“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured.
She shifted slightly, then leaned into me, resting her head against my shoulder.
The contact was gentle. Natural. But it sent something sharp and indefinable straight through my chest.
I stayed still, barely daring to breathe, afraid I might ruin it somehow. Her warmth soaked through my sleeve. Her hair smelled like rain and crushed herbs.
She was asleep within minutes.
I stayed by her side long after her eyes closed, watching the moonlight shift across her face. She looked peaceful. Touched with fear but resting now despite it.
And gods help me, I didn’t want to move.
The silence was absolute; the grovestood breathless, every rustle hushed.
Wyn stirred beside me, her foreheadknitted, with a visible sign of her concern, but she hadn’t cried out again. No more whispers, no more visions, simply the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath her cloak. I stood before her, brushing dirt from my knees and quietly tucking the pendant back into my belt.
Around camp, the others emerged from restless half-sleep. Gideon muttered about curses and morning stiffness, his jokes thin and brittle. Jasira brewed tea with fingers still pink from the cold. Bran pawed at the dirt, agitated. The bone-pale trees cast long shadows, and none of us spoke much.
Alaric paced. He always paced when he didn’t want to show how shaken he was.
“We should have crossed the river,” he said eventually, not looking at me. “Back where the bridge collapsed.”
I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong. We should have. Yet, a chilling unease clung to the river, whispering of a price far greater than any toll. “We’ll make better time today,” I said instead. “There’s an open trail ahead. If we keep east, we’ll clear the ridge before nightfall.”
Suddenly, Wyn woke up, rising with her cloak wrapped tightly around her, eyes shaded but steady.
“I’m ready,” shedeclared, her voice firm and unwavering.
We moved as one, boots crunching over brittle moss, breath steaming in the cold. No one looked back at the trees. In the Bone Orchard, there were no farewells.
Chapter Twenty-One
Wynessa
We continued through the Bone Orchard, but the forest was no longer familiar. It had shifted, taking on a new, unsettling aura than the last.
Where once the trees grew tall and skeletal, here, theycurled inwards, their gnarled trunks and branches fusing into a grotesque, organic dome. Above, the sky was a distant rumor, barely visible through the choked foliage. The path ahead was not merely overgrown; it wasentombedbeneath a writhing mass of thorn-laced vines thatpiercedthe ground like insistent claws.
“It’s called the Thorn Maze,” Gideonrasped, a tight grimace pulling his lips into a thin line.“Not exactly subtle.”
I glanced at Erindor, clearly chafing under the unwanted burden of leading the way.
“Alaric insisted,” he muttered, arms crossed. “Said we’d make better time if we cut through instead of circling the ridge.”
At that, Alaric, already sweating, shrugged dramatically. “And I still say we could. Unless you’d like to climb back up that hill we just slid down on our backsides.”
“It’s cursed,” Jasira said, voice flat.
“It’s efficient,” Alaric replied with a mock cheer.
Erindor studied him.
Alaric grinned. But no one else laughed.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the creak of thorns shifting in the breeze.
“I’ve heard stories,” Gideon muttered, staring at the curling vines. “Which say someone summoned this maze instead of growing it. Ages ago, a priestess of Vireya built it to catch souls. To give them to the flame.” He glanced at me briefly, then turned away.
