“He asked me to judge if it earned space in Nightfeast traditions.”
“Tell him yes.” She rolls, props head on my chest. I feed her again, then drink myself. The warmth settles, knitting muscle slackness.
Silence returns, but it is not empty. Words hover unspoken—hers about death, mine about prevention. I stroke her hair. “Your pulse wavers.”
“Crystal chatter,” she dodges.
“Not only.” I hook finger under pendant—the river stone she wears. It beats faintly. “Your heart mourns something lost yet.”
She toys with the scar over my heart. “I will not lie: fear stalks me.”
“Tell me its name.”
“Leaving you in a howl that never ends.”
The phrase punches breath from lungs. I tip her chin, make her see promise in my eyes. “No one leaves alone. If one of us crosses, the other tears the veil or drags the river.” My thumbbrushes crystal vein. “We fight, tooth and bone, against any script not penned by our own ink.”
She studies me, measuring conviction. A tear trembles, then jewels down cheek. I catch it with kiss, tasting saline heat. “Your oath binds you to danger,” she whispers.
“My oath binds danger to regret if it tries to take you.”
A small laugh, shaky. “Then we break dawn together.”
“Together.” The word becomes vow.
Below us the magma river growls, restless. Surge indicators say dawn’s flare arrives in three hours. We rise, gather clothing. Before dressing I watch her study lattice lines as though counting minutes left. I take stylus from satchel, draw a new sigil over my heart—a blend of wolf knot and oracle spiral. She lifts brow.
“Ward?” she asks.
“Beacon,” I answer. “If we separate in the surge, this guides you.”
She cups design, presses lips there. “Then I need matching flare.” She guides my hand to her sternum, just above crystal bloom. I draw twin mark, slower, where pulse beats back against stylus. The ink flares, sinks beneath skin.
Garments find rightful places. Cloaks last. I sling flask over shoulder, bowl empty now. We descend stair, arms brushing, gathering quiet strength from each contact. At stair base Holt greets us with a nod—eyes note weariness, then flick aside; he knows privacy when he smells it. Rowan sleeps curled near cooling vent, breath easier.
Carmilla squeezes my hand once, then moves to check seed roots. I head for guard rotation, humming quiet tune. The wolves on watch pick it up—a low cadence that carries into tunnels, wending through runes, settling over lava river like balm. The song pledges dawn to come, a dawn we will carve out of the Convergence’s throat if need be.
And beneath the melody I reaffirm a silent oath: no slate, no prophecy, no ancient dragon will claim her breath while mine still moves.
25
CARMILLA
Firelight from the magma river strokes the grotto wall, coaxing copper ghosts to dance in slow folds. One hour until the ritual resumes, one hour to decide whether fate is a fixed map or clay soft enough to reshape. The night’s heat still clings to my skin, memory of Kylan’s worship-slow hands lingering like a benediction I scarcely deserve. Yet every breath I take tastes of parting, iron on the tongue.
He stands near the crystal window, binding his long hair with a strip of wolf-hide. The gesture is casual, practiced—an alpha preparing for combat—but there’s tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there after our lovemaking. He sensed the moment my thoughts slipped elsewhere, the instant resolve hardened overnight. Wolves read silence the way seers read stars.
I set a small brazier atop the black-glass shelf and kneel, coaxing a lick of blue flame from a spark-stone. The flame flares, then settles to a steady flicker. I place the farewell crystal in the brazier—its tiny aurora swirls in protest, greens and pinks chasing each other behind the translucent shell. A last chance to turn away, to keep secret the road I prepared. I close my crackedhand around the pendant he gave me, feel the river-stone’s pulse against the lattice, and release the breath I’ve been clutching.
“Kylan.”
The single word halts his braid mid-knot. He pivots, gold eyes searching. When they meet mine, the connection snaps taut, as though the tremor lines of the Convergence run straight through us. His voice is steady; only the slight flare of nostrils betrays apprehension. “Tell me.”
I rise, blood throbbing in brittle fingers. “I lied in pieces, truths dressed as half-confessions. The prophecy vision I described on the ridge was not the whole tapestry.” I lift palm; fracture lines catch the firelight. “I saw more. The circle complete. My body stone, your grief a howl that sets mountains shuddering.”
His jaw sets, but he keeps voice low. “That dream will remain dream. We survived three pulses, and your lattice steadied during the last.”
“It steadied because I poured the cracks full of stolen time.” I cross to him, pull the slate from my sleeve pocket, reveal the hidden glyphs etched faintly beneath grain. Under magma glow the symbols flare pearl-white. “The alternate pattern. It forces the circle to take almost all power from me during closure. It works. I felt it sing when I etched first lines.”
