“Rowan, last chance to withdraw.” He bares teeth. “If Convergence takes me, better on front line.”
I clap his shoulder. Resolve sits heavy tonight.
Carmilla distributes satchels. I slip to driver bench, reviewing route: mountain pass cutting through snarling pine maze, then ascent to Moonstone plateau. Storm cells swirl along ridges; avalanche risk high. I assign junior scouts ahead on windsteeds with signal flares.
Before mount, I turn to Carmilla. “Vow.”
She lifts chin. “Speak.”
“If anchor synergy falters, you promise to reach for me before turning blade on own vein.”
Pain flicks across her eyes, but she grips dagger hilt, pressing to chest. “I swear by stars that birthed tapestry—I reach first.” Her words vibrate through air, sink into listening earth. Oath sealed.
Peace steadies blood.
We load, mount. Just before elk lurch forward, Remi jogs over, tosses me small vial. “Aether-burst. Last resort blowhole if shadow behemoth blocks trail. Point down canyon, not up.” He salutes. Zale whistles, lightning rippling across fingertips in farewell.
I tuck vial secure, snap reins. Gate winches open. Our caravan rolls out, wheels crunching pearl gravel. Citadel towers recede behind haze, banners lag in dwindling wind.
Road curves around lower pools where fissure glimmers—turquoise overstained by violet bruising. Carmilla peers, lips draw tight. I murmur, “Hold until we return.” The pool seems to pulse in answer, as though aware of our bargain.
Soon evergreen walls swallow path. Snowmelt streams gurgle under ice crusts, carrying slivers of moonstone that glint like lost teeth. I inhale resin air, exhale tension. Leadership mantle no longer chafes. Perhaps because I share weight now—Elder wolves taught pack thrives when alpha leans as well as lifts.
Morning sun slides higher; rays filter through needle canopy, sketching gold runes across Carmilla’s cheek. She smiles when she catches me staring. “What?”
“Sunlight chooses where to rest,” I say. “It chose well.”
She laughs softly. Rowan overhears, rolls eyes good-naturedly. Holt smirks behind reins.
We pass sentinel stone that marks outer ward. Here, you feel the realm thin—air rusty, gravity skewed. Scouts signal sky clear though. Ahead, pass climbs steep and narrow. Perfect place for ambush. I stand, voice carrying, “Form rotating watch; arrows nocked, claws half-shift.” Wolves comply, professionalism sliding over earlier levity.
Carmilla consults folio, marks ley pulse: “Two hours to plateau if terrain stable.” Her words echo with hope rather than dread. I realize determination hardened within her after vow—fear tempered into resolve. It bolsters mine.
We round bend to overlook valley where root network of world glows faint—silver webs shimmering beneath soil, visible only during Convergence mornings. Anchor site glitters ahead,waiting for our blood, sweat, maybe souls. For first time since this saga began, I feel not cornered by fate but stalking it.
Remi’s joke still lingers like ember in pocket: storms on cliffs. Storms sculpt landscapes as much as they tear. Our love may prove tempest strong enough to gouge new channel through prophecy, letting river of possibility run.
I cluck reins once more; elk huff and pick pace. Snowflakes tumble from branch high above—mirror shards of soon-shattered sky. They dissolve on cloak before touching ground—too warm this close to weaving fault line. Another sign clock races.
Yet mantle sits lighter. Because choice—mine, hers, ours—has crystallized. We ride not as doom’s couriers but as authors penning final chapters. And we sharpen quills in every heartbeat.
As we crest first switchback, I glance over shoulder at shrinking towers. Lantern beacons flash farewell blessing—blue for courage, green for healing, gold for safe return. I tap chest where river token, pulse-seed pouch, flute, and scroll rub shoulders. Icons of grief, flora hope, memory, and blueprint. Four beats that will drum cadence of journey.
I face the road again, whispering to the mount. “Carry us true.” Elk snorts, steam curling.
We disappear into ascending mist, caravan wheels singing hymn of courage over rock. Breeze behind smells of rain and sap and something new—perhaps dawn of realm remade.
21
CARMILLA
Ash-red light leaks through cloud seams as our convoy noses out of the pine maze and begins the long plunge toward Feramundi. Up here, the air still carries alpine bite, but a single step past the ridge line changes everything: wind turns metallic, colder in places yet scorched in others, carrying a copper tang that sticks to the back of the throat. Ahead, the sky resembles cooling magma—bands of ember and smoked-glass drifting in sluggish currents. Even Kylan’s sure-footed frost-elk hesitates before setting hooves on the dark slope.
I coax the beast forward with a quiet hum rooted in old lullabies. Beneath my gloves, the lattice pulses. Each surge from the Convergence network ripples through the ground and jerks the crystal under my skin as if someone tugs raw wire. By the third jolt a series of hairline cracks spiders across my left palm. I curl the hand, tuck it deeper into cloak folds, and will the ache to silence. No point worrying the pack before we reach the sink basin.
Kylan rides ahead in scout position, cloak snapping like storm canvas. When we first crossed into his mountains hemoved with tense caution; today each stride carries a settled purpose that steadies the rest of us. Leadership has fit him like a blood-bound pelt. I watch strength roll across back and shoulders and fight the shiver that pulls despite the heat rising from fire vents in the valley floor.
Rowan’s cough begins again behind me—dry, hacking. He wipes dark residue on sleeve, forcing a grin when our eyes meet. Stubborn cub. Holt keeps him steady with a hand at his elbow. Lava lanterns hang from both their packs, tiny veins of living flame contained in glass bulbs. They glow brighter the closer we descend, sensing kindred elements.
