I cup his cheek; whisker-rough stubble scratches palm. “Vision timing, not rope, dragged me under.”
“Still.” He exhales through nose. “Next river, I cradle you while crossing.”
My laugh emerges hoarse but real. “You plan to carry me every hazard?”
“Where possible.”
I shake head, causing damp strands to slap forehead. “Stars forbid my bones go soft from coddling.”
“They won’t,” he says, lips twitching. “Your tongue too sharp.”
The banter smothers lingering panic; yet underneath, knowledge that I nearly drowned because of lattice surge gnaws. Each near death chips time further. I press hand to chest, feel new lines—icy ridges along sternum.
Kylan follows gaze. “Spread quick?”
“Cold constricts flesh; crystal expands.” I swallow. “We must hurry.”
He helps me stand. Blankets re-rolled, packs shouldered, coats donned—the normal tasks anchor us. My legs wobble first steps but grow firm. Before leaving, he kneels at river edge, scoops water into palm, murmurs send-off prayer to river spirits; thanks them for return of breath. He flings water upstream. I echo ritual with fingertip rune—spiral of gratitude.
We traverse remaining bank. Ropes lost; we cut new lengths from coil. Path ascends into cedar maze where snow thins. Bird calls return—tiny thrush exalting sunrise. Their bright notesslice gloom inside skull. Yet guilt burrows: I hide extent of lattice bloom, spare Kylan distraction. Council solutions may come; until then, endurance and secrecy remain my allies.
Hours later, sun climbs high. We break where trail meets ridge revealing Twilight Forest in full—a verdant sea broken by patches of silver birch shining like moonlit sails. Smoke tendrils rise from council settlement nested at heart, faint music of hammers drifting on wind.
Kylan’s shoulders lower a fraction. He turns, scanning me. “Ready for politics?”
I square stance though lungs sting. “Ready to barter truths.”
We descend switchback road. Mid-slope, he pauses. “Your heartbeat—I feel echo of mine since water.”
“Vision welded rhythms temporarily,” I admit.
He nods slow. “Feels… right.”
That one word eases rope of tension in chest; still, I guard heart behind pragmatic mask. “Until next hazard,” I tease, stepping ahead. Behind, his laughter rumbles—low thunder promising protection.
We stride into forest shadows, sunlight dappled across faces, bond thrumming quiet assurance despite world on brink. Each step forward drips away river terror, but not its lesson: lifelines may snap, yet together we surface. As council banners come into view—emerald cloth bearing triquetra of united realms—I breathe deep, ready to steer prophecy toward less drowned tomorrow.
14
KYLAN
Obsidian clouds brood above Twilight Forest as though some unseen titan smeared ink across the sky, leaving ragged streaks that swallow afternoon light. I taste rain coming, but the tang is wrong—metallic, sharp with realm-rot. The path Carmilla and I follow dips out of cedar shade into a broad valley scorched by an old rift strike. No snow lingers here; the ground drinks heat that leaks through fractured ley lines, turning ice to vapor even in deep winter.
Black glass juts from soil in curved plates, reminders of lightning solidified on impact. Between the shards, scrub pines hunch like penitents, needles dusted ash-gray. Wind whipping down the corridor fills valley with a plaintive whistle that claws memory: Yarrow’s last breath sounded the same.
We are not alone. Ahead, a small caravan struggles over the uneven terrain—three sledges pulled by shaggy elk, each laden with crates stamped by Twilight Council’s seal. Drivers wear patchwork armor, eyes wary. Two greet us with curt nods when we draw within hailing range.
“Evening, Alpha,” one calls above wind. “Freight bound for Spinehold. Wardstones and alchemy tins.”
I scent honest sweat, no gloom. “Road clear behind?”
“Far as we came.” He jerks thumb toward sky. “Storm building though.”
Carmilla steps nearer, hood back so crystal lattice along her throat catches wan light. The closest driver flinches at first glimpse, then nods, recognizing oracle markings. “We’ll escort until ridge break,” she offers. Caravan-folk never decline a seer’s protection.
We merge with column. Elk hooves crunch shattered glass flakes, producing music like brittle chimes. Wind drops for brief moment, leaving silence pierced only by sled runners rasping across gravel. It feels wrong, too quiet—predator’s breath drawn before pounce.
I pat pouch at belt where triangle of obsidian rests, now wrapped in triple cloth. It has kept still since river crossing. Leafless birch bow overhead, bark peeling like parchment. Shadows pool between trunks far darker than should be; twilight has not fully arrived. My hackles rise.
