The once-vibrant grass blackens and disintegrates, crumbling to dust beneath my feet. Fiery-red flowers wither in seconds, petals curling inward, then falling like brittle husks. The trees at the clearing’s edge groan, their bark splitting open, revealing twisted, gnarled wood. Leaves shrivel and turn to ash.
My knees buckle and I collapse, fingers digging into the deadened earth. Tears well in my eyes.
A sick, hollow feeling sinks deep into my bones as I stare at the devastation I have wrought. My breath comes in ragged gasps as my magic retreats inside. The world around me is silent. Still.
Dead.
And as I kneel in the wasteland I have created, a single, gut-wrenching thought takes root.
Maybe this is all I am good for. Death and destruction.
The open carriage jolts, its wheels crunching over the gravel road as I grip the edge of the seat to steady myself. It’s been hours since Kaelzar abandoned me, but no matter how long I wanted to wait for him, the Spectra Judicium wasn’t going to wait for me.
So I forced myself to change into a white tunic cinched with a leather corset and brown training pants, the kind Seraphina often wears on her outings, paired with gloves, and dragged myself into the carriage.
Now, as the forest road stretches ahead, I try to steady my breathing, but the memory of the meadow clings stubbornly to my mind—the spreading rot, the hollow stillness it left behind. I close my eyes and let the wind cradle my face, as if the air itself could wash away what I did there.
My magic, coiled quietly around my core once more, hums with satisfaction, its release leaving behind a languid energy. For now, it recedes, and something new sits behind it: Blood magic, warm and full where there was nothing before. Whatever creatures Decay consumed have been transmuted into this branch of my power. I try not to think of the rabbit that fled only minutes before my magic escaped, or the other animals from that ruined meadow.
And it’s unsettlingly easier than it should be, to push the thought of their deaths aside when I never saw their faces. As if the absence of eyes, of witnessing their fear in those final moments, makes the guilt quieter. Almost bearable.
Almost.
I should be relieved that I am no longer at Decay’s mercy, but instead, a panicked unease settles over me.
The carriage jolts again, and I snap my eyes open. This driver is young, maybe a year or two younger than me, and clearly new to his post. He keeps glancing back over his shoulder, stealing quick looks at me with a mix of curiosity and unease. It’s a miracle we haven’t collided with a cart of turnips, given how often he forgets to watch the road.
The third time he glances back, something about him snags in my mind. The slope of his shoulders. The nervous set of his mouth. Familiar. And then he turns fully.
“It was admirable, what you did,” he says, voice tentative but sincere. “When we stopped on the way to the lashing. None of the ladies ever tries to talk back to their duenna like that. But you… you did.”
The memory comes rushing in—Peonica’s reprimand, the blooming bones, my sudden need to do something defiant. He was there. My driver that day, too. The first witness to my breaking point.
I let out a huff of a laugh. “Little good it did me.” I tap a gloved finger to the red thread woven through my white hair.
Behind us, the sound of hooves draws closer.
Ryker’s guards trail on horseback, their stone armor clinking softly. They say nothing, but I feel the weight of their presence, close and watchful, with every turn of the wheels. Every step I take is no longer my own.
“Thank you for taking me,” I say, offering a gracious smile now that I no longer resemble a wild beast, barking orders with desperate eyes as I had when I stormed into the stables.
“It’s not like I had a choice,” he mutters.
My eyebrows arch at his insolence, expecting a hurried apology.
None comes. Instead, he shrugs, his back still to me, and continues, unbothered. “At least I’ll have a story to tell my friends. You won’t rot me, will you?”
I blink, thrown by the bluntness of the question. “No,” I say after a beat. “I will not.”
“Good. Because I really don’t have time for that,” he says, nudginghis horses as we round a corner. “I’m almost done saving up for my adventure, you know. It’s going to be epic.”
There’s something about the conviction in his voice that makes me ask the question. “What adventure?”
He glances back with a grin, eyes bright. “I’m going to hunt for a dragon egg.”
Of all the answers I might have expected, that wasn’t one of them. But the sheer earnestness of it snaps me out of the quiet desperation that’s been creeping closer with every passing minute. “You know where to find them?” I ask, genuine curiosity slipping into my voice, as if for a heartbeat I almost believe such a thing might still be possible.
“Not yet.” He gives me a mock-serious look. “But I will.”
