The farther we went, the more the road felt like it was changing beneath us. Not crumbling. Shifting. As if the forest wanted to shake us off.
The path buckled in places, roots pushing through like the earth was rejecting them. One of the wheels hit something solid, and the sound that followed wasn’t wood or rock—it was brittle. Splintering. Like a bone snapping under pressure.
Mother’s hands still gripped the dagger, bloodless and rigid.
“We’re almost there,” she murmured, again and again, as if saying it could make it true. As if anything could.
A sudden shriek split the air and theokhèmajolted hard to the left.
I crashed into the wall with a grunt, catching myself before I could hit the floor. The wheels skidded, wood grinding against stone and dirt. Dust blasted in through the window as it cracked, stinging my eyes, clogging my throat.
“Grigorios!” someone shouted—then there was another scream, abrupt, like whatever it was had been ripped in half.
We lurched to a stop.
“Mother—” I pushed myself upright, heart hammering as the silence that followed pressed in like a second skin.
She was already moving. Her dagger gleamed in her grip, clenched tight and ready.
“Stay inside,” she growled.
“No—” I scrambled after her as she flung open the door, hinges creaking like something ancient waking from sleep.
Our driver, Grigorios, was crouched beside the lead jergin, his hands slick with blood as he pressed them to the creature’s massive, scaled foot. Two other servants flanked him, whispering panicked prayers to Apollo or Zeus or any of the other gods who could no longer hear them. Blood welled in thick rivulets from a jagged gash near the claw.
“Metrokoites!”Grigorios swore as he wiped a streak of it away with his sleeve, then stood, his sandals grinding into the red earth as he turned toward us.
“She’s cut deep,” he said breathlessly, gesturing to the torn flesh. “Something on the road, stone or bone, maybe. She won’t pull us another step tonight.”
“No,” I breathed.
Tomorrow. The Trials started tomorrow. I wasn’t supposed to be stuck here—in the fading light, on the wrong side of the trees with blood in the dust. I was supposed to be at the Obsidian Citadel.
Mother said nothing. She just stared.
Not at Grigorios. Not at the blood-soaked earth. But past them … down the crooked road ahead, and then to the trees. Her grip on the dagger didn’t ease. If anything, her fingers curled tighter around the hilt.
I turned to where she was looking. Nothing moved. There was just shadows and twisted branches, the forest crouched and watching. The road had vanished into the dark.
“We’re close,” she said finally. But her voice had no weight. “But it might as well be leagues if it can’t walk.”
“I can go on foot,” I said. “Ihaveto—”
“Don’t be a fool,” Mother snapped. “We wouldn’t make it to the trees, let alonethroughthem.”
“But—”
“Enough.”
The word cracked like a whip. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed her. She turned from me and stalked toward Grigorios, who had knelt back down on the blood-soaked dust beside the jergin’s mangled foot. “Can you help her?” she asked. “Can she be healed?”
Grigorios pressed another cloth to the wound, inspecting the torn flesh with a frown. “I can sew it shut,” he said at last. “Wrap it in poultice. With luck and rest, she’ll carry us by dawn.”
I let out a breath. Not one of relief, exactly. But at least something a little less sharp.
My mother glanced at me. “We’ll lose the night of preparation, but we can still make it in time. It will be fine.”
I nodded, praying she was right.
