Thistle gave an exasperated snort. “I know you hate this place, Mav, but don’t conjure phantoms.”
“I’m not conjuring anything,” I insisted, unable to mask my unease. “We’re riding in circles.”
Quinn looked back at me, silent, but the tilt of her head said she was listening. Her horse sidled closer to mine, narrowing thespace between us. I saw the flicker in her eyes then—uncertainty, small and shadowed. It made my jaw tighten. I didn’t appreciate being dismissed. And I didn’t like that she might start doubting me, too.
Without a word, I dismounted. My boots hit the ground with a dull thud, the carpet of moss muting the sound.
I reached for one of my smaller daggers. The blade gleamed as I rammed it into the trunk. The bark split open with a satisfying crunch, wood fibers curling around the hilt.
“Fine,” I declared, returning to my saddle. “Let’s see who’s imagining things.”
Branrir muttered something about dramatics, and Thistle shook her head. We started forward again, leaves brushing our shoulders as we ventured deeper into the never-ending green.
We rode.
Five minutes.
Maybe ten.
Time didn’t move right here. The trail could’ve stretched for hours, minutes, or centuries. I couldn’t tell anymore.
The clearing curved back?—
And there it was.
The tree.
Same twisted trunk.
Same drooling split.
And my dagger—buried to the hilt.
“Well,” I said, hauling on the reins and stopping my horse, “would you look at that.”
The others followed my gaze.
Quinn’s horse came up beside mine, her eyes wide now. “How is that possible?”
Branrir’s mouth hung open, as if someone had rewritten the laws of the natural world and neglected to inform him. Thistle went still, her expression puzzled.
I dismounted again and walked up to the tree. Laid my hand against the bark beside the blade. It was warm.
“We’re not getting anywhere.” I yanked the dagger from the tree and returned it to my belt. “We’re either going in circles?—”
“Or trapped,” Thistle said, swinging down from her horse to inspect the tree.
A chill tumbled down my spine. Thistle wasn’t one to exaggerate. Vesper and I? Undoubtedly. But when Thistle said things like “trapped,” I knew it was serious.
Thistle knelt beside the tree. She pressed her hand to its trunk and closed her eyes. Static filled the air with the subtle transference of magic.
“Something’s anchored here,” she murmured. “Old Hedgework layered with something stronger beneath. That’s why the loop’s holding.”
“Loop?” I echoed, shifting closer.
She rose slowly, brushing dirt from her hands. “Truth loop.”
“Saints be,” Branrir’s head snapped up. “You’re certain?” he asked as he dismounted.
