“As sure as the moss in my boots.”
Branrir sighed, already pacing. “I’ve read about these. Nasty little snares, but easily overcome.”
“Would someone please explain it to the commoners among us?” I asked.
Branrir stopped, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his large nose. “Truth loops trap travelers in a closed path—usually a stretch of forest or road. You move, but you go nowhere. Until you break the loop.”
“And how do we do that?” Quinn asked, voice steady but measured.
He pointed to the tree. “You tell a truth. Not any passing thing—a confession. Something you’ve never spoken aloud.”
Thistle added softly, “And you have to mean it. Speak with intent. While touching the anchor.”
A scoff snuck out of my throat. “That’s it? Bare our darkest secrets…to atree?”
Branrir gave me a thin smile. “They’re usually cast to catch liars. Faithless lovers, cheating merchants. But yes, that’s the idea.”
“Will it work if I think it really loud?” Nausea roiled in my gut.
“No,” Thistle said. “It must be spoken.”
“Can’t you undo it? It’s your same gift type.”
A glare shot my way as Thistle rested her hands on her full hips. “If I could, I would’ve done it already. Loops have signatures to the caster; they’re the only ones who can undo it.”
I stared at the gnarled trunk, sensing the strange pull of the spell. It was one thing to have to share a room with a woman I’d just met, but I had very little interest in confessing anything to Quinn or to any other member of our party.
Quinn folded her arms, gaze fixed on the tree. “And when it works?”
Thistle tapped on the bark. “It should glow. Once everyone confesses, the loop dissolves.”
“Of course it would,” Vesper added, now having joined us by the tree. “Do I have to participate in this nonsense, seeing as how I’m not human?”
“It’s best if everyone participates,” Branrir suggested. “In case the loop requires it.”
I scanned the others. Branrir already looked as if he were unearthing a corpse from memory. Thistle was unreadable, one hand fussing with her sleeve as Vesper batted a dangling thread. Quinn’s expression held firm, but her fingers twitched faintly at her side.
We were trapped. And the only way out?
Bleed truth.
Out loud.
In front of each other.
Saints above and below.
Branrir cleared his throat. “I’ll go first,” he said, a weariness settling on his shoulders.
He stepped forward, palm pressing against the bark, and drew a long breath. “I knew the map was wrong.”
No one spoke.
“I knew it,” he repeated, rougher now. “I hadn’t checked the harbor. I used half-scrawled accounts, secondhand sketches. I turned it in anyway. I wanted the promotion. I told myself it’d be fine.” His voice thinned. “Then the ship crashed. And all those people died. I’ve never forgiven myself. And I never will.”
The bark beneath his palm lit with a muted green. The glow bled around his fingers before sinking deep into the tree. Quinn covered her mouth with her hand, silver lining her eyes.
Thistle’s hand lifted and fell uselessly at her side. “Branrir, I had no?—”
