Ash and Crow climbed without speaking, their shared silence a comfortable rhythm. The only sounds that mattered were the soft, padding tread of the wannabe druid’s worn leather boots on damp earth and fallen leaves, and the lighter, almost silent pressure of Ash’s paws on the winding trail. The air grew cooler with every meter gained, carrying the sharp, clean scent of pine needles and the damp, earthy smell of undisturbed soil. The path narrowed, at times pressed close by the dense, watchful underbrush, at others arching beneath the ancient limbs of trees whose bark was worn smooth as river stone where generations of deer and passing bears had rubbed their flanks. Breath plumed faintly before Crow’s face, fleeting clouds dissipating into the still air. Now and then, navigating a tricky patch of loose stones or a slick root, Crow would instinctively reach out. His fingers brushed against the rough, cool certainty of rock or the yielding give of moss-covered wood, grounding himself in the familiar landscape.

  The ascent steepened significantly near the crest, the trail winding tight, squeezed between imposing slabs of grey granite that felt cool and solid under his touch. He marvelled at the wind-bowed forms of pines, their branches shaped by powerful currents of air. His muscles protested faintly from the familiar ache of exertion. It was a rough climb but it made him feel alive. Then, abruptly, gloriously, the world widened.

  Ash and the druid stepped out onto the ridge, and the dense wall of trees fell back, parting like heavy green curtains drawn aside. Crow felt like he was looking out at the world’s grandest theatre. Every time, the sudden expanse stole Crow’s breath. Before them, stretching to the bruised horizon, rose the Jackass Mountains. Brutal and jagged, their sawtooth peaks clawed at the sky, stained in fierce purples, sombre grays, and deepening blues in the slanting, late afternoon sun. Even at this distance, across the deepening valley, they looked close enough to touch, their immense scale foreshortened by the clear air as if the very land had clenched its fists and punched them up from the earth in a single, ancient act of defiance.

  Crow let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. No matter how many times he stood on this particular ridge, no matter how familiar the sight, the sheer scale of the mountains always hit him like a stone to the chest.a visceral impact of age, storm-worn resilience, and a stubborn refusal to yield to wind or time. Beautiful, yes, in a stark, unforgiving way, but not gentle. Never gentle.

  Crow sat down, crisscrossed, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he gazed out over the valley. “Ugly old things, aren’t they?” Crow said softly, pulling a strip of dried fruit from his pouch.

  Ash snorted beside him, tail giving a lazy thump against the moss.

  Crow smiled, tossing a piece of fruit that Ash caught mid-air with a sharp snap of his jaws. “Oh, don’t act like you’d climb them. I’ve seen you balk at crossing a stream.”

  Ash gave him a sidelong look, all quiet judgment.

  Crow chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re brave when it counts. Still,” he said and gestured at the peak,. “those look like trouble waiting to happen.”

  Ash huffed and laid his head on his paws, eyes half-lidded but watching.

  Crow’s gaze softened. “Dad used to say they were made from the bones of giants. Mom said they were the backs of sleeping dragons.” He stretched out his legs, leaning back on his hands. “Me? I think they’re just stubborn old rocks, holding up the sky.”

  Ash yawned, showing his teeth.

  Crow grinned. “Don’t laugh. You’re as stubborn as they are.”

  For a while, they sat in easy silence, the kind only shared by those who know each other’s every mood. Then Crow glanced down at Ash, voice low. “Bet the view’s better from the top, though.”

  Ash thumped his tail once, eyes glinting.

  Crow sighed, leaning his head back. “Yeah. One day.”

  Below them, the pines caught the last, lingering gold of the late sun, their needles transmuting into flickering fire against the deepening blue. The ridge itself felt almost sacred, a thin, exposed place where the vast, indifferent sky met the solid, rooted earth without interruption, a place where human concerns felt small and temporary. A faint, cool breeze stirred, smelling of high rock and sun-baked pine resin.

  Crow shrugged off his worn pack, feeling the familiar weight lift from his shoulders, and let it drop with a soft thump onto the cushion of thick moss that carpeted the rocky ground. He settled onto a broad, lichen-covered boulder, the rough texture cool beneath his worn pants, and dug into a side pouch. Ash padded over, his thick fur brushing against Crow’s leg with a soft swish as he sat down nearby, his posture relaxed yet watchful, his intelligent gaze fixed on the fading light painting the horizon.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Then, with a suddenness that made Crow sit up straighter, a flock of birds erupted from the canopy far below. Swifts, maybe, or a cloud of agitated jays; too far away to tell precisely. They shot from the trees like an arrow, twisting and scattering against the glowing canvas of the sky, dark shapes of frantic energy against the serene backdrop, before wheeling back in a sudden, unified movement and disappearing once more into the depths of the trees.

