“He met end on his terms,” she answers gently.
“He should’ve met mate at spring festival, not blade before dawn.” I stride to boulder, punch stone once. Knuckles split. Pain grounds.
Carmilla touches my wrist, murmurs minor mend charm. Skin knits, blood staunches. “Guilt seeds fertile ground for shadow. You must not be their garden.”
“I am Alpha. Their safety is my bone oath.”
“Oaths stand taller when supported, not alone.” Her tone reminds of shrine counsel—learn from others.
I exhale, breath plume drifting. “Council. We keep moving.”
We descend cliff path. Snow crunch under boots, cadence slower, heavier. Sun shoveles light through branches; flurries glitter like broken halos. My thoughts churn: How many more fall before we reach healers? What if council squabbles, time bleeds away? Fear tastes copper bitter.
Carmilla senses spiral; she quickens pace until she walks before me, forcing focus on trail. Rope slack sways again, new rhythm gentle.
Hours pass beneath silver firs. Birds dare chirp only once light fully claims sky. Squirrel runs across branch, scattering snow dust that sparkles midair. Normal life persists, mocking crisis. I cannot decide if that comforts or angers.
Near noon we break near stream half frozen. I fill canteens, noticing shimmer swirling in current—shard particles maybe, or mica. I filter anyway.
Carmilla seats herself on moss, spread of tablets on knees. She sketches rune combinations aimed at halting spore replication. I watch crystal along her ribs, brighter since hut. She catches stare.
“Lattice widened,” she admits. “Pleasure stirs life energy; crystal feeds, stretches.” She shrugs, as if discussing weather. “Worth it.”
My throat tightens. “We limit trances and… other drains.”
She smiles wryly. “Balance, Alpha. Stars flare, but even flare has cycle.”
I snort. “Cryptic as ever.”
“Occupational disease.” She packs tablets, stands with suppressed wince. I steady her elbow. The motion echoes night tenderness; air thickens. She masks with purposeful stride.
We crest rise as afternoon slants amber. Ahead, forest thins, opening onto rolling snow fields. Beyond, sentinel pines mark Twilight Forest boundary—council’s chosen neutral territory. Smoke columns spiral in distance: camps, sentries, maybe allies.
“We’ll reach perimeter by dusk.” I adjust satchel, feeling weight of ash pouch inside. “We present evidence. Demand joint action.”
Carmilla hums assent, but gaze lingers on valley we left—the small pyre smoke still faint. “Gerran’s spark joins stars. Let it guide council’s conscience.”
I nod, yet guilt gnaws anew. Killing my own feels too easy, too quick; living with it, harder. But I recall oracle’s words: oaths taller when supported. I lean on memory of her hand squeezing mine.
As shadows lengthen, we press forward. I rehearse speech to leaders: black dust, rising shards, need for coordinated binding.I picture Everest’s analytic stare, Isabelle’s sharp diplomacy, Remi and Zale’s fiery alliance. I imagine Rowan receiving raven of ash cure later, pups laughing dust-free. The images string into promise strong enough to bear weight.
Sun dips. Carmilla halts, points skyward. Convergence halo arcs faint—pearlescent ring encircling zenith. Every evening the ring brightens; soon it will crack open heavens. A reminder: clock ticks for all, not only me.
I push pace. Snow trail glows under twilight, leading us like path of forgotten pearls. Somewhere ahead council hearths spark. Behind, ashes cool in cliff wind. Between those poles of loss and hope my feet strike ground steady as drumbeat, guided by grief but marching toward cure.
13
CARMILLA
The river announces itself long before I see it, a deep tremor beneath the frozen meadow that thrums through the soles of my boots. We emerge from thinning pines into lavender predawn, and the ground drops away in a single sweep of wind-scoured tundra. Below, a ribbon the color of tempered steel carves the valley, ice floes turning in slow vortices, flanks rimed with hoarfrost feathers. This is the Cyrun Runoff, born in the dragon glaciers three peaks north and famous for drowning unwary caravans even in high summer. Now, with spring still weeks distant, its current moves beneath a lid of half-formed plates that groan and fracture with every subtle shift of pressure.
Kylan halts beside me on the overlook, breath pluming. “First light grants us two hours before the floes accelerate,” he says, scanning shoreline for a narrowing.
I nod, adjusting my cloak to hide the bright lattice creeping above my sternum. The night’s march stretched nerves tight, but not as tight as the hurdle ahead. We could double back and hunt a shallower ford, lose half a day. The council moots at dusk; delay could strand us outside the ward wall after gates seal.
“We rope,” I decide. “Anchor line and follow each other’s rhythm.” My voice remains steady, though inside crystal edges ache from cold. The memory of blades and heat in the way-keeper hut lingers on skin like phantom sunlight, a contrast that makes this frigid breath all the harsher.
Kylan gives single grunt, approval wrapped in brevity. We descend switchback trail slick with wind-packed snow. Frost-flowers crunch underfoot, scattering as shining fragments that melt before hitting the river’s freezing mist.
