Three days of flying on giant bees had taught me several things about Wynmire.
One: The realm was vast in ways that made no geographical sense. We’d flown what should have been hundreds of miles, yet the sun never seemed to move quite right, and sometimes I’d swear we passed the same mountain twice from different angles.
Two: My ass was going to be absolutely ripped by the time this was over. Hours upon hours of clenching every muscle in my lower body just to stay balanced on a bee’s fuzzy back meant I was getting the world’s most terrifying workout. I’d mentioned this to Sarnyx, who’d nearly fallen off her own bee laughing.
Three: Kaelren was watching me more than he probably thought he was.
I’d catch him sometimes—around the campfire at night, or during our brief rest stops when we’d land to let the bees forage. His silver eyes would track me as I talked with Eltrien about Wynmire’s history, or when Bryx showed me how to properly secure my pack so it wouldn’t shift mid-flight. The moment I’d look his way, he’d turn back to whatever he was doing, but not before I saw something in his expression I couldn’t quite name.
“He’s definitely softening,” Peeble observed one evening as we made camp in a grove of trees that hummed with blue light. “Compared to the ‘you’ll die here’ speech on day one, this is practically warm.”
“That’s a low bar,” I grumbled back.
“Fair. But he did show you how to feel the forest network yesterday without making it sound like a lecture on your inevitable doom.”
Also fair. Kaelren had been… not exactly friendly, but less aggressively distant. He still spoke in clipped sentences and maintained his careful physical distance, but there were cracks in the armor. Small ones. Like when he’d actually explained something about Wynmire’s magic without being asked, or when I’d caught what might have been the ghost of amusement in his voice.
The Crown scouts were another story entirely. We’d spotted them twice—patrols sweeping the forest in organized grids, clearly searching for us. Each time, Nimor would scout ahead, we’d land and hide, and the group would set up wards that made us effectively invisible. Vashael’s illusion magic combined with Eltrien’s knowledge of Crown search patterns meant we stayed consistently one step ahead.
“They’re getting more desperate,” Eltrien had said after our second near-miss. “Expanding the search radius. Auradelle must be pushing hard.”
“Good,” Sarnyx had replied, thorns bristling. “Let them waste resources chasing shadows.”
But I could feel the tension growing in the group. Every day we evaded capture was another day my marks spread, another day the corruption in Kaelren’s carved lines deepened, another day closer to whatever the convergence actually meant.
I’d spent the flying hours learning what I could. Bryx taught me about the different bee breeds—apparently Kevin was a Northern Humming variety, prized for endurance. Eltrien shared stories about the time before the Bloom and Root split, when Wynmire was unified. Even Vashael, usually quiet, had explained how illusion magic worked differently here than in human folklore.
And sometimes, during those long flights, I’d catch Kaelren looking back at me over his shoulder, his expression unreadable but his marks pulsing with something that looked almost like concern.
Now, on the fourth day, the landscape began to change in ways that mademy breath catch..
Below us, the forest grew denser, older. The trees here were titans, their trunks so vast they had weather systems. Mist clung to the middle canopy, and through gaps in the leaves, I could see bridges—actual bridges made of living wood connecting the massive trees. Smoke rose from what might have been chimneys.
“People live up there?” I asked.
“The Canopy Folk,” Kaelren said over his shoulder, his tone clipped as always. “They haven’t touched the ground in generations.”
Before I could ask more, Nimor materialized on his bee beside us, more solid than usual—never a good sign.
“Crown patrol ahead. They’ve set up a blockade at the river crossing.”
“How many?” Kaelren’s voice sharpened.
“Twenty, maybe more. Armed with those reality-enforced weapons.”
“Can we go around?” I asked.
“Not without adding days to our journey,” Kaelren replied. “And we don’t have days.”
We descended carefully, landing in a grove of silver-barked trees that hummed with their own quiet energy. The moment my feet touched the ground, I could feel the forest’s concern through my marks—not quite words, but impressions of danger, caution, old anger.
“We could try diplomacy,” Eltrien suggested, though his tone suggested he knew how unlikely that was.
“They’re not here to talk,” Kaelren said flatly. “They’re here to capture Elle.”
“Then we fight?” Sarnyx asked, thorns already extending.
“We evade,” Kaelren corrected. “There’s an old smuggler’s path through the root caves. It comes out past the crossing.”
