Through our bond, I felt the echo of everything we’d done, everythingwe’d felt. Real or not, it had changed something between us.
Something we couldn’t take back.
And as I looked into his eyes, saw the same hunger and possessive intensity reflected there, I realized I didn’t want to take it back.
Whatever came next—convergence, corruption, the weight of seventeen failed iterations—we would face it together.
But first, we had to survive long enough to make that dream a reality.
18
Elle
The dream had changed everything, and the two days since had been an exercise in pretending it hadn’t.
We’d left the monastery at dawn—too early, moving with the kind of desperate efficiency that came from needing to outrun both the Hunt and our own thoughts. The crew noticed, of course. How could they not? Kaelren and I orbited each other like binary stars, pulled together by gravity we couldn’t control but held apart by the very real danger of what might happen if we touched.
Every accidental brush of hands sent flowers blooming. Every shared glance made reality ripple at the edges. The bond between us thrummed with tension that was equal parts desire and terror—one wrong move and we’d either tear the realm apart or finally, finally give in to what we both wanted.
“You’re doing the thing again,” Peeble observed from my shoulder as we navigated another narrow forest path.
“What thing?”
“The ‘staring at him while pretending you’re not staring’ thing. Very subtle. Extremely convincing. Nobody suspects a thing.”
“I’m not—”
“He’s doing it too, by the way. Currently examining the back of your head like it contains the secrets of the universe. Which, given your generalsituation, it might.”
I didn’t look back to confirm. I didn’t need to—I could feel his attention like heat between my shoulder blades, could sense through our bond that he was remembering exactly what I was remembering. The waterfall. The vines. The promises we’d made.
“This is torture,” I muttered.
“Welcome to sexual tension,” Peeble said cheerfully. “Population: you two idiots who can’t touch without potentially destroying reality. Sad trombone noise.”
The worst part was that everything reminded me of the dream. The way sunlight filtered through the canopy became the light-waterfall. The sound of wind through leaves turned into his voice saying my name like a prayer and a threat. Even the flowers growing along the path seemed to mock me with their innocent beauty.
Sarnyx noticed, because of course she did. On the second morning, she’d pulled me aside with an expression that managed to be both knowing and exasperated.
“Whatever happened in that monastery,” she’d said, “get it under control. We can’t afford distractions right now.”
“Nothing happened,” I’d lied.
She’d given me a look that said she wasn’t buying it. “The flowers growing everywhere you walk say otherwise. As does the way he watches you like a man dying of thirst looking at water he can’t drink.”
I’d had no response to that.
The others handled our tension differently. Bryx made increasingly inappropriate jokes that nobody laughed at. Vashael and Nimor exchanged glances that suggested they were taking bets on when we’d finally crack. Even the Sage seemed amused, though they at least had the grace not to comment directly.
Only Eltrien remained characteristically cryptic. “The convergence approaches,” he’d said that morning, his mycelial markings pulsing in that unsettling rhythm. “And you two are preparing for it whether you know it or not. What happens in dreams has a way of becoming real in thisrealm. Be careful what you promise.”
Now, as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, we finally emerged from the dense forest paths into something that made me stop breathing.
The Thornwood Throne wasn’t what I’d expected.
After days of running, fighting, and nearly dissolving into pure possibility, I’d built up this image in my head of a dark fortress, all thorns and shadows and brooding rebellion. Instead, as we emerged from the forest paths, I found myself staring at something that looked like it had been dreamed rather than built.
The base spread through a massive hollow where trees had been coaxed into living architecture. Colossal blossoms—each the size of a small house—had been hollowed out and transformed into dwellings, their petals glowing with soft incandescent light that shifted from rose to bronze to violet as the sun set. Vines thick as bridge cables wove between the structures, creating walkways that pulsed with their own gentle light. Pollen lanterns floated freely through the air, casting dancing shadows that seemed to move independently of their light sources.
