The climb to the Basalt Hang was a grueling ascent through a landscape of vertical shadows. The cliffs rose in hexagonal pillars of black stone, looking like the pipes of a gargantuan organ sunk deep into the earth. Built into these columns were dwellings carved directly into the rock, connected by winding stone stairs and suspension bridges that swayed over the white haze of the canyons below.

  Prayer flags stretched between the dwellings. Once vibrant with color, they were now stiff with a thick coating of gray ash. When the wind caught them, they did not flutter. They hummed with a low, metallic vibration that pulsed through the shepherd’s teeth.

  Barnaby led the way, his gear-laden coat clacking against his thighs. He had not stopped talking since they left the tea-house.

  "The transition from static to fluid time was roughly three seconds," Barnaby noted, looking back at the shepherd with wide, inquisitive eyes. "When you pulled the resonance, did it feel like a weight in your stomach or a pressure behind your eyes? Most whose bodies have been warped by the disharmony describe a taste of copper. Did you taste copper?"

  The shepherd adjusted the strap of his pack. "It felt like ice," he said. His voice was gaining a gravelly edge from the dust. "It felt like holding my breath under cold water."

  "Fascinating. A thermal displacement of sound," Barnaby muttered, scribbling into a small leather book while he walked. "That suggests your hollow is not just an absence of noise. It is an active consumption of energy."

  They reached a wide ledge where a merchant’s stall sat under a canopy of heavy, cured hide. The merchant, a man named Vane, was busy weighing a pile of dull crystals. His skin was the color of cured leather, and his hands possessed an unnatural, metallic sheen that caught the flat light of the sun. He was a man whose body had begun to mirror the minerals he traded.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Vane looked at Barnaby, then at the two strangers. He did not smile. He did not offer a greeting. He simply held out a hand with the palm up.

  "Barnaby brings me many things," Vane said. His voice was as hard as the basalt. "Usually they are broken. Sometimes they are dangerous. Which is this?"

  Kael stepped forward and placed the bronze plate from the ceramic ruins onto the counter. He kept his hand near the metal, his eyes scanning the surrounding market.

  Vane’s eyes narrowed. He did not touch the bronze immediately. He hovered his metallic hand over it, sensing the vibration. "This is not just bronze scrap. This is a Synchronizer from the era of the Great Fire. It is the mechanical heartbeat of a Heat-Skimmer."

  The shepherd leaned in. "A heartbeat?"

  "The old machines do not run on coal," Vane explained, his tone strictly transactional. "They run on the rhythm of the dragons. Without a Synchronizer to regulate the pulse, the engines simply explode or stall. This piece is pristine. It is the only reason a skimmer would ever fly again."

  As Vane spoke, the shepherd’s attention was pulled away by a parchment nailed to a nearby pillar. It was a Kingdom notice. There was no face on the paper. Instead, it depicted a perfect black circle in the center of a white field. Beneath the image, the text was simple: The Unmaker. The Void in the Hymn. One thousand silver marks for the location of the silence.

  The shepherd felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the altitude. The Kingdom of Chordan was no longer looking for a man. They were looking for a concept. They were looking for him.

  "I will give you three sacks of grain, a jar of refined oil, and a map of the higher passes for it," Vane said, ignoring the shepherd’s distraction. "And I will not tell the Sound-Hunters that you were here. That is the true value of the trade."

  Kael nodded once. "Acceptable."

  While the trade was finalized, the shepherd walked to the edge of the Basalt Hang. At this height, the "Ghost-Song" was no longer a fragmented whistle through ceramic pipes. It was a clear, steady note that seemed to emanate from the highest, snow-capped peaks of the Ash Reaches. It was a deep, resonant call that pulled at the stone behind his ribs.

  "The wind is louder up there," Kael said, appearing at his side with the new supplies.

  "It is not the wind," the shepherd replied. He looked at the black circle on the Wanted notice, then back toward the mountains.

  He took a four-count breath and felt the heavy, cold weight of his own existence settle into his bones. He was the silence, and the mountains were calling him home.