His gaze drifted to the dossier on the table—reports on Gessa.
She was such a rare specimen. The unique quality of her bloodline was a genetic marvel, the perfect catalyst to stabilize his own family’s potent, but non-magical, lineage. She was not merely a wife; she was the vessel for the next generation of House Volanus.
But she had been corrupted. She needed to be stripped of these new, chaotic delusions. She needed to understand that her purpose was not to think, or to fight, or to choose. Her purpose was to endure. To carry his line.
He took a last sip of wine. He would break the Spur and reclaim his wife. It would be a messy afternoon, certainly, but history was rarely written without a little blood.
35
THE HUNTER'S PACE
The hunter that awoke in the ravine was a creature of pure, cold focus. For a single, blinding moment, the raw agony of Night’s capture threatened to tear him apart. The bond remained—a frayed wire humming with distant pain and fear.
He isn’t dead.
The thought was a lifeline, the only thing that kept him from drowning. And right behind it came the immediate, sickening horror of the alternative: caged, in the hands of men who used cold iron on Ley Lines and living things. The images that flooded his mind, of Night’s pain, his confusion, his proud spirit trapped in a cage, were a poison he could not allow himself to feel.
So he packed it all away into a box in his mind and locked it. Grief was a luxury. Fear was a liability. All that remained was the mission.
He rose with the grim efficiency of a man long accustomed to forcing a broken body to obey. His eyes swept the scene one last time. Wagon ruts, deep and heavy. At least six men, judging by the tracks. They had been sloppy in their initial trap, confident. An arrogance he would make them pay for. The trail led south.
“Ky.”
Gessa’s voice was a soft intrusion into his narrowed world. He had almost forgotten she was there.
“We need our packs,” she said, her tone quiet but firm. “We need the supplies from the cache if we’re going to track them.”
He looked at her. She was right, of course. The hunter in him would have simply started walking, following the tracks until he dropped. He gave a curt nod, the only acknowledgment he could manage, and they turned back toward their abandoned camp.
The first day of the hunt was a lesson in frustration. The pain in his leg was background noise compared to the void where Night should be. It was a cold spot in his soul, a constant reminder of his failure. He was aware of Gessa at his side, a steady, silent presence. She kept pace, never complaining, pressing rations into his hand, knowing he wouldn’t eat otherwise..
She moved well. Professional. She was his partner, hardened by the trail. The realization should have brought him warmth, but instead, it was a deeper ache. Every competent move she made highlighted the danger he was leading her into. The thought was a cold weight in his gut.
Late in the afternoon, the wagon tracks vanished. Ky stood at the edge of a wide, shallow stream, his eyes scanning the far bank. Nothing. Just a field of hard, windswept rock for a quarter of a mile in every direction. He let out a low, frustrated curse.
“They drove the wagon through the water to wash the mud from the wheels,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Then used the rock to hide their tracks. It’s a classic tactic.”
Gessa came to stand beside him, her gaze following his. “So we’re blind.”
“Not blind. Just slowed.” He turned to her, his focus absolute. “They’ll have returned to softer ground eventually. I’ll take downstream. You go upstream. Cast out in wide, sweepingcircles. Look for a single broken branch, a displaced stone, anything. The slightest sign.”
She didn’t question him. She nodded, her expression as grim and determined as his own, and turned her horse.
The search cost them. Their methodical, casting hunt took three agonizing hours of fading daylight before he finally found it: a single, faint rut in a patch of soft dirt where the wagon had rejoined the forest, nearly a mile downstream from where they’d lost the trail. The delay was infuriating.
They made a cold camp as true darkness fell, not daring to risk a fire. They ate their rations in a tense, shared silence. When Gessa finally fell into an exhausted sleep, Ky took the first watch, his back against a cold stone. The silence of the woods felt different tonight, not peaceful, but empty. Every rustle of leaves, every distant snap of a twig, was magnified. The only predator on watch was him.
On the second day, he was so focused on the wagon ruts that he almost missed it. “Ky, wait!” Gessa’s voice was a whisper. He froze, his gaze snapping to her. She was pointing with her chin to a spot just ahead of his horse’s hooves. A tripwire, made of tough vine, stretched ankle-high and nearly invisible against the dirt. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Her eyes were getting sharp.
A moment later, his own instincts screamed, and he stopped her before she crossed a muddy creek. He knelt, probing the muck with the tip of his knife, and unearthed a series of sharpened wooden stakes, perfectly placed to lame a horse. He met her gaze over the creek, and a silent understanding passed between them. After that, their progress slowed to a painstaking crawl, his eyes scanning every inch of the ground ahead. Each step was a battle of nerves.
By the end of that second day, the wagon tracks, which they had followed relentlessly, veered from the main path, headingtoward a series of scrub-covered hills. Ky knew the area from old survey charts. The Glimmering Deeps. An old, depleted silver mine, notorious in its day for the way it twisted the Ley Lines into an unstable, dangerous tangle.
As they drew closer to the hills, Ky felt the familiar song of a nearby Ley Line begin to change. The clear note frayed, becoming discordant, like a string pulled painfully tight.
“The Line is struggling,” he said, his voice a low warning. “Something nearby is poisoning it.”
Gessa’s face had gone pale, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere ahead of them. She nodded slowly. “I feel it, too,” she whispered, and a shiver ran through her. “Theotherpart. The quiet.”
