“And occasionally lose clothing,” I add, laughing at his startled expression. Tension cracks; relief like thaw.
He rolls eyes, relaxes shoulders. “Oracle humor—rare currency.”
I shrug. “Doom sharpens wit.”
We settle into companionable silence. I jot symbol variations on scrap parchment, recording observations: shard flare synchronous with climax; lattice expansion slower though coverage increased. Data may assist healer designs.
Time drifts. The storm outside breaks; muted glow through chink in shutters hints at midday sun.
Yet within, minutes feel slippery. Crystal on my ribs tightens with more frequency than before, as though pleasure awakened hunger for life it cannot hold. I pretend not to notice, but resolution forms: my time races; I must outrun it with action, not regret.
Kylan cleans singe mark carefully, muttering about replacing floorboard before owner returns. As he scrubs char, I study the bend of his neck, ink lines of old pack oaths curling under skin. It anchors me—reminder of reasons to fight.
He stands, offers hand. “Blizzard cleared. Twilight Forest waits.”
I clasp, rising. Bond ember glows under skin contact, steady, content for now. We douse fire, shoulder packs, exit hut. Sun flashes across fresh snow, turning forest to blinding diamonds. We squint, but laughter escapes both. The air smells of pine and something new—hope tempered with raw want.
As we stride down the slope, I glance back once at smoke curl drifting from hut chimney. Char mark on floor hidden from view, but memory warms core despite wind. I lift hand to crystal bloom, tracing edges. Time may slip faster, but I have tasted a moment beyond prophecy’s talons, and that sweetness fuels stride better than salve.
Kylan sees gesture, tilts head. “Pain again?”
“Not pain,” I answer. “Just remembering stars falling.”
He blinks, then smiles wide—rare, beautiful. “I’ll catch the next one for you.”
“Don’t. Let it burn the floor instead.” Our laughter mingles with creak of snow under boots, and together we cut a path toward council fires and destiny waiting beyond pines.
12
KYLAN
Predawn carries a hush that feels less like quiet and more like the hush inside a held breath. The blizzard has marched east, leaving behind crystal drifts sculpted by moonlit wind. Carmilla and I tread an old game trail, single file, puffs of silver vapor rising from every exhale. Fir branches over our heads still moan with settling ice; each groan sounds like distant grief made timber.
I pick the way, lantern held low. She follows, cloak hood shadowing the frost-bright lace across her cheek. Between us, rope slack sways with our rhythm—reminder of battles shared, warnings unspoken, promises neither of us is ready to name.
Snow squeaks under leather soles. A chunk of brittle moon clings to mountain rim, paling the stars. I gauge light. An hour until dawn warms sky to pewter; two before we glimpse first watchfires of Twilight Forest outposts. We make good time, yet each stride drags. Sleep after the hut proved shallow. My muscles hum from spent release and from dread messenger’s note banded to raven’s leg yesterday.
Ghost cough. Black sand in lungs. I imagine Rowan’s jaw set iron tight as he counts fevers, ears straining to catch each rattledbreath. I left him that burden, stacking mine on top. The thought scours nerve endings.
The path widens near a tucked valley cradle. Ahead, two shapes hunch beside felled cedar. I scent fur, woodsmoke, the copper of old fears. Wolves. The same escort pair from ridge, now awaiting us as agreed. They stand as we approach, cloaks white-rimmed.
“Alpha,” the elder—Holt—greets, thumping fist to chest. Frost slips off his braids. Beside him, his junior, Gerran, keeps chin tucked, shoulders shaking.
“Report,” I say, voice low not to shatter stillness.
“No hostiles.” Holt scans tree line. “Tracks of shadow hare only, headed west. We broke them.” He pauses, glances sidelong at partner. “But we have trouble.”
Gerran coughs once. What leaves lips is not vapor. Flecks of ebony dust spatter snow. I smell obsidian and rot. My hackles lift.
“How long?” My eyes never leave him.
Gerran’s gaze flicks up—gold gone dull under sickness haze. “Couple hours. Felt scratchy throat at midnight watch. Didn’t want to worry Holt.” Another cough, harder.
Carmilla steps forward but waits at respectful distance. I kneel before wolf. The dust glitters eerily under lantern, fine as ground glass. His breath whistles.
He whispers, “Alpha… I know what happened to the cub. Don’t let me thrash.”
A nail through heart. I place palm on his shoulder; fever burns through wool. “You trust me?”
