“Exactly.” I tap the map. “That’s why we don’t take the open ground. We use the smugglers’ tunnels.”
Seren hums, rifling through parchment and notes. “The old passages under the cliff side? Are they still intact?”
“Barely,” Merrik grunts. “They twist under The Joining, popping up on The Wastes’ side. Used to be prime for contraband runs, but not many dare it now. Our rebels are the only ones game enough to attempt it.”
Elyssara’s eyes flick to me, skeptical. “And the horses?”
“I’ll cloak them with Shadowweave. Keep them above ground, hidden.” I don’t say how draining that’ll be. No need to worry them about the risk. “They’ll be waiting on the other side.”
Therion shakes his head, jaw tight. “You’re going to burn through your magic. That cloak’s going to drain you before we’re even halfway through.”
“I’ll manage,” I say with a finality that kills any further debate.
But Elyssara’s sharp gaze lingers on me like she sees right through the lie. “Why can’t we just cross with the horses? Can’t you cloak us all like you did in The Barrier District?”
I wish I could. “Duskae, your magic was bound and barely traceable then. If you walk amongst Bloodbonds and Aetherstrides, it won’t matter if you’re cloaked or not—they’ll feel you.”
She huffs in frustration.
“We move fast,” I continue. “The tunnels aren’t wide, and they’re not forgiving. We hit the exit before the Royal Guard realizes we’ve slipped under them.”
“And if they already know?” Jax’s question lands heavy.
A beat of silence.
“Then we deal with them,” my words a promise.
Elyssara blows out a breath, her knuckles pale against the edge of the table. “Of course we do.”
The plan’s in motion fast. The horses are saddled, shadows creeping around them like thin smoke as my magic wraps tight. It takes effort—more than I let on—but I hold the cloak steady.
We ride for hours in tight formation toward The Joining. The path grows harsher with every mile, the ground turning from dirt to cracked stone, brittle under hoof.
No guards. No patrols. Just silence.
It scratches at me like sandpaper—too clean. Too easy.
“Still no sign of them,” Therion mutters, eyes scanning the horizon. “Not a godsdamned soul.”
“They’re waiting somewhere,” Merrik agrees, his hand never straying far from his sword. “I can feel it.”
The Joining unfolds before us—massive, raw, and brutal—but we stay back a healthy distance to not be detected.
The stretch of land between The Shadow Wastes and Dravara is wide, flat, and savage—an open scar across the realm.
Nothing grows here.
No trees. No grass. Just churned-up earth, riddled with scars of old battles. Bones still litter the ground, half-buried, bleached white against the blood-stained soil—remnants of the countless lives lost in the wars that made this place infamous.
The Wastes to the east—harsh, jagged, windswept.
Dravara to the west—lush but oppressed and poisoned by the rot of its king.
And this? The Joining is the cracked, bleeding vein between them.
The Joining is held by soldiers raised on bloodshed—men who’ve known nothing but killing, hate, and orders from kings they’ll never meet. Separated only by dry, flat land—neutral territory that waits hungrily for the next bloodbath. They’ve been held here at the center of our lands, fighting battles for kings in untouchable towers, who wouldn’t spare them a second thought.
Merrik points to a slope that curves down toward the cliff side. “Smugglers’ tunnels run under there. We slip in, avoid the open field.”
