The Pale Thorn Pact Part 2

The path narrowed until it became less a trail and more a wound in the mountainside—sharp, narrow, treacherous. Black rock jutted from the snow like jagged ribs, and the cold wasn’t just biting anymore. It pressed into the lungs, gnawed at bone. Elira pulled her scarf tighter across her face, eyes narrowed against the wind.

They had followed the signs deeper into the Frosted Spires, moving toward something that pulled Vaelin forward with grim certainty. It wasn’t just instinct—it was memory.

He remembered the way Nightblades used to build their sanctums: hidden in places where nature was cruel, so only the desperate or trained could reach them. The fact that someone had reactivated those paths meant they weren’t just surviving—they were recruiting. And training.

They stopped just before twilight in a narrow crevasse flanked by steep ridges. At the far end, nestled against the cliffside, was an old watch station—abandoned, at least on the surface. Black slate roof half-collapsed, doors broken inward, dusted with snow. A relic of border wars long gone.

Vaelin’s expression hardened. “This was one of ours. Before the war. A listening post. I spent a winter here once.”

Elira stepped carefully over broken stone and glass, her senses alert. “You think they’re inside?”

“No. But they left something.”

The interior of the outpost smelled of charred wood and mildew. Rotting tapestries hung limp from the stone, and an old hearth sat cold in the center. But it wasn’t empty. Someone had been here recently—within days.

Elira found symbols drawn in frost on the inside of a cracked mirror. Spirals and curves, and one familiar mark: a thorn crossed over a blade. She called Vaelin over.

He stared at it for a long time. “They’re trying to show me something.”

“What?”

“That I’m being watched. That they know I’m close.”

He reached forward and touched the frost-marked mirror.

The surface shimmered.

A sudden pulse of magic surged through the room. Elira spun, hands up, but too late—the air thickened, color shifted. Time slipped.

The room bent sideways—walls stretching, light flickering like candleflame. A shadow stepped from behind the far wall. No footsteps. Just presence.

It looked like a man. Hooded, lean, tall. Covered in dark leathers not unlike Vaelin’s old uniform. A mask hid his face, black porcelain with a single silver line down the center. He drew a blade—a blackened dagger, curved, identical to Vaelin’s.

And without a word, he attacked.

Vaelin moved on instinct, intercepting the strike. Steel rang as blades collided in the dim light. Elira shouted his name, but it echoed strangely, distorted by the enchantment.

The assassin’s style was perfectly matched. Every move Vaelin made, the stranger mirrored—parried with the same timing, struck from the same angles, feinted with the same breath. It was like fighting a reflection.

Their blades locked, breath steaming, eyes burning behind masks—one literal, one not.

“Who trained you?” Vaelin hissed.

The figure tilted his head. When he spoke, the voice was doubled—his own, and Vaelin’s. “You did.”

The assassin slipped backward and vanished into a blur.

Elira raised her hands, drawing a runic sigil in the air—one of her time-cleaving wards—and slammed her palm against the wall. A pulse erupted outward, warping the air and snapping the enchantment.

Time stuttered. The mirror cracked. The assassin’s form shimmered once, twice—then vanished into nothing.

The silence left in his wake was deafening.

Vaelin staggered back, blood on his sleeve from a shallow cut. Elira caught him.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not deep.”

“That wasn’t a ghost.”

“No.” He looked at her, breathing hard. “That was a Pale Thorn. A disciple. He used my style—flawlessly. Even the old misdirections we buried.”

Elira’s expression darkened. “What does that mean?”

Vaelin turned back to the broken mirror. “It means they’ve studied me. They’ve trained using me. And they’ve had time to do it.”

They left the outpost before full dark, following a trail etched in the snow—one only someone trained by the Circle would see. The trees around them whispered again, just beyond hearing, as though the Spires themselves watched their every step.

They camped under a cliff-shelf that night, fire burning low. Vaelin cleaned his wound in silence. Elira, seated across from him, watched the flames curl.

“I almost couldn’t track him,” she said. “The enchantment was like nothing I’ve felt. He didn’t just move fast—he shifted time around himself.”

Vaelin nodded. “Temporal blurring. An old ritual technique the Circle outlawed. It warps the flow of time in a small field—makes attacks unpredictable. Harder to counter. Dangerous to the user, too.”

“And it was forbidden?”

“Because it breaks minds. The longer you use it, the harder it is to stay anchored. You lose track of real time. Past and present start to bleed together. That’s what happened to the Thorn Pact.”

Elira tilted her head, curious despite the chill in her spine. “Tell me.”

He hesitated. The fire snapped.

“They were a splinter group. Brilliant, brutal. They took the Circle’s teachings and pushed them too far. Wanted to master time itself—use poison magic as a conduit, to delay wounds, predict counters, even step between seconds.”

“And what happened?”

“They fractured. Broke reality around them. The few who survived became unstable—dangerous even to their allies. The Circle purged them. Or… thought they had.”

Elira leaned forward slightly, the firelight dancing across her face. “You never told me this.”

“I didn’t want to. They weren’t just assassins. They were believers. They thought pain and time were sacred things to be shaped.”

He looked at her then, his voice lower. “The man I fought—he wasn’t just mimicking me. He knew me. Like I was a figure in a holy book.”

“You’ve become a legend to them,” Elira said. “A prophet of the blade.”

He laughed, bitter. “I wanted to bury that part of me.”

“But it’s still here.” She reached over the fire and touched his hand, firm and steady. “And I am too. You don’t carry this alone. I’ll fight them with you.”

His eyes lingered on hers for a long moment. Something shifted. A breath caught. His fingers curled gently around hers. Warmth, even in this frozen place.

He said nothing. But he didn’t let go.

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All Parts of the Series

The Pale Thorn Pact Part 1

The Pale Thorn Pact Part 2

The Pale Thorn Pact Part 3

The Pale Thorn Pact Part 4

The Pale Thorn Pact Part 5