Page 111 of The Sin Binders Ascent

“Then go.”

“I’m still not leaving.”

Her eyes burn hotter than anything in this place. But it isn’t the heat that gets me. It’s the hurt. Buried under it. Twisting beneath every syllable like it’s trying to claw its way out through anger because anything softer might destroy her.

She turns away before I can say more and starts down the hill. No hesitation. No map. No logic. Just a body moving through hell, daring it to get in her way.

The slope isn't as steep on the other side of the ridge, but it's slick with a velvet-soft moss that clings to the soles of our boots like it's trying to pull us back. The path, if you could even call it that, narrows as we descend, carved between two enormous stone outcroppings that twist upward like tusks. The air grows thicker, not humid exactly, but heavy in a way that makes your lungs work harder than they should have to. It smells faintly metallic, with something sweet buried underneath, the kind of scent that doesn’t come from fruit or nectar, but from things that have been left to rot just long enough to start remembering they were alive once.

I catch up to her finally, just close enough to match her pace without making it a conversation. Her shoulders haven’t relaxed. Her hands keep flexing at her sides, every few steps, like she’s reaching for the sword that’s still not there. I don't point it out. She knows. She hates being powerless. It sits on her, unfamiliar and abrasive. I can feel her chewing on it from the inside.

We weave between spindly trees that stretch too high, their trunks thin and veined with something that pulses in slow, deliberate rhythms. A soft glow filters down through the canopy, pale green and unnatural, not light so much as ambiance. Like the forest is alive and watching and doesn't feel the need to hide it. The leaves are slick, iridescent, almost translucent in the light, and when I brush one with my sleeve, it recoils like it’s offended.

“We’re going to need water,” I say, not too loud, not too firm. “Food, too. If we go blind into whatever the hell this place calls a frontier, we’ll burn out before we get anywhere.”

She doesn’t stop, but I see the slight shift in her shoulders. A beat. Then a breath. Then another.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “You’re right.”

It’s not defeat. Just reluctant logic settling into the space where rage’s heat is starting to taper. The fury’s still there, just buried under the more immediate reality that her body won’t survive on anger alone.

She slows just enough for me to walk beside her, and together we descend deeper into the hollowed-out valley that spreads below. The landscape levels into a low basin, wide and strange, with pockets of forest clinging to the edges. In the distance, I can see something moving, slow and massive, too far to make out, but the earth shifts in time with its stride. We don’t walk toward it. Even Luna knows better than that right now.

We veer left instead, toward a copse of trees whose branches are lower, their roots tangled and exposed, gnarled into thick ropes that crack the earth. The soil here is darker, more fertile-looking, with patches of violet grass pushing through the cracks in the stone. I kneel near one of the thicker root bundles and press my palm to the dirt. It's damp. Cold.

I dig with my fingers, careful and slow, and after a few inches, I hit moisture that isn’t just damp. It’s wet enough to pool. The smell is sharp but clean, cleaner than anything else around us. When I taste a drop on my finger, it’s not exactly water, but it’s close. Mineral-heavy. Bitter. But not poison.

“Here,” I say, motioning to her.

She crouches beside me and scoops a bit into her palm, sniffing it first, always cautious, then drinks. Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t say anything, but she drinks again. I dig deeper and find a pocket large enough to fill a few hollowed-out stones nearby. We use those to carry what we can. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

The food situation is harder. The trees have fruit, or something close to it, thick, waxy pods that hang low and sway without any breeze. I watch them for a few minutes before I try anything. The pods glisten with a thin film of somethingtoo viscous to be dew, and when I reach up to pull one down, it hums. Not out loud. Not with sound. But I feel it in my fingers, a buzz just beneath the skin like static before a storm.

I crack the pod open carefully. The inside is lined with soft, fleshy strands that coil back from my fingers like nerves, exposing a thick pulp that smells faintly of citrus and something more floral. I touch it to my tongue, and wait. My vision doesn’t blur. My stomach doesn’t turn. Just a sharp tang, like biting into something green and still growing.

“It’s edible,” I say, handing her the rest.

She takes it and doesn’t hesitate. Hunger wins. She eats quickly, not like it’s good, but like her body doesn’t care.

We gather what we can, enough to fill the deep pockets of her coat and mine, stripping the pods that don’t hum quite as loudly and aren’t slick with whatever film the others carry. The forest watches. I can feel it, in the way the roots seem to pull back just slightly when we walk through them, not out of fear but wariness.

As we move on, bellies no longer empty, the horizon changes. The ridges of the valley stretch wider, and off in the distance, I catch the glint of metal. Not clean. Not new. But shaped. Manufactured. A tower, maybe, or the remains of one, bent sideways and caught in the crook of two cliffs. It looks like the spine of some ancient beast, ribs cracked open and hollow.

I nod toward it. “That way.”

Luna doesn’t argue. And for the first time since Brashir left her gutted on that hilltop, she walks beside me instead of ahead.

The path curves around the base of a collapsed spire, its stone fractured in layers like a shattered jawbone. Moss grows thick over the rubble, dull purple and damp to the touch, and the air smells like ash soaked in rain. Whatever storm tore this place apart, it didn’t finish the job. It just ripped it open and left the pieces behind to fester.

The sky hasn’t shifted. That same bruised red glow leaks across the horizon, heavy and unchanging, like time doesn’t move here, just stretches. There’s no sun. No moon. Just that light, humming softly above everything, casting the forest in a color that doesn’t exist back home.

I glance sideways at her. She doesn’t meet my eyes, just keeps scanning the terrain ahead like she’s daring it to be worse.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask, voice low, easy. No pressure. Just the offer.

“No,” she says immediately.

Then, right after, without even a breath between,

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