Sam is there, waiting as I collapse into his arms. His warmth envelops me, chasing away the lingering chill of the cave. Ibreathe him in, reassuring myself that he’s real, alive, not the broken form I saw in my vision. Locke is beside him, sword drawn as if they were about to charge into the trees after me, his face tight with concern that melts into relief when he sees me.
“We’ve got you,” Sam whispers against my hair, his arms tightening around me. “You’re safe now.”
Galin approaches and inspects my arm, whistling softly as his fingers trace the air just above the mark, not quite touching it. “Well, well, well. You’ve passed, Miss Esme.”
He smiles, sharp and pleased, eyes glittering with something like pride.
“You’ve passed brilliantly.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SAM
My whole world breathes softly against my chest.
Her limbs are limp, boneless in the way only true exhaustion can make a person, head tucked beneath my chin like she’s trying to burrow into the safety of my heartbeat. If not for the shallow, rhythmic rise and fall of her ribs against mine, I might think she’d vanished again, dissolved back into whatever nightmare realm swallowed her whole in that cave. I know my thoughts aren’t rational, tinged with the kind of desperation that makes wolves pace and howl at the moon, but she’s here. She came back to me.
I carry her easily, cradling her against my chest like she weighs nothing more than morning mist. There’s no weight to her that I can’t bear, no strain in my arms that would make me falter, no ache in my back that could force me to set her down. The wolf in me could carry her for miles without breaking stride. Hell, I’d carry her to the very edges of Vanir, through every court and kingdom, if it meant she never had to walk into danger alone again. If it meant I could shield her from whatever horrors wait in the trials ahead.
Locke walks to my left, his massive frame moving with that predatory grace all fae seem born with. His blade is sheathed across his back, but his eyes remain sharp and restless, constantly scanning the tree line like he expects shadow wraiths, or worse, to come pouring out of the undergrowth. His jaw is set in that familiar hard line, the same expression he’s worn since the moment we met.
Galin leads the way through the winding forest path ahead of us, humming softly to himself with an almost childlike contentment, as if he’s someone wandering through a bustling market rather than escorting a half-dead girl away from a trial designed to shatter souls and break minds. The ancient fae moves with an unsettling lightness, his robes rustling against the forest floor, completely unbothered by the weight of what we’ve just witnessed.
We’ve only walked a few minutes since she stumbled out of that cave and collapsed into my arms, but already the oppressive atmosphere of the trial grounds seems to be lifting with every step we take. The trees, which had been twisted and gnarled with malevolent energy, now bend away from our path as if making room for our passage. The sun breaks through the canopy above us, casting dappled golden light across the forest floor, and birds have begun to chirp tentatively in the branches overhead, sounds that had been completely absent near the trial cave.
“Bring her inside,” Galin says as the familiar, gnarled silhouette of his tree-cottage comes into view through the clearing ahead. The dwelling looks exactly as we left it, impossibly grown from living wood, windows glowing with warm amber light. He doesn’t even turn his head to speak, just waves us forward with one gnarled hand. “She needs rest, and the two of you need food. Your strength will be tested soon enough. Afterwards, we need to talk about what comes next.”
Locke jogs ahead with fluid, silent steps, reaching the door before us and pushing it open wide. The hinges don’t even creak. I cross the threshold carefully, mindful of Esme’s lolling head, and step into the cottage’s warmth. The air smells of herbs and woodsmoke, tinged with something indefinably magical that makes my wolf settle slightly.
Galin gestures toward a bedroll spread beside the stone hearth, where the fire is still crackling softly, embers glowing a deep orange-red in the dim interior. “There. She’ll be comfortable by the warmth.”
I kneel slowly, my knees hitting the worn wooden floor with barely a sound, and gently lower Esme down onto the bedroll. Her head lolls to one side for a moment, her hair spills across the pillow, before I carefully adjust the rough-woven cushion beneath her neck. The mark on her forearm, that strange, intricate rune that appeared when she emerged from the trial is still faintly glowing with an inner light that seems to pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat. I trace the symbol with the gentlest of touches, barely letting my fingertips brush her skin. I don’t know what it means, but it looks like it’s been burned into her very marrow, not just branded onto the surface of her flesh.
“She passed,” I say, my voice filled with awe, a relief so profound it makes my chest tight. I knew she would, had to believe she would, but the sight of her stumbling out between those dark trees was evidence enough that whatever she went through in that cave wasn’t easy. The haunted look in her pale eyes, the way she’d collapsed the moment she saw me, it all spoke of horrors faced and somehow overcome.
Galin nods once, his face unreadable as he kneels beside her. He follows my lead, tracing his hand above the glowing rune, careful not to contact her skin. “I’ve only read about the trials in ancient scrolls, texts so old they crumble at a touch. I’ve never seen the marks manifest on any living fae, only studied theetchings of the runes on parchment and stone.” His voice carries that eerie, knowing edge again, like he’s peering through layers of reality I can’t even perceive. “It is said that the Trial of Self shows no mercy to those who enter. She came back because she remembered who she truly is, beneath all the pain and doubt. She chose to live and not be crushed by the weight of whatever truths she was forced to confront.”
He stands with a soft grunt, brushing his palms against his robes, and steps over to the cluttered table positioned near the cottage’s single window. With a casual flick of his fingers, a rolled-up map unfurls across the scarred wood surface, its corners weighted down by glass jars filled with dried herbs and strange, glimmering stones that seem to pulse with their own inner light.
“The next trial will not wait, unfortunately,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact in a way that makes my stomach clench. “You cannot tarry here, much as you might wish to. You’ll need to leave before sundown if you hope to reach Lake Mavria by dawn.”
I stiffen, every protective instinct in my body rebelling against the words. “She hasn’t even woken up. She needs time to recover, to process whatever happened in there.”
“She doesn’t need to be awake for the journey, wolf,” Galin replies, not unkindly but with the implacable certainty of someone who’s seen the pattern of these trials play out before. “She needs to be ready when you arrive at the next trial ground. The magic there will call to her, will help restore what was depleted.” He taps the map with one finger, dragging it along a winding path toward a lake nestled between dark forest and towering cliff faces. “Here. Lake Mavria. The Trial of Reflection.”
Locke steps closer to the table, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor. “And the others? How many more will she have to endure?”
Galin’s finger moves southwest across the map, tracing another path to what looks like an endless expanse of grassland marked with small symbols that might be graves or monuments. “The Plains of the Dead. That will be her third trial.” His voice drops slightly, taking on a more somber tone. “Loss.”
Then he shifts his attention north, to a jagged mountain range inked in charcoal and shadow, peaks that seem to scrape the very sky. “The final one. Power,” he says, tapping his finger three times against the marking as if this trial carries more weight than all the others combined. “She’ll climb the Severed Rise if she makes it that far. If she survives what comes before.”
“If?” I echo, the word coming out sharper than I intended, laced with all the fear and anger I’ve been trying to suppress.
Galin glances over his shoulder at me, those ancient eyes seeming to look straight through to my soul. “These trials were not designed to be linear, young wolf. They were never meant to be completed by mortals, half-bloods, or even traditional witches. She is something else entirely, a convergence of bloodlines and magic that hasn’t been seen in centuries. The trials will mold themselves to her specifically, drawing on her deepest doubts, her most paralyzing fears, her most devastating grief.”
I look down at Esme, watching as her eyes move rapidly behind closed lids, her fingers twitching slightly in whatever dream or vision still holds her. Even in sleep, she looks like she’s fighting something.
“She’s strong,” I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. “Stronger than anyone gives her credit for. She’ll survive it.”
