Symbol under my feet flares amethyst; his flares amber. The colors bend, merge across circle, birthing ribbon of violet-gold. Energy rises—not vicious, but curious. It probes our marks, tasting. Our heartbeats quicken, and the ribbon thickens, forging the first loop between us.
I feel his pulse as clearly as my own, running counterpoint. Together we guide ribbon outward, feeding anchor lines. The ground trembles—cold warning of surge four. Lava river brightens, yet this time fear doesn’t spike; purpose does. I extend lattice through cracks, offering living conduit. Energy accepts, flowing through veins like molten stardust, scalding yet sublime.
Across gap Kylan shudders, jaw clenched. Our shared pulse evens, synchronizing. The anchor ring hum climbs until stalactites shimmer sympathetic. Wolves outside howl single, unified note—an anthem of reckless faith.
We glance at each other across luminous circle. Neither speaks; everything needed arcs in the bond: promise, determination, wild hope. Surge four crashes—giant heartbeat of the realm—but the ribbon holds, conducting torrent through us, out again, into seeds and sigils that sparkle like dawn on river ice.
Prophecy cracks—audible? imagined? The chamber echoes with a sound like old glass fracturing, followed by hush so profound I hear my own blood tumble. Surge subsides. The circle glows calm pearl.
I examine palm—fractures remain yet feel less vicious, edges smoothed by current’s kiss. Kylan presses fingers to new beacon mark over heart; it glows bright scarlet for three breaths, then settles. He meets my gaze: unbroken, fierce, alive.
Third Path breathes.
Hope, long denied, plants root. The ritual still looms, Convergence still roars beyond walls, yet for the first time the scales no longer weigh only death against doom. We forged a reckless sliver of maybe, and maybe is enough to march through the next door.
We pivot outward, calling orders: adjust seeds, widen frost wards, ready chorus for dawn surge. Behind my ribs a laughgrows—a little wild, a little terrified, but undeniably joyous. Destiny can be argued with; it simply requires stubborn hearts beating as one.
26
KYLAN
The ritual chamber breathes fire-heat around us, a subterranean vault carved when the world was young and reckless. Orange glare from the magma river flickers over half-melted pillars and paints swaying shadows along the obsidian walls. Every breath tastes of minerals, sulfur, and the copper tang of blood sigils already set on the floor. Convergence crests tonight—twin moons locked in direct line with Feramundi’s broken star—so even the air feels stretched thin, like it might split if someone speaks too loudly.
I drop to one knee beside the southern node and uncap the bone cylinder I’ve carried since the ghost-wolf attack. Inside rests the last of Yarrow’s dust: glittering black grains finer than silt. I pause, pressing thumb and forefinger to the ivory rim, and let memory wash in—cub laughter echoing down pack tunnels, the bright yip he gave when Rowan taught him to track hare scent, the silence that followed the shadow infection. Grief tightens like new leather, but tonight it doesn’t cripple. Tonight it fuels.
Carmilla waits at the opposite node, crystalline lattice winding up her left arm like frost on midnight glass. The glowof the river flickers through her silver-white hair and paints her cheekbones gold. We exchanged no vows before stepping into position; we spent them all last night in the magma-lit grotto, whispering promises against each other’s skin. Now we speak through motion alone.
I tip the cylinder and let Yarrow’s dust sift down the etched runic channels. The moment ash kisses carved basalt, the line blazes emerald, racing clockwise to meet Carmilla’s half of the circle. She lowers her cracked palm, blood and crystal glinting together, and completes the circuit. Light spirals up, licking ceiling height, weaving a dome that snaps closed with a thunder-pop.
Our wolves retreat beyond the ring, weapons ready. Holt grips his war-pick, Rowan hefts a silver-bound crossbow, two scouts keep flasks of ward-oil uncorked. I smell their fear, sharp as pine resin, but loyalty stands taller.
