Threk’s hand is a vise around my arm. He doesn't just step through the shimmering, rippling thing; he drags me with him, a single, non-negotiable act of possession. Together.
My world dissolves.
It is not a step. It is a plunge. The screaming of the wind, the biting cold, the very scent of the mountains—it all vanishes, stolen in an instant. There is a moment of crushing, absolute silence and pressure, a feeling of being squeezed through a pinhole. It is a cold, terrifying, breathless nothing.
And then we are through.
I stumble out onto… moss. Not snow. I fall to my knees on a carpet of damp, soft, glowing green moss. The air is warm. Not hot like the spring, but mild, like a spring evening. It smells of damp earth and something sweet, like berries blooming in the dark.
I gasp, my lungs filling with this new, strange air. It hums. The low, deep song Threk was following is everywhere now. It is not a sound I hear with my ears; it is a vibration I feel in my teeth, a low, powerful current that makes my bones ache with a strange, clean energy.
I look up, and my breath is stolen all over again.
We are not on a mountain. We are in a forest. But the sky is not a sky. It is a swirling, bruised, impossible purple, like an oil-slicked puddle stretching to infinity. The light comes from everywhere and nowhere, a faint, ethereal, pearlescent glow that seems to radiate from the air itself. The trees are wrong. They are black as charcoal, but glowing with the same faint, green moss as the ground, their branches twisted into elegant, unnatural spirals.
It is beautiful. It is alien just as Maeve said.
Threk hates it.
He has not let go of my hand. He has dragged me to my feet and pulled me flush against his side, his body a solid mountain of pure, terrified rage.
He is shaking. Not from the cold. From fury.
"Threk, it's... it's okay," I whisper, my voice sounding too loud in the humming silence.
"Magic," he hisses, the word a snarl of disgust. His eyes are burning, darting from shadow to shadow. His head is on a constant, low swivel. "Elf-magic."
"No," I say, my free hand touching his chest, right over his scar. His heart is hammering frantically against my palm. "This is not theirs. This is... old. It feels... clean."
He grunts, unconvinced. He hates this. He hates all of it. His elven torture has poisoned the very idea of magic for him.
He pulls me with him, his limp more pronounced on the soft, uneven ground. He refuses to let me go. He is my protector, and we are in the belly of the enemy.
"Where are we going?" I ask, stumbling to keep up with his massive strides.
He doesn't answer. He just moves. He is following the hum, which seems to be stronger in one direction, pulling us deeper into the glowing, purple forest. He holds me tucked against hisside, shielding me with his body from a world that is only light and peaceful.
We walk for what feels like an hour, the hum growing stronger until my teeth ache with it, non-stop.
It is leading us to another cave.
The mouth of the cavern is a black, gaping hole in the glowing moss, but the humming is pouring out of it, a flood of pure energy.
Threk stops. He growls, low and deep. He hates caves. Caves are traps.
"It's okay," I whisper, my voice shaking less now. The magic... it doesn't feel evil. It feels... expectant. "It wants us to come in. We have to. This is it, Threk. This is the place."
He looks down at me, his red eyes filled with doubt and fear. But he sees the hope in my face.
He nods. A single, sharp movement.
He enters the cave, pushing me behind him this time, shielding me from the darkness.
But it is not dark.
Inside, the light is brighter. The glowing, green moss is thicker here, pulsing with the hum of the Wildspont. The cavern is huge, a perfect, round dome.
And the walls are covered in paintings.
