Not trusting my own senses, I shut eyes and call the star-pulse. A low hum vibrates sternum crystal, mapping cosmic coordinates. The pulse is cool, consistent, immune to local lies. I use it like a taut line, reorient body and breath. When lids lift, dusk has returned. Blooms fade to brown husks.
A childish giggle echoes from below. I glance down—see nothing but swirling fog. Higher pitch follows, then deep chuckle. The ridge loves voices; it borrows them from dreams.
“Not tonight, trickster,” I mutter, setting foot on solid ground at last. Pines crowd the trail, densely woven branches blocking sky. Resin drips in slow motion, each drop hanging absurdly long before spattering bark. I skirt pools of sap that glow faint jade; those trap seconds like amber traps flies. Fall in and the body may exit five years older.
The trail forks at a moss-carved cairn. My compass needle spins again, reluctant. I kneel, press palm to earth, and whisper an offering. The ground answers with a faint throb—ley current flows stronger to the left path, but the shrine lies right. Problem.
I smell ozone. Flickers of green flame lick bark two trees ahead, forming runic warning: Boundary of Shadow Pack. Crossing without treaty risks claws and fangs.
Left path likely skirts pack territory but dips into deeper time pools. Speed or safety? The decision was made when Yarrow’s scream tore through Kylan’s heart—though I did not hear it, I feel its echo now, raw as an open wound. The pack bleeds. The shrine might contain the bandage. Speed, then.
I stride right, crossing unmarked into the alpha’s claim. The air shifts, thicker with wolf musk, territorial spice, intangible as the line itself yet unmistakable. My pulse accelerates; the crystal patch responds with tingling warmth, tasting new magic field.
A howl rises north—long, mournful, vibrating with command. Kylan, summoning his people or warning intruders? Perhaps both. I duck under a fallen cedar, mindful not to snag tunic on jagged branches. The lattice over my collarbone scrapes bark and looses silver dust.
Footfalls—two sets—pound somewhere upslope. I freeze behind the cedar, blending into blue-black shadows. Through foliage, I spot silhouettes: two scouts in half-shift state, human gait but elongated ears, eyes reflecting faint gold. They talk in low growls.
“We track scent of realm-rot,” one says.
“Alpha hunts oracle,” replies the other. “We guard rear.”
Oracle. My chest squeezes. News travels faster than I expected. These scouts may not know they step within breath of their target.
They pause, snouts lifting, testing wind. I hold still. My body aches to move; the ridge’s time-flows wrench muscles even at rest, like tide against anchored ship. A pinecone plummets in slow-motion, passes my nose, hits moss with barely audible thud.
One scout snarls. “Scent here—old starlight, woman-stone.” He takes a step toward cedar.
No choice. I pivot outward, palms raised, fingers splayed so moonlight kisses the crystal bones beneath skin. “Peace, hunters.”
They stop dead. Eyes widen to full wolf-amber. I read hesitation in the tense set of shoulders. Packs respect petitioners who bare throats; they also obey orders without debate.
“Who?” the taller scout snaps.
“Traveler bound for the northern shrine.” I keep voice calm, melodic. “Time falters on this ridge. I intend no harm.”
“Time falters because of you?” His tone edges accusation.
“Because of the rift three winters back.” I nod toward the warped horizon. “I am only passing through—swiftly, if permitted.”
The second scout circles, nostrils flaring. “Scent says oracle.” His gaze drops to the crystal glow at my collar. “Stone-blood.”
The first bares fangs. “Our alpha seeks you.”
“So I have learned.”
“Come.” He gestures with clawed hand. “You will answer.”
Answer for what? Yarrow’s death? The realm’s thinning? Perhaps everything. But facing Kylan here, in the ridge’s temperamental web, risks more temporal splinters. I need the shrine’s inscription first, else any explanation sounds like evasion.
“I cannot,” I say, gentle but unbending. “Tell your alpha I’ll meet him beyond the ridge, sunrise after next, at the Hollow Cairn by the Whitefang stream. Pack law knows that site”—neutral ground consecrated by four tribes centuries back.
The scouts exchange glances. They know the law. Yet duty wars with it—alpha’s orders may supersede courtesy.
Taller one growls. “You flee.”
I shake head. “I prioritize.”
A distant roar splits night, echoing along gullies. Not wolf. Something larger. The scouts’ ears flatten.
