Chapter Forty-Two · The Root-Born Boat

The wind struck them hard the moment they crossed.

Lyra’s breath had not steadied yet.

Then the sky over Drazhune went black.

Not night. Something worse.

No stars. No horizon.

Mountains rose in the distance, jagged and immense. Against them, Lyra felt suddenly, sharply small.

“Where do we go now?” Sion asked, tugging at her arm.

Lyra drew in a slow breath and forced it to settle.

“Water,” she said. “If there’s a river, we follow it. It will lead somewhere.”

“The horse?”

Lyra shook her head.

“It’s gone.”

Sion’s stomach growled. She blinked, then fumbled in her pocket and pulled out the dark bread, breaking it in half before handing one piece over.

They moved along the mountainside, eating as they went.

Lyra stopped.

“What is it?” Sion asked.

Lyra raised her left hand slightly.

“I hear something. It’s coming.”

Her head tilted as she listened.

Then she turned.

Her eyes widened.

“High Lord.”

He sat astride a massive wolf. Behind him, a pack spread across the ridge, fangs bared, saliva hanging in thick strands.

The air tightened.

“Clever,” he said, his voice smooth in a way that felt wrong. “You survived the trials of my ancestors.”

A twitch ran through his shoulders. A laugh followed, uneven.

“But I’m not done being entertained.”

Lyra did not answer. Her grip tightened around Sion’s hand.

The wolves stepped forward.

One step. Then another.

The High Lord lifted his hand.

Fire erupted, violet and violent, closing around them in a ring.

Wind surged. Flames snapped and lunged.

Sion flinched. “He’s going to burn us alive.”

Lyra’s gaze swept across the fire, searching.

A gap. A weakness.

Blue smoke bled from the High Lord’s body, thickening as he raised both hands. It gathered, coiling, pressing against the air.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Be afraid. It’s exquisite.”

Then, almost idly, he flicked his fingers.

“My children,” he said. “Hunt.”

The wolves lunged.

Sion gasped, but before she could turn, Lyra was already pulling her.

“Run.”

They broke through the flames.

Heat tore at their cloaks, biting, catching.

“Take them off.”

They yanked the cords free. The cloaks ripped loose and flew back into the fire, vanishing in the wind.

Behind them, the wolves lunged, closing the distance.

Ahead, nothing.

A cliff.

She didn’t know if there was a way out.

But staying meant death.

Or worse.

There was no time to think.

“Jump.”

She dragged Sion with her.

The ground vanished beneath their feet.

They fell.

Sion’s scream tore through the air above them.

The wind ripped the breath from Lyra’s chest.

No ground. No time. No past or future.

Only the drop.

Above, at the edge of the cliff, the wolves skidded to a halt.

The High Lord stared.

For a moment, there was a flicker of surprise.

He had not expected that.

Below, he imagined broken bodies, bone and blood against stone.

A dull, wasted end.

His lip curled.

“How disappointing.”

He turned away, already losing interest.

“Let’s go.”

The wolves melted back into the dark.

The mountain fell silent.

After a while. No one knew how long.

Breathing returned. Shallow. Ragged.

“Did we just fall into hell?”

Sion’s voice came out hoarse, breaking in the dark.

That same feeling again.

Trapped. No way out.

Arms wrapped around her. Familiar. Too tight.

Her chest could not fully expand.

Her body curled in on itself.

Just like the mine collapse.

“Lyra.”

“Sion.”

“We’re still alive.”

The words were quiet, forced past her throat.

Sion fumbled around. There wasn’t enough space. Even moving felt difficult.

She worked a hand into the bag pinned tight between them.

Fumbling, she pulled out a Lume stone.

“The new one. Bought it with my bonus in Gemariel.”

Light flared.

The space took shape.

Sion held her breath.

Roots. Everywhere.

They pushed out from the mountain’s core, weaving over and through each other, pressed tight against their bodies.

Close enough to choke.

Sion tried to move.

Couldn’t.

The roots tightened, just a fraction.

“What is this?” she asked, her voice dropping.

Lyra shifted. Barely.

Her leg was numb, sharp with pain where her sword was jammed against it.

She looked at the roots. Lume-light caught in her eyes.

“We survived because of you.”

Sion froze.

“…What?”

“Back in the mine… the roots came for us.

In Aulith, the fields turned green again.

That wasn’t random.”

Lyra met Sion’s eyes.

“You can trigger plant magic. I wasn’t sure before.”

A breath.

“Now I am.”

“Really?”

“Try it.”

Sion hesitated, then pressed both hands against the nearest root.

“Focus,” Lyra said quietly. “Tell it what you want.”

Sion nodded. She closed her eyes.

The roots shifted.

Slow at first. Then more.

They loosened, lowering.

Not dropping. Guiding.

Lyra felt it then.

The roots were carrying them deeper into the chasm.

Down. Farther.

Then...

A splash.

Cold water surged around them.

A river.

Sion’s eyes snapped open, bright.

“I did it.”

Lyra pulled her into a tight embrace.

A breath.

“We have a way out.”

Sion’s hand tightened around the root.

The fibers shifted. Slow at first. Then faster.

They wove together, curling inward, closing.

A small vessel took shape around them.

Covered. Rounded. Close.

“Take us out of here.”

The roots pulled free from the mountain’s core.

Not torn loose. Released.

The vessel lowered onto the water.

Then drifted.

The current carried them, quiet and steady, toward somewhere unknown.

Lyra lay beside Sion, one arm draped over her eyes.

Drazhune had not used chains to hold them.

It had used grief.

Lyra could still feel it, the way that place had reached for the part of her that hurt most.

A person in pain could be led so easily, if someone knew where to touch.

She would have to remember that.

Silence.

Everything that had just happened still spun in her head.

No more map fragments.

No answers.

Only a path ahead. And they were being carried along it.