Muffled voices drifted into Erith's awareness.

Pain flared in his head, pounding at his temples. A sharp, awful stab shot through his right side with the slightest movement. Unable to fight it, he collapsed back against the cot.

The memory of his friend's face was inescapable—panic and fear twisting Elian's features, then the cold, peaceful gaze from his lifeless body. The image hit him harder than the pain. Before he could stop it, tears rolled down his cheeks.

A voice broke through the haze of his thoughts. "Ah, so you've come around," it said gently.

Erith blinked through his tears, his vision sharpening enough to make out a man standing at his bedside. The healer wore a deep green long coat and a leather belt hung with various satchels and tools that clinked with each step.

"Try and lie as still as you can," the healer continued. "We've kept you under for nearly a week, but you'll still need time to recover."

He hovered over Erith, inspecting the fresh bandages wrapped around his chest. "These look like they'll do from here."

The smell of herbs and salves stung Erith’s eyes as the healer leaned in closer. "Can you speak?" he asked.

Erith winced as he answered, mustering only a whisper. "...Yes..."

The healer gave a brisk nod. "That'll be your ribs. We suspected several were fractured. Don't move too much, you'll only aggravate them. I'm to let the Vice Captain know that you're awake."

Outside the healing tent, murmurs of a low argument simmered. The Warden’s sharp tone met a steadier reply.

"I understand your concerns," came the Vice Captain's calm, measured voice. "And I assure you, they will be addressed. But pressing someone who’s only just woken from something like that will yield little of the clarity you're hoping for."

The Warden said something in return, but his words were muffled and grew distant.

The Vice Captain stepped inside and paused as the tent flap shifted closed behind him. Without a word, he pulled a small wooden stool from the corner and sat beside the cot.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

A crate of used bandages sat nearby, most soaked through with blood. Tear streaks marked Erith’s bruised face, but the Vice Captain didn’t linger on them.

His expression dimmed, lowering his head.

"The Surelian Sifting Company has stood for nearly three centuries," the Vice Captain began. "It was built on Adoses Surelian’s unyielding commitment to securing the Kingdom of Aldarath's future."

The Vice Captain's eyes glimmered as he spoke. "The Storm Seers charted the storm routes, predicting when and where Kaida shards would surge. From those predictions, Surelian sent men to sift for the fallen shards.”

“Every year, each expedition is named after the Storm Seers’ routes, chasing the storm's wake.” He paused, his gaze returning to the discarded bandages. "But the Pining Frost Expedition is the only one which keeps its name year after year. The first out each season, setting the tone for what was to come."

A heavy weight settled into the Vice Captain's words. "The Pining Frost Expedition was to represent the very foundation of Aldarath itself. A model of greatness. In these uncertain times, we've continued to persevere. To push forward."

"To be blind."

The grandeur of history gave way to the harsh reality of the present, with Erith lying before him.

"The drought hasn't just robbed us of Kaida," the Vice Captain said, grimacing. "It's brought dangers we failed to foresee. The threat now isn't just scarcity—it's something far darker."

The gravity of his words deepened. "This failure is mine. I should have known. I should have seen that the strength of Aldarath—and the Pining Frost Expedition—is being tested like never before. And in that, I failed you all."

"Elian... They..."

The Vice Captain shook his head gently. "That Murasi tore through stone like it was nothing. It passed through the barrier—far beyond what we thought possible. We feared it might not be deterred at all. Eventually, it retreated into the cliffside. We lost twenty-two men that night."

The canvas walls hissed dully against the wind. "At dawn, we buried the dead that we could along the river and made for the Reach."

He hesitated, genuine sadness in his voice. "I'm sorry."

After a slow, measured breath, the Vice Captain continued. "I don't want to force you to relive that night, but it's haunted me. Murasi of that size... I thought they were myth. Stories meant to stoke fear and keep people cautious. If you'd told me you'd seen one, I wouldn't have believed you. How could someone live to tell that tale? And yet..."

His eyes moved along the bandages. "Here you are. I saw it with my own eyes, and still, I can't quite reconcile it. You were thrown halfway to the riverbank with the rest of that building."

"How did you survive?"

The question struck deeper than the pain in his ribs. If anyone ever found out what Erith could truly do—what he’d been able to do for as long as he could remember—he feared what might follow.

Erith chose each frail word carefully. "I... I don't know. I knelt behind the sword. The other one... it was at my feet near the wall. I don't know if that Kaida made a difference."

His voice broke as he spoke the only truth he had to offer. "I wish it didn't."

Maeric went still, taking in the hollow look in Erith’s eyes. He let the silence hold for a moment longer.

"Survival can be its own burden,” the Vice Captain said softly. “We're the ones left to endure after what's been lost. I don't know if anyone in Aldarath has ever faced what you have and lived. Maybe there's something in that, something worth seeing through." 

The Vice Captain stood, rising smoothly and making his way toward the tent entrance. "Rest a bit longer. You won't be fit to sift, but there will be other ways for you to help." 

At the threshold, he paused, offering Erith a final glance. "Ah, I never introduced myself properly.”

“Maeric Estorath."

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