I Hired a Brooding Mountain Guide, But Our Souls Were Fated to Collide

The heavy vellum of the contract felt cool and final under Elara’s fingertips. Spread across the polished oak of her desk, the commission from the Royal Cartographer’s Guild was the most prestigious—and perilous—of her career. The Whispering Peaks. The name alone was a legend, a blank space on every official map, a testament to the mountain range’s deadly reputation.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from beneath the desk. Lyra, her Siberian Lynx daemon, emerged from the shadows, her silver-tipped fur bristling. She placed her heavy paws beside the inkwell, her pale blue eyes fixed on the document as if it were a venomous snake. The anxiety that radiated from her was a physical thing, a cold pressure that settled deep in Elara’s own chest. It was a shared sensation, the unbreakable link between a person and their soul made manifest.

“It’s an incredible opportunity, Lyra,” Elara murmured, her voice quiet in the book-lined study. She ran a hand down her daemon’s back, feeling the tension in the sleek muscle beneath.

Lyra did not relax. She nudged the attached field reports with her nose, her message clear. Elara had read them a dozen times. They spoke of a mysterious “daemon-sickness,” an affliction unique to the peaks. The reports were filled with unsettling accounts: daemons growing inexplicably agitated, pacing and whining without cause; some becoming aggressive, even towards their own human; others simply weakening, their forms flickering as if their connection to the world was fraying. It was a place that sickened the soul itself.

Yet, the allure was intoxicating. The payment offered was enough to guarantee her independence for life. But it wasn't just the gold. It was the challenge. To chart the uncharted, to fill that glaring white void on the world’s maps with her own precise, meticulous lines. Success would mean her name was etched into history, a goal she had pursued with singular focus since she was a girl. Her ambition was a fire in her blood, a force almost as strong as the bond she shared with Lyra.

She felt her daemon’s fear, a sharp, cold spike of it, as her gaze fell on the signature line of the contract. Lyra let out a soft hiss, a desperate plea.

“I know,” Elara whispered, stroking the delicate, tufted tips of Lyra’s ears. “We will be cautious. We will be prepared for anything.”

But her own resolve was hardening, crystallizing into a decision. She picked up her pen, the ambition finally eclipsing the fear. The scholarly drive that defined her was too powerful to deny. With a steady hand that betrayed none of the turmoil she felt mirrored in her daemon, she signed her name. The ink sank into the vellum, a black, irreversible promise. Lyra flattened herself to the floor, tucking her head beneath her paws in a gesture of profound resignation. The journey was set.

The town of Greyfall was less a town and more a final, muddy outpost clinging to the feet of the Whispering Peaks. The air was thin and smelled of pine and damp earth. Its single street was a mire of mud and stone, lined with grim-faced buildings made of rough-hewn timber. The locals, hardened trappers and miners, watched her pass with open suspicion, their daemons—weasels, foxes, hardy mountain goats—mirroring their masters’ distrust. Lyra walked so close to Elara’s leg that her fur brushed against the coarse fabric of her trousers, a constant, vibrating current of unease.

The rejections were swift and absolute. The first guide, a wiry man with a hawk daemon perched on his shoulder, laughed in her face. The second, a stout woman whose badger daemon was digging nervously at the floorboards of her porch, simply shook her head and shut the door. By the third refusal, the word had clearly spread. No one would take a city scholar with her delicate-looking lynx into the sickness of the peaks. They spoke of it in low, fearful tones—of daemons turning frantic, of the bond itself feeling like it was being stretched to its breaking point.

Discouraged, Elara sat at a scarred table in the town’s only tavern, The Last Lantern. The air was thick with the smell of stale ale and woodsmoke. Lyra lay tense under the table, a low growl a constant hum in her throat. Elara was staring into a mug of weak tea when the tavern door swung open, letting in a slice of cold mountain air.

He was tall and broad, built with the solid, uncompromising strength of the mountains themselves. His dark hair was shaggy, and his face was all angles, weathered by wind and sun. But it was his daemon that drew her eye. A young grizzly bear, not yet fully grown but already immense, followed him in. The bear, Borin, ambled with a sort of clumsy curiosity, sniffing at a table leg before giving his human a soft nudge.

The man ignored him, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on Elara. He was the only person who hadn't dismissed her with a single glance. He walked to the bar, and she heard his low, steady voice order a drink. This was her last chance.

