Our destination hides beneath those ribs: Echo Cave, anchor site fused around ley-core. I feel its thrum already—deep bass vibrating sternum, resonating with crystal. The lattice warms, eager or afraid it’s hard to parse.
Wheels sink into liquefying slag. Kylan curses softly, jumps down, secures chains across tires. Holt and scouts fan out on glass ridges to spot fresh beasts or magma spouts. I sit on wagon floor, rubbing numb fingers, and allow moment’s honesty: each ley burst stings worse; cracks inch up wrist. I have perhaps a day before hand turns to full sculpture. Enough.
Pulling folio, I check modifications from previous pulses. Anchoring sequence for Echo Cave now requires dual pulse-seed placement to counter new fault lines. I memorize angles, then close eyes to visualize blood path through ritual. My mind splits—one half sees Kylan’s silhouette inside hawk wings, the other sees Laurel’s steady quill scratching runes. Dual future.
A soft thunk lands on shoulder. Opening eyes, I find Kylan’s braided river token glinting as he drapes it around my neck. “Shield,” he says. “Focus on map, not fracture.”
“Your symbol deserves your skin,” I protest.
He touches band at his wrist. “I retained one. That stone you wear? It senses when my heart outruns reason. Keeps me honest.”
Heavy warmth spreads under collarbones, opposite chill of spreading crystal. Finally I believe I might journey back up this slope alive.
Rowan’s call rings from ridge: “Vent flare fifteen strides out. Safe window five minutes.” Kylan swings aboard, snaps reins. Elk lunge, wagon surges, and we race across glowing plain just as emerald flame geysers behind, licking air with roar that rattles teeth.
Wind of our passage tears hood back; molten sky reflects twice in lattice shards on skin—one image of doom, one of stubborn hope. Below ribs of stone leviathan the anchor waits, and beyond that—should we succeed—the choice of how to live unfettered.
I clutch river stone, feeling faint heartbeat against cracked palm, and whisper to both futures: “Hold.”
22
KYLAN
Heat rolls out of Echo Cave in breathy waves that taste of iron and half-burnt sage. The entrance arches like a dragon’s yawning jaw—jagged basalt teeth above, magma glow licking the underside. Triphammer pulse of the ley core thuds through every stone; it keeps cadence with my heart only because I force my pulse to match, slower, steadier, refusing to let dread set tempo.
We made camp on a lip of cooled glass just outside the maw, far enough to breathe but close enough to sprint should the cave’s mood shift. Rowan sleeps, drugged by healer powder; his cough finally rattled blood. Holt watches him, carving runes into arrow shafts, though every few breaths he glances at the cave as though it might decide to swallow us whole. Carmilla is inside already, charting fault veins beneath the ritual floor. She insisted on going first so her lattice could sync to the chamber, and I let her—only after pressing my river token against her sternum until she promised she would call if the crystal threatened a catastrophic bloom.
Now the call comes. A single bell-tone rings down the tunnel, a harmonic she taught me:all clear, bring supplies.Ianswer with two clipped whistles for confirmation, strap seed pouch across back, lift the crate of Yarrow’s bittersweet ash, and step beneath the arch. The heat hits harder inside—dense, wet, smelling of sulfur and crushed jewels. Red-gold light flickers from lava river that slides through chasm on the far side of the floor, a slow sluice of molten stone lower than the ritual shelf but close enough that embers drift on updrafts.
I adjust my breath, pressing the mantra Everest drilled into me last night on the rooftop:Fear is tempo, purpose is melody; choose the song.I hum a low note under breath—steady, even, my chosen melody—and the jitter in my muscles quiets.
The original ritual circle occupies a naturally flat shelf halfway over the magma. Stars know which mad oracle carved it; the centuries have been unkind. Obsidian tiles once inlaid with silver have slid askew, runes weathered by tremors and mineral smoke. Carmilla kneels at the southern quadrant, sapphire flame dancing in a glass lamp by her knee. Its glow silhouettes the lattice climbing her arm, the geometry sharper in this light, edges catching ember flares like facets of black diamond. She has peeled gloves, revealing cracked palm; each fissure shines with faint pearl. A whisper of guilt needles my sternum—every minute we wrestle with anchors costs her more flesh.
She looks up as I approach, stray curls pasted to temples by humidity. “Tiles on the north and west arcs are stable enough to reuse,” she reports, voice low but carrying. The cave’s acoustics fold every syllable around me. “East line crumbled. We’ll scribe new sigils there.”
I lower crate carefully beside her. “Ash ready. Blood and dust mixture?”
She holds up a small clay vial roughly half full of glittering powder. “Collected from my last purge—when Sethis’s parasite burst.” Her tone stays clinical, but memory flashes across her eyes.
I force my shoulders looser and open a leather kit: steel brush for cleaning tile grooves, reed stylus, fresh wolf-hide bandage, flint blade for bloodletting. Squatting by the first dislodged tile, I start scraping char and soot. “Scouts reported no more lava stags within two leagues. Holt barred the entrance with frost-elk yokes just in case.”
“Good. We’ll need one uninterrupted hour once carving begins. River flares every eighty-five heartbeats; between flares the floor is safest.”
She indicates the lava river behind us. Every so often, a hissy cough shoves a tower of sparks six meters up; each cough coincides with a ground twitch. She’s annotated it already—chalk hash marks along wall counting intervals.
While she rechecks glyph positions, I finish clearing the north arc, then unstopper the vial. The powder inside shines violet-silver: oracle dust carrying remnants of corrupted energy now purified. Mixing it with ash carrying my dead cub’s echo—impossible not to notice symbolism. Life and loss ground together into new mortar.
Blade against wrist next. I slice shallow, just enough for a trickle; heat of cave seals wound halfway through bleeding. Scarlet joins ash in a stone saucer; I swirl until color darkens to rust. The mixture thickens, smells sharp—ozone and spice. Carmilla glances over. “Ever stuck your hand in nettle honey? The binder gel will sting worse.”
“I have bigger thorns on my farm.” My attempt at levity squeezes a ghost of grin from her. Encouraged, I dip stylus, move to faulty east arc.
Writing sigils in this atmosphere feels like drawing through syrup; the ash-blood paste drags, reluctant. Yet the moment lines lock into place, they flash a brief blue polish—live. Carmilla joins me, taking north-east cardinal point. Together we inscribecompass petals, speaking the ancient call-and-response litany that aligns energy flow. Her voice trembles only when a new crack sears across finger joints; still she finishes each stanza before gripping wrist to dull tremor.
Midway through second quadrant the first notable tremor hits, bigger than the background pulse. Tiles hop. Magma river belches, painting stalactites orange. Dust showers from ceiling, peppering our hair. I press stylus tip into groove until shaking eases, then resume. Carmilla breathes the mantra between teeth. I add Everest’s:Purpose is melody.My strokes find rhythm in the quakes—writing on off-beats.
At last the sigils close the circle. A soft hum births under our knees—a low chord resonant with ley core. We step back. Ash mixture in saucer now glows from within; specks of Yarrow’s memory swirl like summer gnats. I lift the saucer, splitting contents into four equal portions, sprinkling at cardinal stones already inscribed with cub’s name runic. Each sprinkle sends a ring wave of light across glyph web, tightening pattern.
When final pinch settles, the entire circle ignites silver-white, brighter than forge fire yet cold to our skins. The hum climbs an octave, then stabilizes—a sure sign the ground beneath accepted offering. Carmilla releases a ragged exhale equal parts relief and grief.
