Somewhere else in the mountains, away from the pools and the steam, Alistair stood on a stone balcony carved into the cliff face.
Below him, the valley spread out in shadows, the last light of the sun bleeding orange across the horizon. The monks' quarters were built into the rock itself—cells and halls and meditation chambers, all of it ancient, all of it silent.
He wasn't alone.
An old man sat on a worn stone bench, his legs crossed, his hands resting on his knees. His robe was the same grey as the others, but his face was different—lined deeper, eyes sharper, a faint scar running from his temple to his jaw. He hadn't moved when Alistair arrived. Hadn't acknowledged him.
Now he spoke.
"Great students you brought here, Alistair. They are truly unique." His voice was soft, dry as old paper. "Especially that boy."
Alistair didn't turn. "He's the son of Margaret Vale. Your former student."
