Kylan is by my side before panic crests. His heightened senses read every change—pulse stuttering, scent of rising pain. He braces my shoulders, golden eyes searching mine. The ritual’s glow throws molten reflections across his dark skin;sweat beads along his temple and soaks the torn collar of his shirt, but his expression is alpha-calm forged in grief’s furnace.
“Don’t force sound,” he orders, voice pitched low to ride the chant’s subcurrent. “There’s another path.”
I shake my head. Voice is the conduit; without it the sigil cannot finalize. My lips shape words that never exit.
His fingers find the side of my neck just above the crystalline band. Heat travels from his palm into my throat, not scorching but thrumming—pack heartbeats, grieving wolves humming comfort. The resonance eases constriction for a heartbeat, but crystal continues its ancient pilgrimage. I mouth, Help won’t hold. Finish without me.
Kylan bares teeth, a flash of wolf ire. “We finish together.” He turns, calls across the chamber, “Holt, Rowan—defensive posture!” The wolves adjust the outer ring, but my focus drifts as another tremor buckles the floor. Beyond the dome I feel riftlines elsewhere pulse out of sync—Umbramere’s air burning ozone, Terrastria’s dunes becoming liquid glass. The other couples need the anchor we provide.
I try to speak again. Nothing but rattling breath. Panic flutters wings against ribcage. Kylan slides a hand behind my head and pulls me close until his mouth brushes the pulse barreling beneath my ear. He meets my gaze—question and vow in one—and I give him permission with a slow blink.
His canines lengthen, tipped silver under magma light. A sharp sting pierces skin. Bond teeth. Hot rush of his vitality surges through puncture, streaming into veins slowed by crystal. Energy collides with oracle power; sparks race down spine; knees nearly give. He holds me upright, one arm steel around waist, and we sway together inside an expanding aura of light.
I feel his memories slide under mine: moonlit hunts, pack pups tumbling across snow, Yarrow’s laughter, Rowan’s first shift, Elise humming lullabies to orphaned kits. Theyfuse with my centuries of solitude—empty valleys, chorus of dragon spirits, the hush of stars judging destinies too small to comprehend their burn. Not chain, circle. He told me that last night and I begin to understand. The bite marks throb in time with both our hearts; rhythm doubles the chant’s amplitude though I produce no voice. My silence becomes conduit, his growled syllables weaving through the vacuum to craft a deeper harmony.
The center sigil brightens. Ash lines lift from floor, spiraling around us like tiny comets. They spin outward, strike outer cage, then streak into the rift, threading color through emptiness. I feel the pulse leap beyond mountain stone, racing silver wires toward distant ritual sites.
First contact: Remi in Umbramere. I sense her storm aura crackling against volcanic sand, feel Zale’s leviathan coil deflecting realm surges. Our merged rhythm reaches them; they pivot chants mid-breath, aligning tempo. The ghost of Remi’s laugh rings in my skull—We’ve got you, oracle. Don’t quit early.
Second contact: Everest somewhere under Terrastria’s meteor dunes, Isabelle’s earthsong humming counterpoint. Their anchors slip seamlessly into our cadence. The network locks. Three sites, six voices, one metamorphic heartbeat. Stars quiver overhead like tuning forks.
Within our cave, Narkarath’s presence looms vast as an ocean behind a gate. Instead of striking, the entity stills, swayed by pulse it helped create eons ago before Sundering fractured everything. It listens—ancient memory coaxed to calm by a lullaby born from love and regret.
The mound of crystal lacing my neck shifts—painful but not predatory. Growth halts. No new shard pierces flesh. For the first time in months, I do not fear the next breath.
Kylan senses the pause and eases bite pressure, though teeth remain embedded to keep current flowing. His hands bracketribs, fingertips gentle, steady. My arms rise, encircle broad shoulders. We breathe as one.
Around us, rune pillars descend to floor level, their task complete. Lava river hushes to a glassy slide. The dome contracts until it is merely a thin shimmer hugging rift’s edges, sealing gap but permitting a gentle, measured exchange of realm essence—exactly what third path demanded.
Voice might return but I realize it is no longer essential. I lay a palm over the bite; blood seeps around curved enamel then seals, leaving faint punctures glowing blue. Kylan licks stray trickle, the act more sacrament than carnality. I rest forehead against his.
Thought speaks easier than sound: The circle holds.
His answering thought thrums: And so do you.
I open eyes. Crystal still chokes throat yet feels more like living armor now. Not a tombstone. I test a whisper; rasp emerges, “Connection stable.”
Kylan smiles, edges softening. “I hear every realm singing along.”
A quake rolls underfoot, gentler than any before. Dust sifts from ceiling, but runes don’t flicker. Beyond dome, shade remnants swirl like dark snowflakes then fade, absorbed into network rather than flung out as poison. Residual cries of minor entities retreat into lullaby grind.
Holt’s voice drifts from outer circle. “Alpha, readings even. Rift sealed. We—stars above?—”
Rowan whoops like a drunken wraith. Others echo, but Kylan lifts a hand, dialing them to reverent hush. The hush spreads until only drip of cooling stone punctuates space.
I pull free slowly, slipping fingers through his hair—thick strands damp, smelling of wolf musk and iron chant. He leans into the touch, eyes closing briefly. Bite retracts; punctures knit already.
The sigil’s sparks dim to embers, scattering across basalt like fallen constellations. I step away to inspect rune integrity. Each ash line has sunk into bedrock, leaving faint grooves still smoldering aquamarine. They will continue radiating containment patterns long after we’re gone. An ache of relief loosens shoulders.
But the crystal on throat remains. My hand skims its cold surface. Living armor, perhaps, but still finite. I glance at Kylan. He reads thought before spoken. “We’ll manage,” he states.
I nod. Not the answer but enough for now.
We turn toward tunnel mouth where guards wait. Yet before leaving, I pivot and lay palm atop center rune. A shard of my inner vision peels loose—image of unified realms humming in harmony, boundaries permeable yet intact. I press it into rock. “Memory,” I breathe, sound scratchy but viable. If future seekers stand here, may they inherit hope rather than warnings.
Kylan wraps an arm around waist, guiding me forward. As we pass outer ring, Holt bows deeply; Rowan places fist to heart. Their respect warms more than lava.
Tunnel climbs. Each step feels lighter, sprite lanterns casting peach halos on rugged walls. Halfway up, a tremor of resonance darts along bond—Remi sending triumphant roar; Everest replying with sober gratitude. All sites secure. Convergence sliding toward plateau rather than catastrophe.
