Inside stairwell, scent of wet cedar mixes with panic. I descend two flights, then veer off to oracle wing. A guard recognizes me, steps aside. Carmilla’s chamber door glows with Isabelle’s earth-sigil lock. I knock; it dissolves.
Room dim, candles drifting gentle spice. Carmilla lies on hammock, bandaged arm outside blanket, crystal bloom shimmering under gauze. Her breathing even but shallow. Isabelle kneels at bedside, tracing stabilizer glyphs along wooden struts. She looks up, whispers, “She fell into dreamless rest half bell ago.”
“She needs more,” I reply, voice hushed. I cross to bed, brush stray hair from Carmilla’s brow. The contact sparks bond ember; her eyelids flutter but remain closed. I pull blanket higher against chill. “Pool cracking again,” I tell Isabelle. “We must relieve seal by morning.”
She presses lips thin. “I’ll rally root-binder mages. Pulse-seeds?”
“In pouch. Bleed ritual at dawn.” I meet her gaze. “But if she wakes early to pour herself empty again…”
“We sit on her,” she vows. “Or tie hammock knots tight.” Small smile despite tension.
I return smile, grateful. Then I slip back, leave room. Corridor bustles; messenger sprinting, scroll tube raised. “Arbiter council moved final vote dawn’s first light,” he calls. Not unexpected. Sethis absence accelerates pressure.
I head towards war-room balcony where Remi and Zale compile anchor trajectories. Along way I roll shoulders, forcing tension out. Everest’s river token thumps near heart: steady,patient, waiting. I picture rewriting ending—pages blank but ready.
Passage opens onto balcony; star maps flutter under lantern gusts. Remi glances over his shoulder, lightning dancing in irises. “Pool misbehaving?”
“Like drunk wyvern,” I say. “But we hold. Show me anchor flight lines.”
Hours blur—calculations, rune debate, pulses of thunder outside. My mind divides: half on diagrams, half on heartbeat of woman sleeping three corridors away. Each minute new cracks thread my world; each minute I choose her anyway.
Before dawn’s pale smear over horizon, bell tolls. Serivon’s aide announces pool membrane collapsed to half thickness, but still intact. We earned sliver of grace.
I excuse myself, return to rooftop. Rain ceased; air smells rinsed. Convergence ring dyes sky faint vermilion now. I pull river token, clutch.
“I choose the risk,” I tell horizon. Speech pointless, but vow feels heavier spoken. “I’ll add my name last if needed. Until then, no more sacrifices.”
The stone warms; whether in agreement or simply recording vow, I cannot tell. Behind me, first horn calls council to final vote. I pocket token, square shoulders, descend.
As I stride into corridors, I catch own reflection in bronze shield—eyes bright, jaw set, river bracelet glinting. Alpha ready for political hunt. Ready to tear rules apart if they threaten bond.
The citadel shakes as fissure yawns another foot. Time now audible under floorboards—a bass drum urging haste. I lengthen stride, heart steady. Love made choice; risk accepted. Now rewrite begins.
19
CARMILLA
Moonless night drapes the Citadel, yet soft radiance pools along hidden corridors—light coaxed from lichen threads sewn into the living walls. I move through that hush like a trespasser in my own prophecy, breath shallow, cloak clasped tight to hide the fresh bloom of crystal racing up my shoulder. Every heartbeat is a drum counting down to surrender, and I can’t find silence enough to think.
The council recessed after dawn’s bitter vote exchange. My purge of Sethis left them rattled but unsteady, like sailors who sight reef yet argue which sail to drop. Zale’s lightning proof and Kylan’s roar bought us a day to finalize anchor routes, yet the Boundary Pool now bleeds fissures at a pace no healer crew can match. While they strategize with compass and calculus, I need stillness to read the weave directly—one moment free of eyes that tally how much skin I forfeit each hour.
The only place quiet enough is the secret scry-garden the founders hid behind the library tower. Few recall the narrow spiral stair leading to its canopy. The stair hugs the outer trunk, cracked centuries ago by frost quakes; it groans under my boots.A single lantern swings at its hook, its flame sapphire, casting wavering glyphs across bark.
At the top, a door grown from bramble curls open under my palm. On the other side, midnight blooms illuminate the glade—a bowl-shaped terrace nestled high among branches, open to wandering starlight. Flowers shaped like crystal teardrops unfold only during Convergence phases, petals collecting celestial particles until each glows with captured constellations. Wind stirs them now, releasing faint chimes as petals brush.
In the center stands an ancient rune tree, bark etched with spirals that never heal over. Stories claim oracles once bled visions onto its trunk so inkless runes could hold memory. The grooves shimmer faint indigo tonight, accepting and reflecting the pulse of realm.
I step toward it, pain sharpening at my arm. Gauze strips flutter loose; I pull them away, revealing lattice that now arcs from breastbone across deltoid in branching glacial veins. Where rune light kisses the crystal, sparks jitter—dialogue between living bark and dying flesh.
I lay my good hand on the tree. Cold races up fingers, fills chest, and the garden falls away. I see anchor sites glowing on a map of nerve-thin ley lines, eight candles flickering against hurricane of Convergence pressure. One dims—Feramundi’s cavern seat—unstable soil there. Another, the mountain sky altar, glows bright but cracks appear along its spiral walkway. Too many vulnerabilities.
A footstep shatters trance. I spin, cloak whipping. Kylan strides through arch of woven branches, cloak soaked from rain, gold eyes arrowed on me. Storm lantern in his hand throws copper onto planes of his face—strong, beloved, outraged.
“I wake, you’re gone.” His voice slices quiet. “Guard reports roof stair draft, scent of your blood.”
“I needed the weave,” I tell him, turning back toward tree. “Runes speak clearer when no one demands timetable.”
“Rune’s verdict?” His boots crunch luminous petals as he approaches.
