint trace of steam rose from it before vanishing into the dark. He sipped slowly.

  From the end of the street, the sound of rhythmic footfalls echoed.

  Martha emerged from the shadows of the wooden houses. A few windows in the village remained bright, carrying the muffled sounds of clinking pots and soft laughter. In the distance, a night watchman passed by, his spear dragging lightly against the cobblestones.

  Martha came to a halt near Trod. “Not heading in yet?”

  Trod shifted his shoulders. “The air inside is still holding the day’s heat.”

  Martha nodded and took a seat beside him, leaving a small breath of space between them.

  For several moments, they sat in silence. The wind carried the scent of baking bread from a neighboring hearth. Someone shuttered a window. A dog barked once, then fell quiet.

  “Has he reached it yet?” Martha asked.

  “Not if he’s on foot,” Trod replied. “But we know who Zyon is.”

  Martha looked down the road. She had known these stones all her life, their cracks, their uneven edges.

  “I know,” she said. “But still. Do you trust Zyon?”

  Trod took another swallow from his cup. It was nearly empty. “Not entirely. But I trust Zio.”

  “I know he isn’t fragile.”

  “Then why the worry?”

  Martha’s mouth curved into a thin smile. She didn’t answer.

  Trod tilted his head back, looking at the narrow stretch of sky between the roofs. Clouds hid the stars.

  “If only he would agree to the seal again,” Martha said quietly. “Maybe he could live normally.”

  “Zio wouldn’t choose that,” Trod said. After a pause, his voice eased. “And a seal is only temporary. He knows it.”

  Martha nodded, though her gaze stayed distant.

  “I just…” She drew in a breath. “I want to know he’s breathing easy tonight.”

  Trod looked toward the northern road, where the dark swallowed the distance.

  They remained there as the village lights dimmed one by one. A bell rang once from the square.

  Martha stood. “I’m going home.”

  Trod nodded. “Get some rest.”

  Her footsteps faded. The smithy returned to its quiet, holding onto the last of its warmth.

  Trod stayed until the cup in his hand cooled completely.

  The cabin stayed quiet through the night.

  The mana lamp had been doused. Only a thin line of pale light slipped through the window, cutting across the timber wall.

  Zio lay on his side on the narrow cot, the blanket drawn to his chest. The wood beneath him stayed firm.

  He closed his eyes.

  The first breath went in clean.

  The next didn’t reach as far.

  The one after that stalled halfway.

  Zio’s eyes opened.

  He tried to draw in more air. His chest expanded, then stopped before it finished.

  Air left his lungs in a thin stream.

  His shoulders lifted again immediately.

  His jaw tightened. He stayed still, waiting.

  He tried again.

  The air entered, thin. His chest tightened, muscles locking as the space inside narrowed.

  Zio jerked upright. His feet struck the cold floor.

  He pulled in a breath through his nose.

  It stopped in his throat.

  Pressure spread behind his sternum. Broad. Heavy. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees. His shoulders rose and fell unevenly, his breathing breaking into short pulls and rushed releases.

  His head buzzed.

  He opened his mouth, pulling for air.

  Nothing came.

  His chest jerked once, then again. A rough sound tore from his throat.

  He surged upward, shoulders drawn high.

  A sliver of air slipped in.

  His shoulders stayed raised.

  Zio pressed his palm hard against his chest.

  Beneath his hand, something shifted. Subtle. Out of rhythm.

  He froze.

  One second.

  Two.

  His breathing broke again. The next breath came apart into a harsh, trembling sound that filled the small room.

  Cold air rushed in.

  Zio stayed where he was, fingers clenched in his shirt, his body shaking.

  Outside, the wind struck the cliff again. The timber groaned under the strain.