  Crow watched them until they were gone, the sudden flurry of life and the return to stillness leaving a warmth in his chest, a feeling he couldn’t quite name. Something akin to belonging, to being a small breathing world. He leaned back on his elbows on the cool boulder, eyes half-lidded, and let the profound quiet of the ridge settle around them like a warm, protective blanket.

  And for now, in this perfect, fleeting moment of peace, that was profoundly, utterly enough. For a while, Crow didn’t say anything, just let the peaceful rhythm of the world settle into him. But then, almost without thinking, he began to speak softly to Ash, his voice a murmur in the open air.

  “You ever remember when we went looking for ghost nettle?” He paused, his fingers brushing the earth absentmindedly. “I was too small to know anything back then. Thought it was just a game. Getting lost in the woods with my mom. But…”

  Crow’s smile was faint as he continued, eyes distant, as if recalling a scene long past. “She took me deeper into the forest than I’d ever been. Said it was the kind of place that people didn’t just stumble upon. You had to be invited.”

  Ash’s ears twitched, his gaze fixed on Crow’s face, a silent, steady presence. The old wolfdog didn’t speak, but Crow felt the weight of his attention, as constant and patient as the forest itself.

  Crow shifted on the boulder, pulling his knees up to his chest. “We had to be careful. She said ghost nettle wasn’t like any other plant. The sting. Most people wouldn’t survive it, not without knowing what it was. But Mom... she showed me how to touch it, how to handle it barehanded. Respect, she called it. Said the sting would be milder if you acted like you were a guest, not the owner.” He let the words fall, the memory holding him for a moment longer. “She made me promise. If we ever found it again, I’d never take more than we needed.”

  He glanced at Ash, then, his gaze softening. “I think about that a lot. How she knew all the little ways to speak with the forest. She used to say everything out here knows more than we do. Act like a guest, not an owner.” Crow let out a quiet breath, his hand brushing through the grass beside him, as if he could feel her presence in the air.

  Ash’s eyes flickered, his head tilting just a bit as if he was listening too. His fur blended so seamlessly with the shadows around them that he might have been one with the earth itself.

  Crow smiled, though it was small and touched with something bittersweet. “Sometimes, in places like this, I still feel her near. Like the forest is keeping her voice safe for me. Like she’s just... somewhere, watching.”

  The evening air grew still, and the light softened, leaving the world in a quiet twilight. Crow sat in that moment, letting the memory of his mother settle in his chest. It felt like the weight of something treasured, something he knew he didn't want to forget. Ash stayed close, his warm body a quiet presence beside him.

  For a while, neither of them moved, both wrapped in the quiet company of the trees and the distant mountains.

  The moment stretched, silent and sweet, as Crow and Ash sat together on the ridge. Soon Crow started a fire. It crackled softly between them, the only sound the whisper of wind through the trees. The mountains held the evening light in a still, unbroken embrace.

  But then, without warning, the stillness fractured.

  The first sound was the unmistakable crunch of boots on earth, clumsy and uncoordinated, followed by the muttered curses of someone frustrated with their own footing. Metal scraped against metal. The jarring clink of armour which was poorly maintained, too loose and sagging from misuse.

  Ash’s ears pricked up, his muscles going taut. Crow didn’t move at first, but his body subtly shifted, instinctual and ready. He kept his gaze on the spot where the sound was coming from, just below the ridge.

  Then, stumbling into view of the campsite fire, came a knight.

  Mud-caked boots and dented plate armour, barely hanging onto his shoulders, gave the man a ragged, dishevelled appearance. He swayed as though he’d been walking in circles for hours, one arm gripping a wineskin that was nearly as worn as his armour. His eyes were bleary and unfocused, but they latched onto the small campfire up ahead, and a grin, more of a grimace, really, spread across his face.

  “Ah… what’s this?” he slurred. His voice was thick with alcohol. “Little wild boy and his mutt, eh? Mind if I sit? Damn near walked to the edge of the world...”

  Crow’s gaze shifted, eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn’t rise. He kept his posture relaxed, hand resting near the hilt of his blade but not yet drawing it. Ash, however, remained still and vigilant, fur bristling slightly but not quite in alarm: just alert.

  Crow’s instincts told him to be cautious, but his instincts were his guide, just like his mother taught him to handle dangerous plants. He gestured to a log at the edge of the clearing, giving the man space but maintaining control over the situation. The knight wobbled toward it with an uneven stride, scraping his armour against the stone as he collapsed onto the log with a long, ragged sigh, staring blearily at the distant horizon.

  The tension that had been building, coiled tight between them, began to loosen, but only a little. Crow and Ash remained silent, watching the man as he settled, the firelight flickering on the knight’s weathered face. In all his years out here, this was a first for him. The quiet returned, but it wasn’t the same. Crow’s hand hovered near his staff, the weight of the knight’s presence hanging in the air, thick with unspoken things.

  This was no longer the peaceful moment it had been.

  “So, are you hunting that new dungeon too?” That was all the man needed to say.