“Look who talks,” I mutter, noting Zale paired with Remi for Umbramere run. Their coil magic synergy remains unmatched. “Try not to explode forest.”
“Forest likes fireworks.” He pats charge crate. “But seriously—watch your oracle. She limped out of med-wing before cockcrow.”
“I never stop.” I roll parchment, slip into satchel.
We move toward central dais where quartermasters distribute gear. A clamor rises near east gate—a cluster of druids chanting stability mantras around cart piled with root-wrought totems. As we pass, steam hisses from forge vents; smell of heated resin and singed sage permeates air.
Carmilla stands near anvil, cloaked in midnight wool, hood thrown back. The lattice creeping along her arm catches forging flames, throwing fractured prism onto stone. She holds a thin dagger of moon-silver, absorbing master smith’s instructions. When she feels my gaze her lips tilt—a half-smile still tinted by pain, yet bolder since last night’s vow beneath rune tree.
I brush past apprentices, reach her side. “That blade’s too light for carving ghouls.”
“Not for ghouls,” she says, offering hilt. “It’s for etching anchor glyphs into quartz bedrock. Needs finesse, not brute.”
I heft dagger—balanced, edges humming with low resonance. “Good.”
Smith bows, retreats. We step out of hammer’s clang radius, finding corner between armor mannequins.
I tilt her chin, eyes scanning pallor under cheekbones. “Rest?”
“Three hours. Isabelle’s net cushioned deeper than expected.” She flexes injured arm; bandages replaced with rune-ink scrawl. “Crystal plate stabilized overnight.”
I trace glyphs lightly; she shivers. “Pool fracture recorded pulse after we left garden,” I whisper. “Your—our—event delayed widening.”
“Bond feedback,” she says, voice low. “Tree fed surge down root network. We gained maybe half day.”
I nod. “Enough to travel if we leave before noon.”
She inhales, then exclaims, “But I go first, alone, to bedrock?—”
I slip two fingers over her mouth. “Stop.” My wolves bristle but hold distance. “We agreed no lone leaps.”
She pulls my hand down. “Then promise me something else.” Eyes gleam with starlight hunger and raw fear. “If lattice floods heart mid-ritual, you must finish invocation. Not trade yourself. Let me close gate.”
Cold spikes behind ribs. I glance around—armory bustle muffles conversation. I lean in until our foreheads touch. “Alternative path.” I pull pulse-seed pouch from cloak, let her feel hum through fabric. “Everest’s seeds. They drink ley bleed. If your spark flickers, I’ll force-feed roots until weave recalibrates. We forge new line where prophecy wrote none.”
Her laugh almost breaks. “You’d bargain with trees.”
“I’d bargain with void.” I step back. “But I also promise this: if no recourse, I finish invocation—and drag you back when realm is safe.”
“You can’t promise resurrection.”
“I can promise relentless attempt.” Once I latch onto prey, I do not release. She sees that conviction; it softens her shoulders.
Remi saunters over, carrying a double armload of alchemical grenades in padded harness. “Interrupting brooding lovers to deliver final distribution.” He hands Carmilla a leather folio. “Star coordinates uploaded to living ink; map updates mid-journey.”
She flips, nods gratitude. Remi’s smile turns rogue. “You two smelled like lightning and flower sap when you returned. Should we expect thunderstorms on moonlit cliffs?”
Heat creeps up my neck; Carmilla arches brow but says, “Thunder often signals clearing air.”
Remi winks. “Then storm on, friends. Just avoid striking coil lines at wrong moment.” He pivots, calling across room, “Zale, your turn to juggle explosives!” His teasing lifts tension like valve release. Apprentices laugh; a pair of elven archers trade bets on which couple kisses first at ritual sites.
Carmilla closes folio, watching Remi. “He carries grief in jokes.”
“So do I in growls.” I gesture toward side corridor that leads to equipment yard. “Come; we choose wagon, brief squad.”
We exit armory, boots echoing along corridor lined with relief carvings of old battles—wyvern siege, nightshade incursion, First Sundering rift. Outside, courtyards teem: pack wolves loading crates, mages chanting protective shells over ox carts, sky-kin tightening harnesses on windsteeds.
Our assigned wagon waits under arch of blooming flame-iris. Its bed houses sealed chests of anchor crystals, pulse-seed vault, and spare weapons wrapped in linen. Holt reins frost-elk already; Rowan climbs rear gate sneezing dust. I study his pallor.
