The path we’re on winds and dips through the forest, taking us further and further from the camp. My breath puffs in front of my face in little clouds of white, the cool, damp air clinging to my cheeks, my fingers. We start make our way down a short incline, and about halfway down, the toe of my boot catches on a root. I gasp and stumble forward, but Professor Vale is there, his free hand wrapped around my wrist to steady me.
I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart’s beating right now.
I gain my footing, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is firm and warm, his fingers encircling my wrist with ease.
“Alright?” he murmurs. His thumb smooths over the skin covering the back of my wrist, and I shiver involuntarily. I suck in a shaky breath.
“Fine. Just a sneaky root.”
For a moment, our gazes lock, and surrounded by nothing but lush forest and birdsong, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world. His eyes flit down to my mouth, just for a second, before he clears his throat and releases me. I swallow hard, trying to bring my nervous system back under control. He looks down at his hand, then shoves it in his pocket.
He’s never touched me before, I realize. That was the first time.
Probably the last, too. Especially if he realizes that I’m mooning over him like a pathetic little puppy dog.
Be professional, I remind myself. The last thing I want to do is screw up my first proper dig by acting like a horny idiot.
We make our way down the rest of the slope without incident and follow the narrowing path. I can hear the trickle of a nearby stream, and ahead of us, the trees grow denser, the path interspersed with moss-covered logs.
“It’s just through here,” he says, holding back a low branch and revealing another path, sheltered by tall stones on either side. I trail my fingers over them as I head through the small tunnel, the slate cool and wet against my skin. Everything here feels ancient. Untouched by time.
Directly ahead of me, on the other side of the small stone tunnel, is the most stunning, bizarre tree I’ve ever seen. Thick roots push out of the ground, winding and twisting around each other to form a perfect circle, probably at least eight feet in diameter. The middle of the circle is empty, allowing animals and people to pass right through the heart of the tree. Above, branches fork off in different directions, emerald green leaves flickering in the breeze.
“What on earth…?” I say, steps faltering as I take it all in. It’s incredible. It’s eerie. I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve certainly never encountered anything like this in my research.
“There’s more,” says Professor Vale from behind me. He walks around to the other side of the tree. He passes behind it, but…I can’t see him through the open space. All I see is more forest.
“Professor?” I call, a slight tremble to my voice. How did he just disappear?
“Come around the tree,” he replies, so I do, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. As I round the tree, I can hear a faint hum, like a beehive somewhere in the distance.
I gasp.
There’s a pile of stones clustered there, standing about five feet high and clearly both ancient and deliberately placed. They’re covered in Druidic symbols and sigils, along with runes I don’t recognize. Furry green moss skirts around the base. More stones form a semi-circle in the area around us, maybe three or four feet high, all in varying states of decay. None of this is visible through the bizarrely shaped tree. Almost as though the tree somehow hides these stones.
“How is this not visible from the other side?” I ask. Vale shakes his head.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Some trick of the light, maybe?” He shrugs. He’s clearly at a loss to explain it, just as much as I am.
I move closer to the altar. “I can’t believe it’s intact,” I say. I circle it, looking but not touching.
“Do you think it’s authentic?” he asks, head cocked as he watches me.
I nod quickly. “I do. But I don’t recognize some of these symbols. I wonder if it pre-dates the Bronze age. When I was researching, I did come across a few mentions of an ancient, pre-Druidic society called—“
“The Vaelthir,” he says, finishing my thought.
“Yes,” I nod.
“Do you think this altar might be Vaelthir?”
I crouch down, studying the symbols painstakingly carved into the stone. “I thought the Vaelthir were more of a myth than anything.” And yet…I’m an expert in all things Druid and I can’t make sense of these symbols.
“So did I.” He pauses. “But I thought you might like to see this, given your interest in them. You mentioned doing extensive research into them in one of your footnotes.”
At that, I turn and look at him over my shoulder, brows raised. “You remember something I mentioned in a footnote?”
He swallows thickly, his cheeks going a little red. “It was a good paper,” he mutters, and pride and something else wash over me, hot and sweet. He clears his throat and opens the battered book he’s carrying. “I want to try to activate the altar.”
