“I don’t know what’s happening,” I admitted. “But we’ll figure it out. Together. Right now, just focus on me. On my voice. Stay with me.”
“Which me?” she asked, and her voice echoed strangely. “I can feel different versions. Different choices. Like I’m being pulled in multiple directions at once.”
“Choose this one,” I said. “Choose the Elle standing in this destroyed forest, covered in dirt and flowers, who just helped me fight the Wild Hunt. Choose her.”
She focused on me, and gradually, the other versions faded. Reality solidified around her again, though flowers still bloomed where she stood.
“You’re becoming something I never could,” I admitted. “Human enough to choose. Powerful enough for it to matter.”
“That terrifies you,” she observed.
“Yes.”
“Good.” She swayed, exhaustion hitting her. “Because it terrifies me too.”
I caught her as she stumbled, and the contact sent shockwaves through both of us. But I didn’t let go.
“The safe house,” I ordered the others. “Now.”
“Safe house?” Peeble landed on Elle’s shoulder, wings twitching. “You mean that creepy monastery that looks like it eats people? Great. Love that for us.”
As we fled the destroyed forest, leaving impossible trees and strange flowers behind, I played what the Hunt’s leader said one more time:
“She will choose. And this time, her choice will break everything differently.”
I didn’t know what that meant.
But I was starting to suspect we were about to find out.
17
Elle
The monastery clung to the hillside like a wound that refused to heal—all twisted spires and warped buttresses that defied every natural law. This wasn’t architecture. This was what happened when desperation carved shelter from tortured wood and neither the tree nor the blade survived intact.
“Root-cult buildings aren’t built,” the Sage explained as we approached, their voice carrying an unusual reverence. “They’re grown. Coaxed. Pleaded with. The ancient cultists would spend years in communion with a single tree, convincing it to reshape itself into shelter. This one…” They paused, studying the structure with critical eyes. “This one was grown during the Fracture War, when there wasn’t time for patience. You can see where they forced it.”
They were right. The walls curved where they should corner, bulging like scar tissue. Windows sat at stomach-turning angles, their frames twisted as if the wood had been screaming when it solidified. And the door—gods, the door was definitely breathing, expanding and contracting in a slow, wet rhythm that made my skin crawl.
“Charming,” I muttered, still feeling disconnected from my own body after whatever had happened in the forest. “Very ‘abandoned horror chapel’ aesthetic.”
“It’s safe,” Nimor insisted, though his form flickered worse than ever—sometimes solid, sometimes just an outline of where a person should be. The fight had cost him. Cost all of us. “The Root-cults used places like this for meditation and communion with the deepest powers. The resonance should help stabilize you. Hopefully stabilize us both.”
“Should?”
“Will.” Kaelren’s voice cut through the doubt with absolute certainty. No question, no comfort—just cold fact delivered like a blade. His hand still gripped my arm like I was something he’d claimed and had no intention of releasing. “It will help.”
Peeble buzzed near my ear, wings producing an anxious hum I’d learned meant genuine worry. “Famous last words. ‘The creepy breathing building will definitely help and not turn you into fertilizer.’”
Kaelren hadn’t let go of my arm since catching me at the battle site. His touch was the only thing keeping me anchored, keeping me from dissolving into all those other versions of myself. Through our bond, I felt his determination like iron. He would not let me fade. It wasn’t a choice—it was a certainty he’d decided and would enforce with violence if necessary.
“The Fracture War,” Eltrien said quietly, running his fingers along the warped doorframe with something like grief. “This monastery was a healing house. The Root-cultists took in soldiers from both sides—Bloom-touched and Root-marked alike. They tried to prove that the two powers could coexist, could heal together.” His mycelial markings pulsed softly. “Three hundred cultists died when the Crown discovered what they were doing. Burned them alive inside their own sanctuary.”
“Wait,” I said, the term catching in my mind. “What does Bloom-touched mean? I know what Root-marked is—” I gestured at the golden veins spreading under my skin, “—obviously. But I don’t understand the other thing you’re talking about.”
Kaelren’s jaw tightened, and through our bond I felt something dark and bitter rise to the surface. “The Bloom lives in the Heartspire. Guarded by the Crown. Controlled by the Crown.”
“Controlled?”
