His throat moves with a swallow. He doesn’t touch the slate; his hands ball at sides. “You meant to slot that the moment strain crested.” Not a question.
“Yes.” I refuse apology; honesty must stand plain. “The realm gets sealed, you live, Laurel inherits the sky.”
“And I howl over quartz ribs.” His voice cracks on the final word, not in weakness but in hurt so raw it saws bone. “You promised dawn together.”
“I promised dawn.” I step close, touch the wolf-knot beacon inked over his heart. Warmth greets fingertip, beating beneath skin still scented with star-kelp broth. “I can’t outrun mathematics, Kylan. The dragon wake and the lattice’s bloom want one price: oracle bone. I bargained to keep you clear.”
“That bargain was never offered.” He takes my wrist, not hard, guiding hand away so he can catch my gaze fully. “My sacrifice counts, though you dismiss it. You’d carve both of us into stone through deception.”
“I would carve one into hope.” Emotion pebbles throat. “Legacy isn’t only bloodline survival. It’s world survival. The prophecy has always said?—”
“I know what old stargazers wrote.” He releases wrist, paces once, palms pressed to brow. “You believe destiny a lock. I believe destiny a door. We can pick the hinge.”
“How? Surge after surge we barely maintain.”
He faces me again, shoulders rising with breath. “By weaving a Third Path, as you call it—one where energy draws equally from bond and oracle but returns through living vessels.” He taps the twin beacon mark over my sternum. “These runes are keys. When cycle peaks, we channel the overflow into each other, loop it, feed anchor without killing host. No script foresees living conduits because seers assumed a bonded pair would break before attempting such lunacy.”
The plan floods my mind in micro-visions: our pulses braided, power whipping back and forth, dangerous yet brilliant. “If the resonance mismatches even a breath we both rupture.”
“Then we don’t miss.” He steps so close warmth of his chest meets mine. “Trust the bond you fed every night since the mountains.”
I hesitate—not from fear of pain but fear of choosing desire over duty. Cracks in palm throb, as if urging caution. “Oracle foresight is not malleable whim.”
“Neither is wolf loyalty.” His fingertips hook under my cracked hand, elevating slate between us. “Legacy and autonomy need not duel. We decide how to script the lines.”
Distantly the magma river coughs, showering sparks against buffer wards. Forty-five minutes to surge. Decision must settle now. I watch his face—shadowed yet fierce with stubborn hope. My heart answers before logic catches up. Destiny may demand one death; love demands rebellion.
I exhale shaky laugh. “Third Path.”
He nods. “Third Path.”
Slate trembles in my hand. Without breaking eye contact I extend it toward brazier. Blue flame laps edges, hungry. Slowly I release grip; the slate topples in, catches with crack of super-heated stone. Glyphs ignite silver, then collapse into ash indistinguishable from farewell crystal beneath. Bursts of russet sparks twirl upward.
Kylan wraps arms around me from behind, guiding my uninjured hand to stir ashes with a bone needle. I carve fresh runic spiral in the glowing powder, adding his wolf knot, linking ends. The mixture hardens into single charcoal rune that shimmers faint rose-gold. A warm pulse slips up my arm—not pain, something gentler, like sunrise through closed lids.
“The bond accepts,” he murmurs at my ear. “We give anchor our living pulse or nothing.”
Tears slip before I notice them. They sizzle on brazier lip and vanish. I turn in his arms, press forehead to his shoulder. “If prophecy proves stubborn?”
“Then we bite through its throat.” He whispers the vow into hair, breath hot and soothing.
I pull back enough to meet his gaze. “You need to know one more truth.” I produce the tiny sliver of quartz—the lattice fragment carrying his name. “I left piece of me at the altar. Insurance. If I faltered, it would guide Laurel.”
He lifts the shard between thumb and forefinger, studying glow. “Guide her still. But not because you die. Because she will need mentors who out-lived prophecy.” He slides shard into pouch at his belt. “We’ll gift it together once this realm heals.”
Hope blooms sharp, frightening in its brightness. I lean up, kiss him softly. “Third Path,” I repeat against his lips.
“Third Path.” He deepens kiss—not hungry, but confident. When we part the magma glow seems less intrusive, the tremor hum more like a drumline we can wield.
We dismantle brazier, crush cooled rune into powder, pocket it. Holt’s voice echoes faint from cavern below, rallying scouts for pre-surge positions. Kylan offers his arm. We descend steps side-by-side, presenting united fronts to wolves who rely on us.
At bottom Rowan stands ready with final seed crystals. He sees our joined hands and soaks in message: plan changed, but unity holds. Holt lifts brow at my renewed energy; I squeeze his shoulder in silent thanks.
We cross chamber to anchor circle. Emerald glow waits, steady but expectant—like a sentient engine craving new instruction. Kylan and I take our posts north and south. Crack lines in my arm pulse lavender as lattice syncs to beacon runes. Ash dust of crystal and slate in Kylan’s pouch answers with soft warmth.
I breathe, center, then raise voice in tongue older than both packs and oracles. “Boundary between breath and bone, open for living tide.”
Kylan’s baritone joins: “Pulse of fang and star, weave through willing hearts.”
