“We’ll get one,” I promise.
Before we set out again, raven messenger flaps overhead—another? It circles but carries no tube, only caws thrice and veers north. Alarm call? Carmilla watches sky. “They sense rift static on horizon.”
“Bad?”
She debates. “Not immediate. But growing.” We quicken pace.
By late afternoon we approach alder ring, roots twisting over half-buried stone dais flecked sapphire. Rune-arch half collapsed, yet power hum remains. Carmilla and I kneel opposite sides, chiseling snow away until full glyph circle emerges—twelve starbursts around dragon eye.
I slice palm, drip blood onto central eye. Carmilla traces lattice with finger, letting small crystal chip flake into channel. Rune lines ignite milky teal. Air in center vibrates, forming portal skin shimmering with mirrored forest.
Before stepping through, I glance back north—toward mountains, den, ghosts. The urge to turn aside almost snaps spine. Carmilla slips hand into mine, gentle yet decisive.
“Rowan needs an answer, not an apology,” she whispers.
I tighten grip, then lead us into gate.
On the far side, we exit into twilight silence under towering silverwood trees. Frost-glow mushrooms illuminate root paths. Portal snaps shut; circle dims. No turning back this night.
We start south-east toward council valley—two-day march if currents stay stable, less if we catch ley-draft ride.
Walking, Carmilla hums low. “Tell me a memory not soaked in sorrow. Something to steady heartbeat.”
I think, surprised by request. “The year first snow melted early. Pups raced meadows chasing glasswing butterflies that hatched out of ice crystals. Yarrow captured one, brimstone yellow. Freed it only after it brushed his nose.”
She smiles. Lattice warms soft peach. “Hold that memory when shadow surges.”
“You?” I ask.
“Once, a dragon whelp landed on sanctuary roof. Too young for flame, scales softer than pearls. I fed it moon-fruit slices until mother retrieved it with grateful rumble.”
“Dragons and wolves share moments like that?”
“Rarely. Peace can flicker even in warfronts.” She squeezes my arm. “Let’s make more flickers.”
We trek until stars flower overhead. The shard, though muted, still pulses faint. Each throb sparks vow inside me: lean on others. Den cannot survive alone. Pride yields to pack of packs.
When campfire prompts appear along trail—scouts from ridge tribes—they greet us with wary respect. They offer tea laced with pine honey. I trade direwolf fang pendant for passage token, guaranteeing them audience rights later. Cooperation taste sits oddly sweet on tongue; maybe healing begins here.
Carmilla nestles beneath cloak, rewriting lines in her memory to share with council. I keep watch, gum still torn from slug fight. Under branched shadows, I finger river-stone token Everest handed me. I finally grasp its wisdom: rivers widen because tributaries feed them; try to stay narrow and you run dry.
I turn stone until smooth surface warms. Then eyes lift to sky. A constellation shaped like guardian serpent coils above; its tail crosses north star line, pointing back to mountains. My pack still breathes; if nothing else, this council must secure salvation before their breath becomes dust.
Tomorrow we meet crossroads with leaders and, hopefully, cures. Tonight, I watch over an oracle who numbs my shard, and I let the river inside widen.
11
CARMILLA
Snow begins as a hush, a soft drifting lace between fir trunks, then thickens into white sheets driven sideways. Within an hour the forest is gone, erased by fast-falling powder and screaming wind. We slog south on a merchant trace older than both our bloodlines, following half-buried lantern posts carved from ghost-birch. The last oil globe gutters out just as my knees buckle.
Pain blinds me for a blink. The lattice surges, driving spikes of numb burn through thighs and ribs. I taste copper, realize I’ve bitten my tongue. Kylan’s arm loops around my waist before I pitch face-first into a drift.
“Enough.” His breath feathers my ear, a growl shaped into words. “We find shelter, now.”
I want to answer, to insist I can press on, but the wind steals syllables and empties my lungs of will. He half-lifts me—a feat, given I’m wrapped in cloak and pack—and strides into the squall. Each step cracks glazed snow, echo swallowed by storm.
A shadow looms ahead: peaked roof, sagging porch, shuttered windows buried to mid-frame. Once this was a way-keeper hut, last stop before caravans braved AlpineCorridors. Now it leans beneath the weight of six winters without repairs. Carved lintel runes have faded, but the protective pattern remains recognizable: concentric moons flanked by traveling boots.
