Kael had already turned away, all his focus now on the ascent ahead.

  Lucanis, meanwhile, remained where he was, staring at Althéa.

  She was clearly in shock. Her eyes were wide, her palm still pressed against her reddened cheek. She hadn’t moved.

  Anger burned in Lucanis’s gaze. He had never once failed to show her the respect due to her rank—and yet she had just openly insulted the man who, like him, was doing everything in his power to get them out of here alive.

  He spoke, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

  "He is an Ombrevu, yes. I started with the same assumptions as you."

  "I took your side when we first met. I told him to show you respect while you were looking at him with contempt—and a clear desire to dominate."

  "And yet he protected you. He devised the plan to kill the lycaon. He suggested taking its hide to make cloaks for the night. He built the drying rack. And now he’s found the safest possible route back up the canyon."

  "On top of that, he was ready to climb alone so none of us would have to take unnecessary risks—and even to mark the best handholds for you."

  His voice hardened.

  "And you insult him not for what he is—an irreverent, frankly irritating man—but simply because you cannot bear the fact that someone with no name, from nowhere, handles this better than you do."

  Then he turned on his heel and went to rejoin Kael.

  Althéa’s gaze followed him, still stunned—caught between shame and something her mind hadn’t yet managed to process.

  She had been struck.

  She—heir to the most noble house that had ever existed—had been struck.

  Struck for a man who came from nowhere.

  She slowly lowered her hand from her cheek and dropped her eyes. Her gaze was hollow as she murmured:

  "Me… Althéa of Soléandre… struck by a vulgar—"

  She didn’t finish the sentence, afraid Kael might hear what she was about to say.

  Calmly, mechanically, she picked up her fur and her bow, her head still bowed, and went to join the others.

  Kael, meanwhile, had been joined by Lucanis. He was still studying the cliff, measuring it with his eyes.

  Lucanis spoke quietly.

  "I don’t think the slap was necessary."

  "Maybe I went a bit too far, Kael replied. His tone made it clear he didn’t regret it."

  He exhaled, then went on.

  "Anyway. I’m going up. If my estimate’s right, we should reach the top by the end of the day. We can’t afford to waste time."

  With that, he set his fur down on the ground, removed the top of his black uniform, and tucked it into his belt.

  They were soon joined by Althéa—head lowered, posture subdued.

  Kael slung the strap of his fur back across his shoulder and moved toward the large stones that led directly to the cliff face. He took one last look at the wall. A faint tremor ran through him; he struck his cheeks twice to steel himself—and went.

  The wind rose from the lake, cold and dry, funneling into the cliff’s throat like an ancient breath. The rock face loomed above them, rough, uneven, bristling with edges either razor-sharp or deceptively smooth. A vertical puzzle with no apparent logic.

  Kael adjusted the strap of his fur. His bare torso—already marked by old scars and newer wounds—caught the slanted light, faintly slick with sweat. He bent his knees and placed a hand against the stone. His fingers tested the holds as if reading a forgotten language.

  Behind him, silence.

  Althéa said nothing.

  Neither did Lucanis.

  Kael exhaled slowly, white vapor spilling from his lips.

  "I’m going."

  He pulled himself up in one sharp motion, muscles taut. The first meters were easy—almost misleading: broad ledges, obvious holds. But very quickly, the cliff reclaimed its vertical authority.

  Lucanis followed his progress with his eyes, arms crossed, brow furrowed. He said nothing, but the tension in his jaw said enough.

  Althéa stood farther back, unmoving, her bow on her back. Her eyes never left Kael. Something had shifted in her gaze—a crack in the wall. Admiration, yes, but tangled with something older, deeper. She was watching him like a truth she would have preferred never to uncover.

  Kael climbed, meter by meter. His fingers searched for reliable holds; his feet sometimes slipped on crumbling stone. He grimaced when a block gave way beneath his hand, sending a cascade of gravel clattering down into the void.

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  Lucanis stepped forward, alarmed.

  "You alright?"

  "I’m fine, Kael replied without turning."

  He pulled an ochre stone from his belt—a flat shard of shale he had kept for this very purpose. Wherever the wall allowed, he drew two crossed lines on the most reliable holds: visible, but discreet. Marks only those who knew where to look would notice. A simple language. Functional. Silent.

  Then he climbed on.

  Every movement mattered.

  Every foothold had to be certain.

  And yet—

  He slipped.

  His foot missed a hold, his body pitching outward, hanging by a single hand clenched around a jagged edge. A burning pain shot through his forearm. He swallowed a cry, teeth clenched.

  Below, Lucanis stepped toward the wall, breath caught in his throat.

  But Kael held. He drove his knee back into the rock, searched for balance—and hauled himself upright in one sharp motion. A vein throbbed at his temple. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

  He glanced downward—not at Lucanis.

  At Althéa.

  She hadn’t moved.

  She was still watching him.

  So he continued.

  Meter after meter.

  Hold after hold.

  Sometimes, he marked a spot with a quick X. Sometimes, he brushed past a hold without marking it, judging it too unstable. He left only what mattered. Not for himself. For the other two.

  His muscles tightened, then released in rhythm. His legs, locked with effort, trembled slightly with every prolonged stance. Sweat ran down his back, carving dark lines through the dust on his skin. At times, he scraped the rock with his nails, tested its strength with a sharp blow of his fist.

