The Serpent's Trench carved through the western scrub like a dry riverbed of crushed shale and black basalt.
Carved out centuries ago by dwarven road-builders, its sheer stone walls rose thirty feet overhead, blocking out the bitter wind but trapping the gloom of twilight between its jagged ledges. The clatter of the wagons' iron-shod wheels bounced off the rock faces, echoing ahead like the steady, hollow drumbeat of an advancing army.
By full dark, they reached the ruins of the Old Imperial Way-station—a fortified stone redoubt sunken into the southern cliff face where the dwarven cut narrowed to a bottleneck.
The heavy iron-reinforced gates had long since rotted into rust and splinters, but the high perimeter walls were intact, offering a defensive funnel against any riders trying to pace them through the Barrens.
Malakor guided the two treasure wagons through the fractured archway into the dry gravel of the inner courtyard.
"Unhitch the lead team," Malakor ordered, his breath rolling in pale plumes against the frost-bitten dark as he swung down from the roan. "Water the mounts from the cistern inside the stable block. The water is deep and clean from the mountain springs."
Aurelia slid down from her mare, her boots crunching into the dry scree. The chill in the trench was dry, unlike the biting river damp of Oak haven, but it bit into the bone nonetheless.
She walked the perimeter wall, leaping lightly onto a stone parapet to scan the rim of the canyon above. The silver light in her eyes flickered against the darkness, tracing the ridge lines.
Nothing moved along the cliff edges except the dry scrub shaking in the night wind. No patrols. No carrion crows. The silence was heavy and undisturbed.
When she dropped back down into the courtyard, she found Malakor already clearing the debris from the ruined guardhouse.
He had kicked aside decades of dry oak rot and rotted sheep-fleece, coaxing a fierce fire to life inside an ancient stone brazier using old beam splinters. The red glow washed over the carved lintel, illuminating the faded sigils of the Old Kingdom—a coiled dragon crowned in thorns.
Malakor looked up as she crossed the threshold. He stripped his heavy iron gauntlets, letting them clatter onto a stone bench, and reached for the laces of his leather brigandine.
"The canyon is clear," Aurelia said, unfastening her cloak and letting the heavy wool fall over a dry hay-rack.
"The Trench has a reputation for swallowing patrols," Malakor answered, his amber eyes tracking her movements as she crossed the room toward the warmth. "The sell swords at Val-Roc use the southern mouth as their execution grounds. No Concord scout enters this cut without a hundred spears at his back."
He shucked the heavy cuirass, setting it aside to reveal the sweat-damp linen tunic beneath. The broad, corded muscles of his shoulders and chest were marked by a tapestry of pale, jagged scars—relics of a dozen sieges and border wars fought in the muck.
Across his collarbone, the fresh mark of their ritual bond gleamed like a vein of silver embedded into dark stone.
Aurelia stepped close to the brazier, extending her cold fingers toward the crackling embers. The heat was a relief, but the sheer presence of the man standing beside her was far more intoxicating.
Malakor stepped into her space, his large hands settling onto the curve of her shoulders from behind.
His grip was firm, kneading the tense knots that had formed in her muscles during the long, jarring ride across the Barrens. A low, ragged sigh slipped from her lips, her head tilting back to rest against his chest as his heat seeped through her tunic.
"You promised I could sleep," she murmured, her voice soft in the quiet chamber.
"I said you would sleep," Malakor rumbled near her ear, his lips skimming along the sensitive line of her neck, raising goosebumps along her arms. "I did not say when."
His hands slid down from her shoulders, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist, pulling her back flush against the hard ridge of his hips. The steady, heavy thrum of his heartbeat vibrated against her back, in perfect lockstep with the silver pulse in her own chest.
Aurelia turned in his embrace, her hands resting flat against the scarred warmth of his chest, her eyes locking onto the smoldering amber of his gaze.
"We have two days before we reach Val-Roc," she whispered.
"Then we have two nights to remind each other why we intend to conquer this world," Malakor growled, his mouth coming down over hers in a fierce, starving kiss that swallowed the cold night whole.