We don’t celebrate. Next phase demands placement of pulse-seeds. I unlatch pouch, revealing twelve crystalline pods nested in moss. Carmilla plucks two with uninjured hand; I take two. We slot them into hollows chipped near compass points. Seeds fuse to stone, roots unfurling like veins, drinking stray magma vapors instantly. Runes around each hollow flare green. The anchor locks.
Another quake—stronger. The river’s surface fractures into blister domes, then bursts; magma sprays across lower ledge. Drops sizzle against invisible ward, leaving neon scars onbarrier sphere we did not conjure. My heart sets into sprint; Convergence has caught up earlier than predicted.
Carmilla angles face toward lava. “Pressure spike fifteen percent above projected curve.” She braces with back to wall, breathing quick. Lattice on her arm pulses frantic aqua.
“We anchor faster.” I dart to mid-circle, carve wind spire sigil at heart node, slice another cut in wrist, bleed directly on stone. Carmilla follows, pressing cracked palm over fresh blood. Our combined essence sinks, rune lines swallow stain, and floor hum ascends half step—stable again.
Then the ground screams. A bass roar unlike earlier tremors shudders stalactites. Lava river widens, pushing tongues of molten stone over guard ledge. One tongue lashes pillar supporting half the shelf; chips of basalt tumble into flow, sparking arcs.
Rowan’s distant shout carries down tunnel, but words drown in rumble. Holt’s horn blasts once—signal to retreat deeper—then cuts off.
Carmilla snaps head to entrance. “Go,” she says, voice tight.
“Not leaving you.”
“If shelf drops, anchor fails. Someone has to pull seeds back once surge passes.”
Before I frame counterargument, another roar splits air. The pillar below us cracks audible. She thrusts a fistful of chalk shards at my chest. “Guardian role. Move.”
My wolf flares territorial refusal, yet Everest’s mantra threads inside mind: choose melody. My melody is her survival. I grasp chalk, sprint to mouth of tunnel while calling over shoulder, “Hold to river stone. I hear its beat.”
She presses hand to the token near sternum in wordless answer, then kneels again, layering rapid glyphs over fault lines.
Tunnel rocks. Sparks flash behind; a curtain of heat licks my back. I emerge into daylight—or what passes for it undermolten sky—to find chaos at camp. Holt drags Rowan away from collapsing ridge; the elk scream, hooves skating on molten-slick glass. A fissure has opened between wagons and cave, belching smoke purple-tinged.
I lunge across gap while stone still holds, slapping chalk wards on either side; threads of frost leap from runes, knitting temporary bridge long enough for beasts to flee interior radius. Lava stag tracks from earlier now glow white, channeling heat outward—small blessing: the slag path diverts one edge of fissure.
“Carmilla?” Holt pants.
“In circle, finishing glyph overlay. Shelf unstable.” I chop gestures for triage: Holt to secure livestock beyond smoke, Rowan to arrow watch. Scouts already string lines for pulley extraction.
Convergence surge builds again—air thickens, vibrating eardrums. Wards dim. I grip bracelet on wrist, whisper Everest’s words. Pulse slows one notch. Decision crystallizes: I will return to cave. Guardian role includes shield, not cowardice.
Before Holt can protest I leap back across chalk bridge. Heat slams, throat drying. Inside, shelf tilts another degree; Carmilla braces on one knee, chalk dust swirling around like lunar storm. She’s converting outer lines into spiral to redistribute stress—brilliant but time-intensive.
“Let me take west.” I slide beside her. Blood from wrist wound drips on glyph; it adapts, swallowing crimson, brightening. She nods gratitude, sweat carving tracks through soot on face.
We work without speech, trading stylus mid-stroke, one reinforcing as other slices vent grooves for pressure release. Lattice on her forearm fractures louder—the sound like winter ice splintering across lake. She flinches yet forces stylus to end of curve.
Last arc snaps into place. Entire circle flares gold, then sinks to molten orange before cooling to steady emerald. Shelf’s tilt holds. The roar beneath calms to low growl. Convergence surge passes—for now.
Carmilla collapses onto hands, breathing ragged. Blood beads down cracked fingers. I scoop her against chest, easing to wall. “Anchor holds.”
“First pulse, yes.” She grimaces. “But core cycles shorten. Next surge in maybe half an hour.”
“One surge at a time.” I tear cloth, bind her palm tighter. She meets gaze—exhausted yet fierce.
“Everest’s mantra?” she asks, hint of tease.
“Melody over fear.”
“Then hum.” She leans head to collarbone. I hum low wolf lullaby, feeling vibration through ribs and into her lattice. Light embedded in cracks dims slightly.
Outside, Holt shouts status: wagons secure, fissure cooling. I answer that we survived, anchor alive. Cheers filter back though tinged with fear. We still stand above river of rebirth or ruin.
I stroke Carmilla’s hair, eyes fixed on circle. Our blood and Yarrow’s ash glimmer in grooves—a promise that lost cub and dying seer stitch future into foundation. Convergence will rise again soon, bringing pain and maybe ash, but we have melody and purpose and rooted seeds drinking fire into bloom.
I hum louder.