  A fissure, wide enough for an arm, allowed him to brace himself for a moment. He used it to carve an arrow—an indicator for whoever would follow. Then he moved on, without wasting the pause.

  The gusts grew stronger. The wind lashed at his face. At times, he pressed his chest almost flat against the stone to shield himself from the void.

  Lucanis no longer dared to speak.

  Althéa still hadn’t moved.

  Kael kept climbing, more focused than ever. Not to prove anything. But because he knew there was no room for error. He wasn’t a hero. He was simply the one who had to go first.

  And if he fell, it would be alone.

  She hadn’t said a word since he had slapped her.

  Not a sound. Not a breath.

  She had only followed. Walked. Tightened the straps of her fur as if that single gesture could contain everything threatening to spill out inside her—the humiliation. The anger. Lucanis’s heavy silence. And above all… what she had seen in Kael’s eyes.

  The fury. Raw. Sincere. A dark fire that did not waver.

  She had thought she knew him.

  In barely a single day.

  Perhaps even despised him.

  But she had never feared him.

  Not until that slap.

  Not until that voice that didn’t shout—yet carried.

  Not until that precise moment when, for the span of a heartbeat, she wondered if she was about to fall. Not from a cliff.

  But from that imaginary pedestal where she believed herself untouchable.

  So she fell silent.

  And she watched him.

  Kael had started climbing without waiting for permission. His body stretched toward the rock, his gaze locked, his muscles taut beneath the pale light. Every movement was precise. Animal. Focused. As if nothing else existed but the stone, the next hold, the immediate danger.

  He didn’t speak. He barely hesitated.

  Lucanis followed him with his eyes, anxious, drawn tight as a bowstring. He murmured a word now and then, but his voice didn’t carry.

  She said nothing.

  She watched.

  Kael traced marks with a stone—crosses, lines, signs only someone attentive would understand. Silent messages for the two below.

  He was thinking of them.

  Even now.

  Even after what she had said.

  A sharp sound — a small landslide of gravel.

  She tensed instantly. So did Lucanis.

  Kael had missed a hold. His body folded, hanging by a single arm. She saw his torso shudder, his shoulder strain, his fist clench until the knuckles whitened.

  He didn’t scream.

  He held.

  And he pulled himself back up.

  He looked strong. Not in a warrior’s sense. Not like those nobles trained in arms.

  Strong because he endured.

  Because he thought of the others.

  Because he had nothing to prove — and acted anyway.

  She looked away for a second.

  She wished he would fall. Truly. Just so he would fit back into a category.

  The troublemaker.

  The insolent one.

  The boy from the Shadows.

  But he kept climbing.

  His dust-covered fingers brushed the rock with a care bordering on tenderness. His back, streaked with muscle, stretched with every movement. Sometimes he stopped to draw a mark — then moved on.

  He was climbing for them.

  She felt a strange heat rise in her chest. Not pleasant. Not comfortable. Something hard, abrasive, colliding with her certainties.

  Lucanis shifted beside her, murmuring encouragement under his breath, as if Kael could hear him. She remained rigid. Hands clasped at her belt, eyes locked on that figure climbing, struggling, imposing silence without a word.

  For a moment, she saw him mark a treacherous overhang with a double X.

  A warning.

  Not for himself.

  For her.

  She looked away again.

  She felt exposed. Not physically.

  Exposed in her judgments.

  In her ignorance.

  Kael kept climbing.

  Higher. Faster now. Not from haste, but because his body was adapting. Each movement became smoother, more exact. He read the rock like a forgotten language, deciphered its hollows, its edges, its traps.

  The cliff itself seemed to test him. It offered slick slopes, deceptive cracks, unstable plates ready to give way under his weight. But he advanced. Bent, straightened, drew his muscles taut like cords. He almost merged with the stone.

  And she… she couldn’t look away.

  Lucanis sometimes held his breath, muttering barely audible remarks. But Althéa heard nothing anymore. She watched. Each meter gained erased a little more of the slap. The anger. The pride.

  Kael slipped again — a damp, treacherous hold. He caught himself with his fingertips, a silent cry on his lips. His abs tightened, his flank tensed, and in a desperate motion he launched himself toward a higher ledge. His knees struck the rock. A rough breath escaped him.

  He stayed there for a second, forehead pressed to the stone, arms trembling. The wind lifted his chestnut strands, plastered with sweat. He breathed hard — but didn’t stop.

  He took out the shard of schist again. Carved one last mark.

  Then he straightened.

  A vertical wall awaited him. Almost without holds.

  But he climbed. Again.

  There were no words left in Althéa’s mind.

  Only a dull, persistent heat.

  An unbearable mixture of respect, confusion, fascination.

  Then she saw him place a hand on the final edge.

  A pull. One last surge.

  Kael disappeared over the rim.

  One heartbeat. Two.

  Then his silhouette reappeared, crouched, his profile cut against the sky. He didn’t shout. Didn’t raise his arms. He simply turned his face downward, searching for them with his eyes.

  The wind played with his soaked hair, his bare shoulders still glistening. He looked calm. Drained. Present.

  He waited.

  Something tightened in her throat. A foreign emotion. Disturbing.

  Not jealousy.

  Not anger.

  Something else.

  She hated that she couldn’t name it.

  So she thought only this:

  Beautiful.