More voices join her.
The warriors slam their staffs against the earth, sending shockwaves of sound through the air.
“Zhari! Zhari! Zhari!”
The chant.
The same one that traveled on the wind before we arrived.
The same one that had settled into my bones, wrapped around my skin like a calling.
I feel it now—a hum beneath my ribs, a pulse that does not belong to me.
My mind fights it.
But my body?—
My bodyrespondsto it.
A force older than my own will sings inside me, resonating with the deep, rhythmic chant. It knows what I refuse to accept.
That it is mine.
That it is for me.
I don’t realize my hands are trembling until Seren turns to me, her eyes wide with something between awe and certainty.
Slowly, she presses a hand over her heart, and when she speaks, it is barely above a whisper.
“Queen.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ELYSSARA
Syphra and a handfulof her most trusted warriors lead us towards Skaedor’s Crest with evident knowledge of every inch of the ascent. They’re sure-footed and powerful, never tiring despite the steep and arduous terrain. I allow myself the respite of leaning back into Kael’s sturdy chest—despite knowing that every time I acquiesce to my desire for his embrace, I make my own path harder—and stare blankly into the vast distance.
My mind is racing with thoughts of the Vaythari, their kin, my role, the prophecy, not to mention the Astral Compass that is mere hours ahead of us. I cannot even begin to imagine that there is a secret left within me that I have not yet faced. I shudder to think of what the heavens will whisper to me.
The Vaythari appear unfazed by the thick snow that coats the narrow, undulating track. Their heavy, snow-hardened boots slosh through the inches-deep icy mush that would see anyone else fall face-first.
Syphra’s gaze drifts to me frequently, but she bows quickly in deference every time I meet her gaze. It’s unnerving and dense, but we manage to settle into a steady rhythm, and I take the moment to admire the beauty of this gleaming white land.
Skaedor’s Ascent is a treacherous, unforgiving climb that carves through the heart of the mountains separating Dravara from The Shadow Wastes. A jagged spine of ancient stone, it rises in tiers of sheer cliffs and ice-laden ridges, each step a battle against nature’s cruelty. The path is scarcely more than a crumbling ledge, winding upward along cliffs that plunge into mist-filled chasms below. Winds howl through the ravines, carrying the cries of distant predators and the eerie whistle of air funneled through unseen fissures in the rock.
The ascent itself is a gauntlet of elements and endurance. At lower altitudes, skeletal trees claw at the sky, their twisted branches blackened by perpetual frost bite. Higher still, the air turns razor-thin, biting with an unforgiving chill that sinks into bone and flesh. Ice sheets coat the rock, forcing the sheer faces to become a certain merciless fall for anyone who would dare risk the climb. Kael tells me that the mountain itself resents those who dare its slopes, shifting stone and summoning storms to repel the unworthy. The fact we are still here is somewhat comforting, I suppose.
The howls move closer, echoing off the sheer faces and reverberating through my body.
Okay, not the wind then.
Syphra and her warriors appear calm despite the howls sounding as if they are only a handful of heartbeats away, coming from every direction, and descending on us quickly. I look at her repeatedly, as if expecting her to realize the imminent arrival of a mighty snow beast and taking up a fighting stance. Syphra does no such thing and simply raises her hand. Her eyes close, and her warriors stop, following her silent command. “Velmara,” she breathes the words with reverence, eyes softening into something akin to tenderness.
Our eyes dart between each other looking for an explanation. “Velmara?” I ask Seren, hoping she can elucidate whatever is taking place.
“The Shadow Lynx,” Seren’s voice is enchanted, and her eyes widen in awe as the silken night-black fur of a pair of shadow lynxes ripples under the setting sun as they gracefully prowl toward thewarriors, a staggering contrast to the pristine white of the mountains.
In unison, Syphra and her warriors drop to one knee in the snow, and place one hand over their hearts. With her other hand, Syphra reaches down to grab a stick, quickly scribbling a series of symbols in the snow.
