Laurel,my thoughts whisper. The name makes ribs tighten. My apprentice remains three hundred leagues north at the Moonstone Sanctuary, reading star charts I once painted; these cracks in my palm are reminders I might never walk those halls again. She needs the final anchor map, a cipher only her training can unpack if my breaths run out before invocation. The council wouldn’t approve sending secrets outside their chain of command, but I care little for their panic shuffling. If prophecy refuses to promise me sunrise, I will at least lay a lamp along her night.
My gaze sweeps the ridge until I spot what I need: a grove of wind-bent crystallor trees clinging to basalt outcrops. Branch tips drip clear resin that hardens into thin mica plates—a perfect medium for rune messaging. I call halt with two short whistles, dismount, and cross scree while Kylan’s wolves fan out in guard pattern.
Resin flows slow as molasses. I slide dagger edge shallow, catch a plate as thin as onion skin before it hardens. Light within the grove flickers pink from molten sky, giving everything the look of organs turned inside out. One more surge throws me forward; I catch myself against the trunk. Crystal shards in ribs sing; the new crack in my glove splits wider. Time presses.
Back at the wagon, I kneel behind a crate to shield my work. Finger poised over mica, I breathe steady, then release a ribbon of condensed prophecy light. It etches star coordinates, anchor maths, and a single phrase in Laurel’s private cipher:Finish the weaving even if the loom burns.The rune glows once, then fades into pearl translucence. A messenger sprite—emeramber beetle bred in sanctuary vaults—sleeps inside a brass tube on my belt. I uncap it, stroke the chitin crest, and feed the mica plate into its foreclaws. Twisting open the tube’s vent allows Convergence-charged air to wake the creature. Wing casings part; a brief flash of neon trails as it zips skyward, hugging smoke currents north.
Only when the beat of wings fades do I notice Kylan standing beside me. No accusation on his face, only understanding edged by sadness. “She’ll receive it,” he says softly.
“If the sky holds.” I flex the cracked hand; droplets of blood pearl along fracture lines. He kneels, wraps fresh linen band with the tenderness of a healer rather than a warrior who snapped a lava stag’s neck last season. Warmth from his fingers bleeds through glove leather; the pain settles into hum.
Another pulse rattles stones. A low roar echoes from beyond the next ridge, deeper than thunder. Kylan’s head snaps up, nostrils flaring. “Company, east slope.” He rises and whistles a command. Holt and Rowan scramble to defensive points; the junior scouts swing crossbows off shoulders.
From mist laced with ash, silhouettes emerge—five creatures shaped like deer but woven of living lava. Gullets flare orange, antlers sparking with rivulets of molten glass. Each hoofstep fuses the ground to glass for a heartbeat before it cools to brittle slag. Their leader paw-scrapes and screams, a high keening wail that sets hairs on every neck bristling.
Kylan’s cloak hits the earth, followed by bracers, a controlled shedding of weight before transformation. Bones lengthen,feathered limbs unfurl, and he bursts upward as a dusky hawk the size of a small glider. Talons glint steel-blue; eyes blaze predator gold. The sight steals my breath—even the stags pause, mesmerized.
He banks once, soaring into glare of molten sky where the beasts’ gaze struggles. I step forward, raising my uncracked hand. Quartz filaments slide from wrist, weaving a quick net of pre-monition lines—paths showing where the stags will dart once startled. As soon as Kylan stoops, I yank hard on the threads, tricking ground vibrations under their hooves. Two stags pivot into predicted lanes; Holt’s bolas whirl overhead and snap around rear legs, searing rope fusing to obsidian hide. The impact topples them.
The leader bolts uphill, magna veins pulsing furious violet. Hawk-Kylan dives faster than gravity, claws extended. Steel talons punch through glassy antler shaft, folding wings around quarry. They tumble through gravel; he shifts mid-roll, regaining human form in crouch astride the beast’s shoulders. With a swift twist he shoves a rune-sheathed chain net across its muzzle; the lava cools where links touch, trapping it.
Silence saturates slope—only hiss of cooling stone. My pulse drums in fingertips. Another ley surge buckles knees; crystal jerks but stays contained.
Rowan approaches the snared leader, awe pushing cough aside. “Never seen stag drop so clean.”
“Credit team work,” Kylan says, wiping ash from cheek. “And her threads.” He nods at me, eyes brilliant even while kneeling on crackling hide.
The stag’s molten gaze fixes on me, some strange intelligence there. Feramundi creatures answer to realm heartbeats; they sense anchor cues. I kneel too, placing palm over its blazing neck. “We pass to heal fissure,” I murmur. “Yield safe passageand your kind tread cooler earth when sky stills.” The beast snorts, steam curling, but tension eases. Kylan loosens net. It rises, shakes shards free, then bounds downslope with surviving pair, leaving ribbons of sizzling glass footprints that fade to dull ceramic as they depart.
Holt whistles long note—respect or disbelief, hard to tell.
We break for quick repairs. Rowan gathers shards; lava glass doctor’s relief methods call for these as stabilizers in ritual circles. My hand throbs once, reminding me cracks widen. I rewrap and climb into wagon beside seed vault. Kylan claims driver’s bench after dusting soot.
As convoy rolls again, he nudges reins with one hand, slides the other behind to find mine. Fingers interlace. The bond’s pulse masks smaller pain pulses.
“Hide less,” he says without looking back. “Your blood is mine to manage too.”
“I won’t cripple mission with my tremors.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Then share the tremors so we both stay standing.”
Behind us the valley stretches, antler-glass trails marking path. Ahead, molten sky looms closer, clouds glowing like banked coals. Every step downward the air gains weight—dense, humid with mineral vapor. Breath tastes of penny metal. Frost-elk labor, tongues lolling; Holt murmurs cooling charm, weaving loops of icy blue around yokes.
I catch Kylan studying me through stray locks. “Speak,” I prod.
“You sent final map.”
I glance at bandaged hand. “Laurel is the brightest thread left unwoven. If Convergence cuts me away, she’ll finish the tapestry.”
He shifts, expression caught between approval and anguish. “Planning survival yet preparing successor.” He exhales. “That is the mark of a true alpha, oracle or not.”
Warm pride flickers, quickly followed by grief. “Good leaders plan for world without them.”
“Great leaders teach world to drag them back.” He squeezes fingers until joints click. A grin follows—wolfish. “So teach Laurel to do that.”
The idea startles laughter from throat, raw and genuine. “She’d scold sky itself until it returns me.”
We round bend where valley opens wide. Feramundi proper unfurls like a war forger’s dream: rivers of half-cooled magma meander through obsidian fields speckled with iron cactus. Vent plumes climb, tinted turquoise where copper ore burns. In distant haze a colossal ribcage of petrified leviathan arches—ancient beast that died when realms first braided.
