23
CARMILLA
Somewhere beyond the mouth of the cave dawn is trying to happen, but no ordinary sunrise reaches this throat of the world. Instead, a tremor hums the morning into being—low, insistent, rattling loose stones from the ceiling so they tap the shelves like chimes. The magma river has settled into a begrudging flow after the long night, yet every fresh pulse in the ley core feels hungrier, as though the realm itself skipped sleep and woke ravenous.
I sit in a shadowed alcove carved naturally into the rear wall, knees drawn up, cloak draped over my shoulders like a half-forgotten promise of warmth. Kylan still dozes beside the finished ritual circle, resting only because I drugged the camp’s water with whisperroot; he needs one hour of oblivion before the grind begins again. Wolves never admit exhaustion until their bodies steal it, so I lent a hand. His breathing echoes faintly down the corridor—steady, comforting, a memory of safety in a place that promises none.
The vision started the moment the tremor shivered up the wall and into my spine. One heartbeat I was hunched over folionotes, the next I was standing outside my own skin. As always, the sight stamps every sense with merciless clarity:
The circle complete but empty, its sigils glowing a dull kiln red. My body kneels at its center—no breath, no pulse, the lattice fully bloomed until flesh has turned to translucent quartz. The cracked palm is splayed on obsidian tile, frozen mid-gesture, as if I was trying to finish a word that died on my tongue. Outside the perimeter Kylan kneels, head tilted back, a howl ripping out that shakes dust from the stalactites. It’s the kind of sound that can break bones without ever touching them. I swear the magma itself cringes.
The vision ends there, but I can still taste the aftermath: salt, soot, heartbreak so dense it carries its own gravity. When I blink back to the alcove every muscle aches from clenching, and sweat runs cold between shoulder blades despite the heat.
No more time for doubt. I unfold the folio, tug a fresh shard of slate from my kit, and grind the last of the ash-blood mixture into a fine powder. With the stylus I draft an alternate sigil pattern—one Kylan must never see until the instant it must be used. It rearranges sacrifice ratios, forcing the circle to draw ninety percent of the closing energy from me and only a sliver from the wolf bond. Theoretically the realm will accept the imbalance as payment in full; practically, it means the vision becomes truth. The pattern pours from memory as if my hand has practiced for years. Perhaps it has, in dreams I refuse to remember.
Halfway through the final glyph the stylus slips; pain lances up my cracked fingers. A new fracture opens across the heel of the palm, and for a breath everything strays out of focus. I clutch the hand, counting heartbeats until vision steadies. Blood wells in pearl-sized drops, dark against the pale crystal creeping under the skin. Five minutes of pressure seals it enough to keep writing.
Finished, I breathe over the slate, whispering a binding hush so the glyphs sink just beneath the surface grain—hidden from a casual glance. The slate slides into the inner pocket of my sleeve alongside the thin dagger of moon-silver. If Convergence outpaces us I will embed the slate directly in the anchor’s heartstone, trusting Laurel’s prodigious curiosity to find it when she reaches this place. Trusting that she will reach it at all.
The farewell crystal waits in my satchel: a thumb-sized shard of star-glass with a trapped wisp of aurora swirling at its core. I harvested it years ago on the Sanctuary ridge, telling Laurel it was a navigation tool. Really it was always meant for this altar. A final message in case the world keeps spinning without me.
I rise, footing careful on the glass-slick floor, and make my way toward the altar shelf beyond the circle. Each step sends mild protests from joints, like gears grinding without oil. I lay the crystal beside a petrified lotus that grew here centuries ago when the cave breathed cooler air. The star-glass flares once, recognizing dragonstone in the altar’s make. In that bloom of light the alcove seems larger, less oppressive, almost gentle. My whisper barely disturbs the heated air. “Guide whoever bears the maps after me. Carry them true.”
The crystal dims, a promise accepted.
Behind me a change in Kylan’s breath warns he will wake soon. I wipe ash and blood residue on cloth, preparing a facsimile smile. Resolve has to be armor this morning; he cannot feel the weight of a choice I’ve already made. If he does, he will try to shift it onto his own shoulders, and the pattern will fail.
A soft scuff of boot on basalt announces him before voice does. “The bed’s empty, and the air smells like secrets.” His words rumble, still husky with sleep but edged by amusement.
I turn, letting the cloak fall so lattice on my arm can’t hide in folds. He takes in the new crack, the tired gleam in my eyes,and the amusement fades into concern lined with something achingly tender. “Nightmares or visions?”
“Both.” I fold arms, forcing a shrug. “This cave does not believe in boundaries.”
He crosses the distance, thumb brushing fresh bandage. “You injected whisperroot into my water, little liar.” The accusation lacks anger; more a wry acknowledgment.
“You needed the rest.”
“So did you.” He steps nearer. Heat from his chest radiates through the scant gap between us. He tilts my chin, searches my gaze. “Tell me what you saw.”
Stone corpse. His howl. The universe bleeding quiet around us. I push the memory behind a mask of wryness. “I saw the next surge arriving sooner than we calculated. We should be ready within the hour.”
Eyes narrow, but he senses I’ve shared all I intend. “Then we will be.” He brushes a kiss at the corner of my mouth, gentle, but it vibrates with restrained fear. My heart snags against ribs. One more reason he can’t know about the slate.
We leave the alcove together. Wolves have reset camp after the fissure collapse—Rowan stands guard, crossbow balanced though his face is gray; Holt sharpens blade, eyes flicking to the lava river every few breaths. When I call them for briefing they gather without hesitation.
Kylan outlines timings: next core lift predicted at forty minutes—he speaks this while glancing at me, testing confidence. I nod, reinforcing where needed. Holt and scouts will apply river-ice wards at new stress lines; Rowan handled despite cough because his aim remains true.
I spare an instant to admire them: mortals with mortal faults, choosing to stand here where the world’s vertebrae creak. It strengthens the final shard of doubt—no mortal should spend twice for the same fate. My lattice will pay for their safety.
We disperse. I return briefly to the alcove, sliding slate into deeper crevice under loose rock. The farewell crystal pulses once behind me. If Kylan enters again he will need a seer’s eyes to find either item.
On leaving, another tremor passes—smaller, but it jolts the half-healed cracks in my bones. The lattice brightens to a soft cerulean, and for one terrifying instant I feel the rhythm of the dragon beneath the magma, stirring in its ancient coffin. Each tick of its breath rasps through the crystal in my blood. It wants out.
I catch the wall, breathing shallow until the resonance ebbs. Already the world blurs at edges, as if I peer through water. When my vision clears, Holt has paused by the cave mouth, looking back. His brow furrows at my grip on basalt but he says nothing. Loyalty or respect—maybe doubt of what words would help. I wave him on.
Fishing in cloak pocket, I withdraw a shard of quartz no larger than a grain of rice—the lattice’s first fragment to flake from wrist weeks ago. I kept it in case it turned useful. Now I press it to my lips, whisper Kylan’s name, and place it atop the farewell crystal. Two pieces of me, one physical, one spectral—if souls can bind to bone, maybe bone can carry a soul.
Time compresses. Wolves hurry, seed roots glow brighter in glyph hollows, and the cave’s ambient thrum increases pitch by half-tones every few breaths. Each tone is a string drawing tight; soon it will snap. I busy myself checking sigil edges, adding flecks of chalk where sweat erased corners. Kylan enters with bowls of aqua drawn from a glacier melt flask—rare cold here—and hands me one. We sip, neither speaking.
