“That’s useful,” I said quietly. “More than you know.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Do you believe offering someone peace counts as power?”
“I think it’s the rarest kind.”
A soft smile lifted her cheek as she faced forward.
The first low rumble of thunder rolled through the trees, distant but growing, a warning carried on the wind. A gust swept down the path, sudden and cold. Quinn shivered, instinctively pressing closer to me. I tightened my arms around her.
If I were a Hearth, I could have warmed her from the inside out—pushed the chill away with a thought. But I wasn’t. All I had was body heat, borrowed courage, and the sinking realization that I was already in far deeper than I had any right to be.
“You’re cold,” I murmured.
“I am fine.”
Another gust rattled the leaves. She tucked as close to me as possible. She definitely wasn’t fine.
The sky cracked open with a slice of lightning. Within moments, the sprinkle gave way to a relentless downpour—drumming against the leaves and earth alike. Rain plastered her hair to her cheeks, ran in rivulets down her jaw, caught on her lashes. She groaned, pulling her hood up, lifting her hand to shield her face in vain.
“Is that helping?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
“Is what helping?” she snapped.
“That thing you’re doing. With your hand. It looks very effective.”
“Oh, hush,” she muttered, wiping at her nose with the edge of her sleeve.
I chuckled before I could stop myself. Quinn shook her head, exasperated—but then she laughed too—full-bodied and real. It was one of the best sounds I’d ever heard.
For a moment, the rain didn’t matter. The scratches didn’t matter. The beast we killed, the magic, the tether pulling me toward her, the dangerous certainty that I was falling for her too fast—it all blurred into the edges of that laugh. I wanted to hear it again, as many times as I could.
The path curved around a bend. Half-lost to fog, framed by weeping branches and veils of rain, a weather-worn wooden sign dangled from rusted hooks. Its letters were barely legible beneath the moss clinging to its edges.
Drautsmire.
We were in troll territory now. Beneath the name, in pale strokes, was scrawled:Where the roots run high.
I didn’t understand what it meant?—
Until we saw the trees.
The village rose above the forest floor in a tangled marvel of wood and wonder. Great old oaks and towering elms bore the weight of homes nestled in their branches. The roofs were shaped to resemble leaves and mushrooms. A labyrinth of suspended walkways connected them, illuminated by lanterns swaying in the mist.
Quinn sat up straighter in front of me, her breath catching.“It is beautiful.”
I would never tire of the way she saw the world, full of curiosity and unguarded wonder. Her bright blue eyes jumped from bridge to branch, taking in every detail as she smiled.
If she ever looked at me that way, I think it might mend everything in me that had ever been broken.
“You are—I mean, it is.” I couldn’t tell if the flush on her cheeks meant she’d heard my slip.
A strange sort of music reached my ears. It was deep and resonant. The notes rolled through the valley in slow, sonorous waves. Tracing the source, I discovered a collection of eight-sided vessels in varying heights and widths. They sat in clusters near the roots of each tree.
“Ah, yes,” Branrir said, perking up when he noticed my interest. “Those arePluvo Vokas. Rain-call drums.The trolls have used them for generations to measure rainfall and warn of floods. Each has its own pitch. When the tones deepen, it means the rivers are rising. Think of it as a musical warning system. They’re practical and rather beautiful, really.”
“Is there a warning system for your boring stories?” Vesper quipped, trying and failing to stay dry under a corner of Thistle’s cloak.
“Pipe down, you soggy rat,” Thistle chided. “You’re only grouchy because you hate being wet.”