Carmilla murmurs, “Seal one.” Her voice floats across the humming lines, soft yet fierce. Heat ripples between us; tiny sparks skate her lashes, then drift toward me, nesting in my beard like fireflies.
I open the chant in the alpha’s tongue—low vowels shaped in diaphragm, consonants struck like flint. Vibration slams through floor and ribcage until my heartbeats sync with each syllable. She layers oracle cadence atop mine, airy notes sliding between guttural roots, and the dome responds: arcs of jade light leap node to node, sketching an anti-rift cage. In the center of the chamber, a fissure waits—a wound in stone, jaws pried by cosmic stress. Inside churns violet haze shot through with red lightning.
The cage completes its first revolution. Obsidian ash flares at every cardinal point, pillars of green-gold flame upshootingto rivet dome to ground. A hiss travels the rift, cold despite the swelter—a warning that something ancient is taking notice.
I spare a glance beyond the barrier. Holt’s lips move with the counter-chant we taught them, reinforcing the outer wards. Steam coils off his shoulders. The ground quivers, loose shards dancing around boots yet never breaching our ring. Good.
Mid-chant, my focus flickers to Carmilla. The crystal veins on her forearm expand another finger-width, skin splitting in hairline cracks that seep starlight. Her pupils glide white—sight locked on something beyond mortal vision—yet her stance remains iron. I push more resonance into the bond, offering stabilizing energy. She drinks it without breaking rhythm.
The fissure bursts wide. Darkness pours out like ink spilled in water, congealing into a dragon silhouette the size of a tree trunk. Narkarath’s shade: eyes burning with realm-hunger, maw gaping to swallow creation. It hurls one claw at the cage. Light spiderwebs under the blow, screeching metallic notes. I stagger, knees bending, but I don’t fall. Behind ribs, grief-forged strength flares: I see Yarrow’s face, Elise’s, every slaughtered pack-mate, and I vow none died for nothing.
I split my chant in two, sending one thread to patch the cracked node, the other to weave fresh knots into the cage. Shade claws a second time. Lightning arcs, but the cage thickens, drawing on the ash I laid. Yarrow’s dust ignites bright green, becomes a glyph that latches onto the shade’s wrist like molten chains. It roars, thrashing inside a prison made from a cub’s sacrifice.
Carmilla’s song lowers, thrums through marrow. She lifts her bandaged hand; liquid crystal drips from fingertips, tracing sigils in midair that drop into the floor, feeding currents beneath us. Her knees wobble. I step forward, bridging half the circle—none of the others can enter; only the bonded pair may crossthe lines—and steady her with my free arm. Contact blows static through both of us. The bond brightens enough to sear lungs, but holds.
“Lean on me,” I growl between chant phrases.
“Not leaning,” she whispers back. “Braiding.”
I almost laugh if the moment weren’t burning alive.
We resume full volume. Outside the ring, steam vents burst; obsidian shards tumble. Rowan fires a quarrel into a shadow spawn that slips through cracks in reality near the entrance. Holt swings his pick, crunching a half-formed mimic that tried to latch onto the dome. Sparks fly; claws scatter; they hold the perimeter.
Inside, the shade’s form distorts. It melds claw to claw, forcing shape into an enormous serpentine dragon head, then lunges again. The cage bows inward. Carmilla releases a cry—part chant, part agony. Her crystalized hand fractures along the palm, a glowing fissure that reaches wrist. Blood streaks the cracks but vaporizes instantly in the heat, leaving fissure lines more luminous.
I bellow a command in pack-tongue—“HOLD”—and slam both palms to the nearest node. The rune scorches flesh but I don’t flinch. Power leaps from me to patch the dome. My memories feed it: the night I buried Yarrow, the day I accepted alpha mantle, the vow to shield those who stand behind. Every beating heart of my wolves seems to drum in my chest, magnified a hundredfold. The dome thickens, color shifting from green to white-hot gold.
