Chapter 21: The Stone Teeth

　　The hidden grotto became a temporary sanctuary, a baptismal font in the heart of the Scar. They drank their fill, rested their battered bodies, and allowed the cool, mineral-rich water to soothe their cracked lips and sun-scorched skin. But the respite was brief. The knowledge carved into the stone walls was not an invitation to linger; it was a command to move. Follow the setting sun to the stone teeth.

　　They left the grotto as the sun began its descent, a great, blood-orange orb sinking into the jagged silhouette of the western peaks. The Stone Teeth. The name was brutally literal. A series of sheer, black basalt spires that clawed at the sky like the fangs of some long-dead leviathan. The path towards them was a treacherous scree slope, a river of loose, sharp-edged stones that shifted and slid under their weight with every step.

　　Caden’s progress was agonizingly slow. His legs, already pushed far beyond their limits, trembled with every step. More than once, he stumbled, sending a cascade of rocks skittering down the slope, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the vast silence. Each time, a strong hand—Xaden’s or Garrick’s—would grab his arm, hauling him upright with a grunt of effort. No words were exchanged. Their faces were masks of grim endurance. They were a chain, and he was the weakest link.

　　Violet, ahead of them, moved with a focused, almost unnatural grace. She was lighter, her steps more precise, leaving less of a mark on the unstable ground. Caden saw her pausing not just to catch her breath, but to study the landscape, her eyes scanning the rock formations, the patterns of the wind-scoured stone. She was no longer just following his historical guidance; she was learning to read the land itself, becoming a part of its harsh grammar.

　　As they climbed higher, the air grew thinner and colder. The sun vanished behind the Teeth, plunging the canyon into a deep, premature twilight. The temperature dropped sharply. They had no cloaks, no blankets. The cold became a new enemy, seeping into their bones, sapping the last of their warmth and strength.

　　“We can’t make the summit tonight,” Xaden stated, his breath pluming in the frigid air. His gaze swept the darkening slopes. “We need shelter. Or we’ll freeze.”

　　Despair threatened to swallow them again. They were exposed on a barren mountainside, with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

　　It was then that Caden remembered the glyphs. Shelter from the sun’s eye. He had interpreted it as shelter from the heat. But what if it meant something else? What if the “sun’s eye” was the sun itself? Shelter from its absence—shelter from the cold of night.

　　He stopped, turning to face the sheer rock face to their left. In the fading light, he scanned the stone, looking not for a cave, but for a pattern. A inconsistency.

　　“What is it?” Violet asked, her voice thin with exhaustion.

　　“The tribes didn’t just mark water,” Caden said, his voice a rasp. “They marked survival. Shelter from the cold would be as important as water.” He ran a hand over the cold, rough stone. “Look for a shadow that’s too deep. A crack that doesn’t look natural.”

　　For long minutes, they searched, their numb fingers scrabbling at the rock as the last of the light bled from the sky. Just as the cold was becoming unbearable, Rhiannon let out a choked cry.

　　“Here!”

　　It wasn’t a cave. It was a fissure, so narrow it was almost invisible. But when Xaden pushed against a specific, oddly shaped rock beside it, a section of the cliff face, perfectly balanced and camouflaged, swung inward with a low, grinding sound. It revealed a black opening, from which exhaled the cold, still air of a deep cavern.

　　They stumbled inside, collapsing onto the smooth, level floor. The air was frigid, but it was still. They were out of the biting wind. Xaden used the last flicker of his siphoned power to ignite a handful of dry, dead moss they found near the entrance, creating a tiny, pathetic fire that provided more psychological comfort than actual warmth. They huddled around it, shivering, passing the near-empty waterskin between them.

　　In the faint, dancing light, Caden could see the walls of the cavern. They were smooth, worked by human hands. And they were covered in paintings. Faded ochre and charcoal depictions of hunters and strange, antlered beasts. But there were other symbols, too. Stars. Constellations. It was a star-chart.

　　Violet saw it too. She crawled closer, her eyes wide in the firelight. “It’s a map,” she whispered. “A map of the sky. But… it’s wrong.” She traced a familiar constellation with her finger. “The Dragon’s Tail is shifted. It’s… older.”

　　Caden’s breath caught. He understood. “It’s not wrong. It’s from a different time. The stars move, over centuries. This chart… it’s thousands of years old.” He looked at Violet, a profound connection sparking between them in the dark. “This isn’t just a shelter. It’s an observatory. A library of the sky.”

　　The Forgotten Tribes hadn’t just survived the Scar; they had mastered it. They had understood its rhythms, its secrets. They had left behind a legacy not of conquest, but of coexistence. In that moment, huddled in a ancient cave, surrounded by the ghosts of a lost people, their own desperate flight felt less like a retreat and more like an inheritance.

　　They were not the first to be hunted. They were not the first to seek truth in the wilderness. They were part of a long, unbroken line of those who refused to be silenced.

　　The fire died. The cold remained. But as Caden drifted into a fitful sleep, his body pressed against the cold stone for warmth, he felt a strange sense of peace. The fallen knight had found a new cathedral. Not of books, but of stone and stars. And the weapon he had helped forge was learning to draw strength from a history far older and deeper than the lies of Basgiath. The journey through the Scar was no longer a punishment; it was a pilgrimage.

　　Chapter 21 - End