The hollow groove on the black amber altar seemed to hum with a quiet hunger, a carved crescent ready to cradle a life’s outflow. Briska’s gaze drifted from the resin surface to her own fingers, pale and surprisingly unmarred for a woman who had spent years fleeing through the frost-bitten world. To spill her blood here, offering the last of her lineage, meant an end to wakefulness altogether. Refusing the stone meant returning to the chase, to branches that murmured madness in the gale, to frost eating through boot soles, and to the ceaseless, irritating hum of trackers like Jael. It meant Korvan, his massive frame, his mute watchfulness, would be torn from her, this sanctuary broken. The thought of his gray irises going dull, the faint tug of the bond between them snapping into soot, hardened her ribs into iron. Not dread, precisely, but an intense irritation at the disturbance—a sharp refusal to yield her newly claimed, heated alcove to ruin. She wanted to *keep* this quiet. She wanted to keep *him*. Her fingers twitched, a calculated decision forming in the space between one breath and the next. The timber walls had drawn her in, offering a refuge she had not known she craved. Now, it demanded a price. She would pay it. Not out of sacrifice, but out of a pragmatic, possessive desire to preserve her comfort. And Korvan’s. A low groan, thick with pain, scraped through the quiet. Jael, the Syndicate scout, lay crumpled near the ruptured skylight, shivering violently. His eyes, the color of ice-melt, fluttered open, locking onto Korvan’s broad form first, then darting to Briska. He tried to move, his limbs stiff with cold and lingering shock, but only managed a whimper. Korvan’s gaze, previously fixed on Briska and the altar, flickered to the struggling scout. A deep growl rumbled in his chest, a sound like shifting stones, a warning. He took a slow, deliberate step towards Jael, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the Syndicate man. “W-wait,” Jael croaked, his voice raw, barely audible. He coughed, a rattling sound. “Pravil… he’ll burn you both. He wants her blood, yes, but… he wants *more*.” His teeth chattered, clicking rapidly against the dry timber floor. Briska moved, a quiet, efficient glide, stepping around Korvan to stand before the scout. Her expression remained flat. “More?” she signed, her knuckles shifting with practiced economy. Jael watched her hands, his eyes narrowed, a flicker of intelligence cutting through his pain. He understood. “He draws… his power… from *voices*,” he rasped, struggling for air. “Not merely rustling branches. He hoards them. From everyone he… disposes of. He keeps them in a phylactery, a vessel made of… frozen tears. Every scream, every plea, every last breath of sound. It fuels him. It makes him strong. It lets him *speak* across the Taiga.” He shuddered again, less from cold and more from the horror of the memory. “He calls it the Vox Aeterna. He used it to… to tear your family apart, prodigy. He ripped the very sound from their throats, leaving them… empty.” Korvan stiffened. His gaze pinned Jael to the timber. The tendons across the backs of his hands strained taut. Briska felt the phantom tug of their bond, a sudden surge of ancient, buried fury radiating from him. The warden's fury thickened the air around them. Briska remained still, processing. Pravil’s power came from *sound*. And fear. An elegant, horrifying symmetry. The Taiga fed on sound and fear, too. It made a tidy, cruel weapon, turning the taiga's predatory nature against every living creature. It made Pravil not just a mage, but a monstrous extension of the frozen world itself. “How… to stop him?” Briska signed, her movements economical. She didn’t need to speak. Her will was clear. Jael swallowed, his gaze darting between Briska’s calm, terrifyingly flat face and Korvan’s menacing presence. He was a cornered animal, but a clever one. “It’s… it’s his anchor. Destroy the Vox Aeterna, and his power… it will unravel. He’ll become just a man. A loud man, perhaps, but just a man.” He paused, then added, “I know where it is. I can show you. Give me… warmth. Let me live.” Briska looked at Korvan, then back at Jael. He was a serpent, but one with valuable venom. Her eyes drifted to the black amber altar, its purpose now more urgent than ever. First, seal the dwelling. Then, hunt the serpent’s master. She stepped onto the altar, the polished amber cool beneath her bare feet. The surface seemed to thrum faintly, a deeper resonance now that she was touching it. The air shimmered, thick with nascent magic. She extended her left arm, baring her wrist. The groove, cut precisely to size, waited below her pulse point. Korvan moved instantly, his hand closing gently around her elbow, his calloused thumb stroking her skin. His eyes met hers, conveying a quiet question and a warning to pause. She met his gaze, her own unwavering. She would not be hunted again. The living wood, however, resisted. As Briska poised her wrist over the hollow, a low groan emanated from the roots that formed the walls, growing into a deep, vibrating chord. The amber altar beneath her feet pulsed with a golden light, not red, not the sacrificial hue she expected. The light intensified, swirling around her, but refused to enter the groove. Instead, it coalesced into shimmering runes that swam in the air before them. Korvan signed, slow and deliberate, reading the ancient script. His brow furrowed. “*Two souls… must sing… as one… to awaken… the refuge’s… true voice.*” Briska stared at the glowing words, a cold knot forming in her stomach. *Two souls. Sing. As one.* She looked at Korvan, then back at the runes. Both of them, mute. Both of them, robbed of speech by Pravil’s blade and sorcery. An impossible task. The sanctuary demanded the one instrument they lacked. A low shudder shook the ground beneath them, rolling inward from the outer snow. A deep thrumming, growing louder, closer. The frosted trees of the Taiga seemed to shiver, shedding plumes of ice crystals that sparkled in the dim light filtering through the skylight. A sound built outside, a vibration that rattled her marrow and shook the ancient burls of the shelter itself. A voice rolled through the woods—not the sibilant rustle of needles, but an amplified roar that cracked the frozen rime. It was Pravil. “Little prodigy, come out, or I burn the forest to the roots.”

The Silent Altar