Lyra, still pale, just stares at the portal, her lips slightly parted. “Gods, Amara.”
The portal holds, the air around it charged, waiting. Waiting for us to step through. Waiting for me to believe that I just did that.
I can’t breathe. A slow grin breaks through the disbelief.
The magics still shimmers around me, drifting like embers fading into the air. I turn toward Thane and find him already looking at me.
The glow of the portal catches in his eyes. I don’t just see strength there—I see awe. And pride.
My pulse stutters.
Without hesitation, he takes my hand.
“Let’s go,” he says, voice steady. Certain.
One by one, the others shift their grips on the books, maps, and records we gathered.
Rian tightens a strap on a satchel.
Jarek rolls a scroll tightly before tucking it away.
Valen follows behind him, carrying Sylas’ journal and a few rolled scrolls.
Garrick glances at Lyra, gesturing toward the portal. “Go on, Red. I’m right behind you.”
She shifts her grip on the scrolls she’s carrying, then steps forward, disappearing into the violet glow. Garrick watches her disappear, then shakes his head with a half-smirk.
“Still not convinced throwing myself into glowing voids is a good life choice.” He sighs, adjusts the books under his arm, gives the portal one last skeptical glance—and steps through.
The moment I step through the portal, the world folds.
Not violently—just enough to steal my breath. One heartbeat.Then another.
And we’re somewhere else.
Cool air brushes my skin. The scent of pine, damp moss, and ash settles thick in the clearing. I blink, the violet light dissolving behind us with a sound like wind retreating through stone.
We stand beneath a canopy of trees just beyond the capital’s eastern rise. Pale morning light filters through the branches. The air feels . . . different. Real. Tethered. No longer ancient and waiting, but present.
I turn, counting.
Thane. Valen. Rian. Jarek. Garrick. Lyra.
All of us made it.
Garrick steps through last, the edge of the portal folding closed behind him. His shoulders drop as the magics fades. Not from relief. From understanding.
Valen’s gaze sweeps over the group, sharp and measured. Then it settles on me—not with pride, but with something quieter. Something reverent.
“You did it,” he says softly. “You tore space. You wove the arc between points.” His voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t demand. It lands like truth.
I nod once, but my pulse stutters.
Beside me, Lyra stumbles slightly. Garrick is there in a breath, steadying her with one hand at her elbow, the other catching a scroll before it slips from her grip.
“I’m fine,” she mutters. But her voice is hoarse.
“You’re not,” Garrick replies, gently. No argument. Just fact.
