"You are looking for the Wildspont."
It is not a question.
"I can take you there."
13
DINA
The Vrakken’s words hang in the silent, ash-strewn clearing, a promise wrapped in a threat.I can take you there.The air is permeated with the coppery scent of extinguished life and the heavy, tomb-like presence of the creature who offered us salvation. My heart flutters against my ribs, each beat a frantic question.Can we trust him? Can we afford not to?
I look at Xylon. He stands over the remains of the hunters, his massive body a testament to the brutal fight. Fresh blood weeps from the tears in his flesh where the barbed nets bit deep, and the venom from the crossbow bolts has left a sickly, dark stain on his grey-green hide. He is wounded, exhausted, and hunted. I see the sheer, stubborn will that keeps him on his feet, and I know that he cannot keep fighting forever. My heart aches for him.
We are out of time. We are out of options.
He turns his fiery, intelligent eyes to me. A low growl rumbles through his chest, a clear warning directed at the pale, silent figure in the shadows. But he does not move. The choice, I realize with a jolt, is mine.
I take a breath, the air still tasting of dust and shadow magic. “You know the way to the Wildspont?” My voice is a thin, reedy thing in the oppressive quiet.
The Vrakken’s ancient, sorrowful eyes meet mine. “I am its keeper.”
The answer settles into me, a stone of grim finality. This is not a chance encounter. This is fate, or something far more dangerous, reaching out to us. There is no other path. “We will go with you,” I say, my voice gaining a sliver of strength I had no idea I possessed.
Xylon’s growl deepens, a sound of profound displeasure, but he steps to my side, a silent, menacing wall of protective muscle. He does not trust this creature, but he trusts me. The weight of that trust is a heavier burden than any I have ever carried.
The Vrakken—Kasian, as he introduces himself in his soft, gravestone voice—gives a single, solemn nod. He turns and glides toward the thickest part of the forest, his dark robes melting into the shadows. He leads us to an ancient, gnarled oak, its roots like the grasping fingers of a buried giant. He places a pale, long-fingered hand upon its trunk, and with a low groan that seems to come from the very bones of the earth, a section of the roots and soil pulls away, revealing a dark, descending staircase carved from the living rock.
The air that breathes from the opening is cool and still, humming with a strange, palpable energy that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. It is the feeling of immense, sleeping power. Xylon lets out another low growl, his hand—his clawed, massive fist—clenching and unclenching at his side. He stays so close to me as we descend that I can feel the heat radiating from his monstrous form.
Kasian leads us deep into a network of vast, silent caverns. The only light comes from glowing veins of silver-blue crystal embedded in the stone, which cast a cold, ethereal glow on ourpath. The air is still and clean, and the sound of our footsteps is swallowed by the immense, echoing silence.
We finally emerge into a cavern so large it feels like a piece of the night sky has been trapped underground. The ceiling is a dome of glittering crystal that mimics the constellations above, and the air, while cool, is not damp. This is his home.
And it is a mausoleum.
My breath stops in my throat. The space is filled with priceless artifacts, arranged with the meticulous care of a museum curator. Priceless tapestries depicting forgotten histories hang from the stone walls, their vibrant colors muted by time. Carved wooden furniture, elegant and unused, is draped in white silk cloths like shrouds. Glass cases hold intricate jewelry of silver and moonstone, delicate tiaras and heavy necklaces that have not felt the warmth of skin in centuries. It is a place of desolate, heartbreaking beauty, and the air is ripe with an unspoken, overwhelming grief. It feels like I am trespassing in a tomb built for someone.
Kasian glides to the center of the cavern, his movements silent. He gestures to the Urog. “The Wildspont can break the curse,” he says, voice a dispassionate whisper in the echoing space. “Its magic can unmake what has been made. The carvings you saw… they do not lie.”
A fragile hope, the one I felt when I first saw those carvings, begins to flutter in my chest. He can be saved. He can be whole again. Xylon can be the honorable orc he was.
“But the carvings tell the whole truth,” Kasian continues, and his bottomless black eyes turn to me. The weight of his gaze is immense, ancient. “Magic of that magnitude requires a price. The Wildspont is not a font of creation. It is a vessel of exchange. It is fueled by life force.”
My stomach plummets. I already know what he is going to say, but hearing the words spoken aloud in this cold, silent tomb gives them a terrible, final weight.
“It demands the willing sacrifice of a human life.”
The hope in my chest dies, turning to a cold, heavy dread. I look at Xylon, at the noble warrior trapped inside the monstrous form, and I think of a life of endless running, of him being hunted and hated, of the curse slowly, inevitably burning away the man I know is in there. Then I think of my own life. A life of servitude, of beatings, of being less than nothing. What value does it have, compared to his?
As if hearing my thoughts, Kasian takes a step closer. For the first time, I see a flicker of something raw and desperate in the depths of his ancient eyes, a profound, chilling pain that I cannot begin to comprehend.
“The ritual requires more than just a life,” he says, his voice now a low, urgent murmur meant only for me. “It requires a pure heart. A spirit free of despair.” He looks at me, and in his gaze I see a terrible, pleading hunger. He knows. Somehow, he knows that after everything I have endured, a stubborn, foolish spark of hope still burns inside me. He knows I am the one.
Before I can speak, before I can even process the terrible, final calculus of it all, a roar of pure, absolute negation erupts from Xylon. It is not the sound of a beast. It is the cry of a man’s soul pushed past its breaking point. The sound slams into me like a sledgehammer, making me stagger.
He lunges forward, but not at Kasian, not at me. He brings his massive, clawed fist down on an ornate stone table laden with delicate crystal artifacts. The table explodes into a thousand pieces, the sound of shattering stone and crystal a violent echo of his broken roar.
He plants himself firmly in front of me, his ten-foot frame a trembling wall of fury, shielding me from Kasian, from theworld, from the very idea of sacrifice. His answer is clear. It is absolute. It is no.
