“Only a little.”
“Pass.”
“Your loss. The honey wine here can dissolve metal.”
“Why would anyone drink that?”
“For fun, mostly. Also, it makes you see colors that don’t exist yet.”
I looked around at my impossible garden, at the crew preparing for night watch, at Kaelren sharpening blades with methodical precision whilepointedly not looking in my direction. The marks on my skin continued their slow conquest, and somewhere in the distance, something howled in a register that human ears shouldn’t be able to hear.
This was my life now. Strange foods that might kill me, people who definitely wanted to kill me, and marks that were slowly killing me while transforming me into something else. Tomorrow would absolutely be worse, and the day after that worse still.
But for now, in this moment between battles and transformations, sitting in a garden that shouldn’t exist in a tree the size of a skyscraper, surrounded by dangerous outcasts who might eventually accept me or might eventually eat me—for now, I was surviving.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Even if I had no idea what I was becoming.
7
Elle
The smell of something burning dragged me from dreams of vines and violence.
“Shit, shit, shit—” Bryx’s voice carried across camp, followed by the distinct sound of wings beating frantically.
I groaned, every muscle protesting as I sat up. My entire body ached from the journey here—days of riding giant bees and sleeping on the ground had left me feeling like someone had taken my bones out, put them back wrong, then decided to set them on fire for good measure. The marks at my collarbones pulsed with a dull ache, like the world’s worst sunburn but under my skin.
The Sage had been right about passing the first threshold—it had bought me time. Instead of hours until I lost myself completely, I now had days, maybe a week before the second threshold hit. The transformation had slowed to a steady creep rather than a wildfire, though I could feel it eating away at my humanity with every heartbeat.
Outside my tent, the camp was already alive with morning activity. The air hummed with the sound of a thousand tiny wings—not just Bryx’s bees, but the native insects of Wynmire that glowed faintly blue in the dawn light. Vashael tended to her mobile garden—plants growing in containers made from hollowed gourds and woven root baskets, their leaves releasing a scent like jasmine mixed with copper. Nimor flickered in and out of visibility nearthe perimeter, probably scouting or just enjoying making people nervous. Eltrien sat cross-legged near the fire, grinding something in a mortar that sparkled like crushed stars, organizing his healing supplies with the kind of methodical precision that suggested he’d seen too much chaos to leave anything to chance.
And Bryx was definitely burning breakfast.
I emerged to find him frantically trying to salvage what looked like fungus cakes, now more charcoal than food. Kevin, his favorite bee, hovered nearby making disapproving buzzing sounds.
“I just looked away for one second,” Bryx protested to the bee.
“You were telling a story,” Sarnyx corrected from where she sat sharpening her thorns. “A long story. With hand gestures.”
“It was a good story!”
“Was it worth burnt breakfast?”
I made my way to the fire, trying not to limp. My ribs ached where I’d landed wrong during yesterday’s “controlled falling” exercise, which was the Sage’s fun way of saying “throw yourself at the ground and try to make plants catch you.”
“There’s porridge,” Eltrien offered, gesturing to a pot that looked significantly less destroyed. “And some preserved fruit Vashael found.”
“Thanks.” I accepted a bowl gratefully, settling onto a log that someone had dragged near the fire. The porridge was bland but filling, with chunks of something sweet that might have been fruit or might have been crystallized tree sap. At this point, I didn’t ask.
Kaelren stood at the edge of camp, his back to us, silver eyes scanning the forest. He hadn’t acknowledged my presence, which was pretty standard. What wasn’t standard was the way he kept flexing his left hand, the one where his carved marks were darkest.
He was in pain. I could tell by the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself. But asking if he was okay would probably result in him glaring at me until I spontaneously combusted from embarrassment, so I focused on my breakfast instead.
Stop staring at him,I told myself.He literally threatened to kill you threedays ago. Multiple times. He’s probably cataloging your weaknesses right now, figuring out the most efficient way to end you when you inevitably lose control.
But damn it, even plotting my death, he was unfairly beautiful. The morning light caught in his dark hair, turned his pale skin to alabaster. His carved marks, visible through his shirt, created patterns that were horrifying and mesmerizing in equal measure.
