Carmilla reads tension on my face. “What news?”
“The sickness spreads.” My voice sounds like cracked granite. “Black dust in lungs.”
Her gaze drops to pouch. “Shard resonance.”
As if hearing, the stone flares warmth that is not comforting. Stitching smokes. Pain knifes hip, radiating upward. I hiss,pulling pouch free. Through the leather, ember veins pulse like magma searching fissure.
Carmilla kneels, uses dagger tip to draw quick rune in frost. She sets pouch within sigil circle, begins low chant. Air thickens, needles pricking exposed skin. Blue light threads runic lines, coiling around pouch like vines of ice. The warmth subsides to glow, then dull red. Pain eases, though ache remains vivid reminder.
She exhales, sweat beading at temple despite frigid air. “I can damp surge, not sever connection. For that we need council’s combined lore—and perhaps root cause buried deeper than shard.”
“You just said we need to hurry there, yet my pack coughs death.” I pace three strides, stop, fists trembling. “A leader protects firstborn. I should be on a ridge above them, not halfway to a debate ring.”
Carmilla rises, stepping inside rope slack. Her eyes—storm grey, rimmed in frost lashes—hold mine. “If Convergence rips seam wide, not just your den dies. Every pack becomes shadow fodder. We must rope allies before the tear devours strategy.”
Reason battles instinct. Visions of Rowan dragging wheezing wolves from kennels pound mind’s eye. Yet image of the tablet line—seer and fang bleeding together—lurks behind, whispering bigger stakes. My jaw clenches.
A memory surfaces: Everest on citadel rooftop weeks ago, moonlight on his silver knife as he passed me a river-stone charm.One man’s border means little if world floods.I had scoffed then. I no longer scoff.
“Council,” I murmur, voice flat. “We continue.”
Carmilla gives slight nod, shoulders sagging from relieved anxiety she hid. She steps back, scoops pouch; I notice bandage around her palm where shrine sigil bit. Breath escapes between my teeth. “You’re running thin.”
“Thinner than preferred,” she allows. “But thicker than necessary.” Humor flickers across her mouth.
I adjust rope, motion forward. We resume crossing. Wind picks up, wailing like distant organ through chasm. My mind rehearses conversations ahead: convince nine leaders to pool resources, open secret ley-gates, share forbidden sciences. Wolves have reputation for territorial pride; many will bristle at my pleas. Yet pleading may be price.
Midway across bridge, causeway widens into frozen lake—a pause sculpted by nature’s whim and dwarf craft. Here, ice turns milky, capturing shadows of sky serpents rumored to glide beneath. I slow, compelled by quick memory of Yarrow chasing noctilucent fish under similar sheen back in den valley. The ache returns fierce.
Carmilla senses dip; she touches my elbow. “Share grief, not just burden.”
Her words brush bond spark. I focus on breath, release tension enough to speak. “They call it ghost cough. Begins as hoarse wheeze. Within a day, victims exhale dust laced with obsidian grit. Healer salves fail. Removing lungs mid-shift helps none.”
She listens, no interruption. “Shard synergy replicates inside alveoli,” she muses. “We saw molten veins in lynx—same principle. If I inspect early stage patient, maybe I craft counter chant.”
“The infected are quarantined. Could collapse and kill them faster.”
“I would risk it. They’re your blood.”
The wind drops for a heartbeat, leaving vacuum in which only those words exist:They’re your blood.She gets it, perhaps more than some wolves ever could. My shoulders lighten a fraction.
We exit lake span to second narrow stretch hugging cliff, ice clear as glass now, void visible far below. Carmilla’s breathing quickens from altitude or strain; I smell copper—her blood singing behind lattice. She suppresses discomfort but I catalogue every hitch. Normally, I’d lift her across; pride and rope keep me from offering. Yet when she wobbles near small fissure, I clamp hand to her belt and steady. She gives nod of thanks, face pale.
Just ahead, trail forks—a steep descent leading east toward den via two-day trek; another path sweeps south downward into silver fir forest, where an old ley-gate built by starwatchers rests beneath alder roots. Our earlier plan: forest gate to Twilight council.
I pause at fork. Snow ghosts swirl between choices. The shard thumps louder—as if sniffing nearest pack hearts.
Carmilla studies me. “Which road, Alpha?”
My gaze lingers toward east descent, imagining pack yard, smoke, Rowan’s weary eyes. Then I recall name list etched in star-metal: Vaerra Greyspell, Durik Grimvale, each rune glowing dead. Those forerunners spilled blood for world, not clan. I clench rope.
“South,” I decide, throat gravel. “We save many or save none.”
Relief and fear mingle in her sigh. She leads with cautious pace; I fall in, scanning horizons for ravens—bad tidings fly in pairs.
We break under fir canopy by noon. Sunlight filters through snow-laden branches, throwing pale coins on forest floor. Carmilla slumps against trunk, working balm into crystal bloom; it flares, then calms. I scout perimeter, catch hint of ash. A campfire maybe miles off—hunters or cult.
Returning, I find Carmilla whispering to small clay bowl filled with meltwater. Symbols ripple across surface—wolf eyes,obsidian vein diagrams, lung silhouettes. She manipulates them with fingertip, constructing possible cure matrix. She glances up. “I will need lung dust sample.”
