“Wha—”
“You said they don’t make it back,” I repeat. “How doyouknow?”
His back straightens, and his brow tightens as something shifts behind his eyes.
“There are spots in this forest where the power block is thin,” he says slowly. “The deceased… they talk to me.”
A chill prickles down my spine. The dark of his pupils glints in the firelight as he lowers his head just slightly, watching for my reaction.
“You’re a Mourna,” I breathe.
“I haven’t been called that in a long time.” He gives a short, humourless laugh and runs a hand through his blonde curls.
“How comes?” I ask, more fascinated by him than I’d ever admit out loud.
“There are no Gods in this forest,” he says. “Just people trying to survive.” His voice dips lower, softer. “We don’t have our powers here. So there’s no point following the rules.”
“What about the trials… how do you deal with them?” I ask, pushing myself slowly to my feet. My legs tremble, but they hold, and my vision doesn’t blur as it did moments ago. The wall of weapons draws me in like a magnet—an arsenal carved from nature itself. Knives fashioned from bone. Spears trimmed with feathers. Arrows chipped from stone that glints dangerously in the firelight.
Ziek lifts his brows. “The trials only show up for those who are worthy.”
There’s something new in his voice—curiosity, maybe even interest. I run my fingers along the tip of a stone arrowhead, surprised by its sharpness. It feels like it was carved without a single drop of magic. Pure skill. Pure survival.
“Are you not worthy?” I ask without looking at him, letting the stone bite gently against my fingertip.
He chuckles—light, careless, but with something hidden underneath. “Apparently not.”
“Count yourself lucky,” I murmur. The memory of the last trial creeps up my spine like cold breath. It presses at my neck, a shadow I can’t turn away from.
Ziek’s eyes linger on me a second too long—me, the girl trembling in front of his weapons, but somehow chosen, somehow marked.
“Most people beg for its worth,” he says. “You speak of it like it’s a curse.”
That’s because itfeelslike one.
But I don’t say that. Not out loud.
“Asha? Oh my Gods—you’re okay.”
Ryder bursts into the tent, breathless, eyes wide with panic. Before I can say a word, he’s at my side, hands on my arms, shoulders, face—everywhere at once, as if making sure I’m not a hallucination.
“I’m okay,” I murmur into his shoulder as he pulls me into a tight embrace. My voice is swallowed in the fabric of his shirt.
He pulls back only enough to search my face again, then the rest of me, frantic and disbelieving.
“I’m okay,” I repeat, softer this time. It finally sinks in, and I watch his shoulders fall as the tension drains out of him in what seems like one long breath.
My gaze flicks to Ziek. “Ziek saved us.”
Ryder turns to him sharply. Ziek lifts a hand in a half-sheepish gesture. “Well, I can’t take all the credit. There were a whole bunch of us.”
Ryder takes his hand, giving him a small, solemn nod—silent gratitude wrapped in a warrior’s restraint.
“I met some of your buddies out there,” Ryder says, a crooked smile twitching at his mouth. “Interesting place to call home.”
Ziek laughs. “It has its perks.”
“I’m not judging,” Ryder says, studying him with newfound respect. “If you can survive in a place like this, you can survive anywhere.”
