Rynna’s throat tightened. She didn’t know if therewouldbe a later. Not for her. With them. But she’d claw one out of the ashes if she had to, even if it meant tearing herself loose from the Weaving itself.
She squeezed his hand back. “Right.”
For a moment, none of them spoke. The silence stretched—not heavy like before, but tentative, fragile. One by one, their eyes moved across the circle: Fenn's steady gaze met Rynna’s, Taren glanced between Bran and Kaelith, and Elara’s grip on Bran’s arm hadn’t eased. They were bound by more than just mission or necessity—blood, history, grief, and something like hope held them tight.
Below them, the Phoenix shifted, feathers rustling as her talons scraped against stone. The sound cracked through the stillness, grounding them, and Rynna exhaled, the ache within loosening just enough for the moment to move forward.
Taren cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the hush. “You sure you can direct the Waygate to the lost continent?”
Rynna swallowed, then gave a single nod. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“And you know what to look for?” His attention shifted to Kaelith.
Kaelith pursed his lips, drawing the ridge of his thumb along his jaw. “Hard to say. You’ve only described it twenty times. Maybe hearing it once more will improve my chances of remembering.”
Taren took a step forward, blue sparks dancing in his eyes. Before he could speak, though, or fry Kaelith to a crisp, Bran’s hand came down gently on his shoulder.
Taren froze, the light dimming. He flexed his fist once, exhaling slowly. “This isn’t a joke.”
Kaelith lifted a hand in a lazy wave. “I’m the one who taught you how to locate and open primal shrines, remember?” He tilted his head toward Fenn. “Between the wolf and me, we’ve got enough pre-Source blood to trigger whatever seal’s in place—if your hypothesis is right.” He shrugged. “If not, Rynna will knock the door down.”
“Sure,” Rynna muttered, glancing between them. “Why not.”
Taren—the closest thing this world had to a grandmaster wizard—was convinced the key to unraveling the barrier lay behind an ancient seal on one of the lost continents. Onehecouldn’t break.
Right. She snorted, an image slipping uninvited into her mind: Taren in long, flowing robes, staff in hand, wild-eyed as he proclaimed himself “the great enchanter Tim!” while random explosions went off behind him.
All eyes snapped to her.
Heat flushed her cheeks. “Earth joke. Never mind.”
They stared at her, eyes wide, until Fenn coughed.
“And you three will connect with the Wardens. Organize a withdrawal of all civilians in the path of the dead. Protect the Reaches.”
“Protecteveryone,” Taren cut in. “Not just the Reaches.”
“Of course.” Fenn dipped his head.
“Even if I have to strangle every Warden to do it.” Taren’s jaw locked, shoulders squared, the light in his eyes flaring brighter for a heartbeat.
“The Wardens are the Reaches’ strongest Hollow-born,” Fenn replied evenly. “Having them fight beside you instead of against you would be the wiser course.”
Taren flexed his fist once, exhaling through his nose. “I will do whatever is necessary.”
“Takara will agree,” Fenn interjected. “Get her on your side, and you won’t have to strangle the others.” A hint of fang flashed behind his smile. “Trust me.”
Taren’s expression shifted—eyes narrowing, lips pressed thin—as the thought settled in. “Very well.”
Her gaze swept the circle—Fenn, Kaelith, Bran, Elara, Taren. They had only just found each other again, and already the Weaving was scattering them to different fronts.
Then Elara stepped out from behind Bran, and without a word, she drew Rynna and the others of Fang Unit into her arms.
“Don’t die out there.” She held them together, looking to Rynna. “Any of you.”
Rynna pressed her forehead to Elara’s.
“But,” Taren broke in, voice dry, “if youhaveto sacrifice one of them, you know who I’d pick.”