Taking a breath, Elara stood and approached him. Lyra moved with her, a silent, silver shadow. “I’m looking for a guide into the Peaks,” she said, her voice more steady than she felt.

He turned slowly, his grey eyes assessing her from head to toe. They were the color of stone. “No one in their right mind is guiding into the Peaks,” he said. His voice was a low rumble.

Borin padded closer, his big brown eyes curious as he looked at Lyra, who flattened her ears and stood her ground.

“The sickness is real,” the man continued, his tone flat, stating a fact. “It’s not some story to scare off tourists. It’ll drive your daemon mad before it kills you.”

“I’m a cartographer,” Elara stated, holding his gaze. “Not a tourist. I have a commission from the Guild.” She pushed the contract across the bar towards him. “The payment is substantial.”

He glanced at the purse of gold she’d set down, then back at her face. For a long moment, he was silent. Borin nudged his hand, a questioning rumble in his chest. Kael—the name was known to the last guide who’d turned her down—looked from Elara’s determined face to Lyra’s tense form. He saw not fragility, but a quiet, stubborn resilience.

“You’re still a fool for trying,” he said, but he didn’t walk away. He picked up the purse, its weight settling in his large palm. “But the Guild’s gold spends as well as any. Be ready at dawn. Don’t be late.”

The ascent began in a tense, professional silence. The trail was little more than a goat path etched into the steep incline, a treacherous ribbon of loose scree and stubborn rock. Kael moved with an unnerving, silent grace, his heavy pack seemingly weightless on his broad back. Borin padded ahead, his massive form a dark, steady presence against the grey stone, while Lyra slunk close to Elara’s heels, her every muscle coiled with suspicion for the path ahead. The air grew thinner with each step, and Elara focused on the rhythmic crunch of her boots, the burn in her lungs, and the careful placement of her hands and feet. Kael offered no conversation, only pointing out a loose foothold or a patch of unstable ground with a terse grunt. The distance between them felt as vast and cold as the mountain itself.

They were traversing a narrow ledge, the cliff face rising sheer on one side and dropping into a dizzying abyss on the other, when the sound began. It was a low, deep groan from the mountain’s gut, a vibration that traveled up through the soles of Elara’s boots and into her bones. Lyra let out a sharp, panicked cry, her claws digging into the dirt. Borin, a few yards ahead, stopped dead, a warning growl rumbling in his chest.

Before Elara could even process the sound, Kael was moving. He closed the distance between them in a single, powerful stride. His hand shot out, clamping around her upper arm with bruising force. He didn't speak, didn't warn her. He simply yanked her backwards, pulling her off her feet and against the solid wall of his chest just as the world erupted.

A cascade of rock and earth thundered down from above, obliterating the path where she had stood a second before. The air filled with a deafening roar and the sharp, cracking sound of stone shattering against stone. Elara was pressed hard against Kael, her face buried in the rough wool of his jacket, which smelled of pine and cold air. His arm was a steel band around her, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe. She felt the tremor of the rockslide through his body, his muscles rigid and unyielding as he shielded her from the deadly shower.

The roar subsided, replaced by the trickle of loose pebbles skittering down into the chasm below. The dust began to settle. He still held her. His grip on her arm had not loosened; if anything, it had tightened. Through the fabric of her sleeve, the heat of his palm was a brand on her skin. She could feel the individual strength of each finger, the solid reality of him that had just saved her life. A shudder went through her that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the sudden, shocking intimacy of his touch. It was a jolt, a current of pure physical awareness that shot directly from her arm to the center of her chest.

A sharp hiss broke the silence. Lyra, her silver fur on end, was poised to spring, her blue eyes blazing at Kael as if he were the threat. In the same instant, Borin let out a loud, startled huff, his head swinging toward the tense lynx. For a beat, the daemons mirrored the raw tension that had flared between their humans. Then, as if a shared understanding passed between them, the aggression drained away. Borin took a soft step forward and nudged Lyra’s shoulder with his great, dark muzzle. Lyra flinched but didn’t pull away. She let out a shaky breath and leaned into the bear’s solid form, a flicker of mirrored relief passing between them.

Slowly, Kael loosened his hold. His hand slid from her arm, his calloused fingers grazing her skin before he finally let go completely, stepping back. The cold mountain air rushed into the space he had occupied. Elara looked up, meeting his stone-grey eyes. The professional veil was gone. In its place was something raw, unguarded, and intensely focused. The silence that fell between them now was heavier, more potent, than it had been all day.