They set up camp beside the Heartwood, too exhausted to go any further. Even the forest seemed to approve, its whispers hushed, almost watchful.

  Ymir sat alone by the dying fire, his legs drawn up and head bowed. His body hurt more than he let on. Muscles ached with a cold fire. There were days when he couldn’t feel his heartbeat, only the echo of it, as if it were borrowed.

  Worse still, he heard voices, soft, distant, like shadows caught behind mirrors. They never spoke clearly. They showed him. Aurora bleeding, Aurora screaming, Aurora begging him to come back, and then falling, broken, when he turned away. He didn’t know if they were lies, or memories, or both.

  “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  Her voice. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

  “I’m always alone now.”

  Aurora knelt beside him, her hands warm as she touched his shoulder.

  “You’re not. Not anymore.”

  “You say that,” he muttered, his jaw tight, “but you didn’t see what I became.”

  “Then show me now,” she said softly.

  “Let me look. Let me see.”

  He turned his head slowly. Their eyes met, and what she saw broke her. Not because he was a monster, but because he looked so lost.

  “You were mine,” she whispered.

  “You are mine. I don’t care if you don’t remember the dance in the orchard. Or the way you used to make tea with too much honey. Or how you held me when I thought the world would fall.”

  Her voice broke. “But I remember. And I love you.”

  He flinched as she struck him with her words. How did she know just what he needed to hear when the world was too loud?

  “Don’t say that. You don’t know what I might become.”

  “Then let me carry the fear with you,” she said. “Let me fight for you.”

  His hands clenched. The pain in his chest flared again.

  “I’m not who I was. I can’t promise I’ll never hurt you. I don’t even know if love is something I can still feel.”

  Aurora leaned in, tears catching in the firelight.

  “Just tell me you want to be the man you were. That you still feel something, anything.”

  Silence, then a whisper.

  “When I hear your voice, the screams stop. I know when I look at you, I see the sunlight. It’s like a sunny day after storms. I don’t understand why I need to protect you; it sits there. Rooted deep in my chest.”

  She breathed, then kissed his forehead and said nothing more. They sat like that for a long time, two broken people in a forest that had forgotten the taste of light. For that moment, it was enough.

  ***

  The Witch pine Veil did not release its prey without blood.

  It began subtly, as they passed beyond the Heartwood. The trees thinned, the air grew warmer, and the moss underfoot grew brighter, like it had been kissed by something almost natural again. For a brief moment, the group dared to believe they were past the worst.

  Then the forest screamed. A cry unlike any creature with root or claw, a sound composed of sorrow and rage, a memory of pain sharpened into a blade.

  “Something’s coming,” Kegan said, already unsheathing his blade. “Something old.”

  The ground beneath their feet began to tremble. Vines, thick as a man’s arm, lashed out from beneath the soil, coiling and whipping toward the group with unnatural speed.

  Ymir reacted first, summoning his spear, Varnel’s Oath, which he had named it, from the Rift-mark etched into his palm. The weapon shimmered, silver with hints of flickering violet. The spear is half a foot taller than Ymir, forged from a smooth obsidian-colored alloy veined with threads of silver and violet.

  Its shaft is wrapped in worn leather. The spearhead itself is elegant and sharp, shaped like a long crescent leaf, almost Elven in design, but reinforced with angular Aetherial runes.

  Around the base of the blade, faint pulses of Rift light flicker, deep violet and eerie, remnants of the magic that kept the weapon tethered to Ymir across realms. It hums faintly in his hands now, like it remembers the pull of the Rift, even if Ymir no longer wants to.

  He was thankful to have the weapon, even if Kegan did give it to him. The spear itself was now a part of him. Channeling his own magic into it, changing it for his needs. He wasnt sure how he knew what to do to make it his, he just had. Now it was an extension of himself.

  He lunged forward, cleaving one of the vines in a clean, brutal arc.

  “Behind me!” he barked.

  Kegan stepped in the opposite direction as twin blades crafted from silver and bone appeared with a flick of his wrist, drawn in both hands.

  “I don’t take orders, ghost-boy.”

  Ymir glared at him, a flicker of Rift-light surging in his eyes.

  “And I don’t need your permission. Follow orders, coward!”

  Alora raised Gravebloom high, speaking a chant older than breath. A wall of necrotic mist surged outward, holding back the first wave of roots.

  “Less pissing contest, more survival!” She snapped.

  From the hollow roots ahead, it rose. A creature of bark and beast.

  It had once been a guardian, a treant or forest giant, perhaps, but now it was warped by time and exposure to the Rift. Its body was made up of tangled roots, shattered stone, and bones, with the skulls of animals and long-forgotten warriors embedded in its chest. At its core, a heart pulsed with Rift fire. Twisted and violet.

  Lili’s breath caught.

  “This was one of mine,” she whispered. “One of the Still root Guardians.”

  It charged. The earth split in its wake, and with a roar, it swung an arm formed of broken trees and spears of bone. Ymir met it with a forward leap, spear glowing. He struck hard, catching the beast in the shoulder. But the creature didn’t flinch. It turned, faster than expected, and backhanded Ymir across the clearing with a blow like thunder.

  He hit the ground hard. Rolled and snarled at the creature, blood dripping from a cut on his arm.

  Kegan didn’t hesitate. Blood and shadow magic coiled around him as he sprinted low and fast, sliding beneath a second swing. He sliced upward with both blades, one into the joint of the monster’s leg, the other arcing toward its throat.

  The creature recoiled, black sap spraying like blood. But it was not finished.

  It bellowed again. The forest moved. Roots shot up from the ground. Tree limbs cracked open, revealing eyes that weren’t eyes, just sockets of light and echo. Alora braced, arms wide.

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  “Hold the line!”

  Gravebloom pulsed, and a circle of ancestral souls rose around her, veiled figures of light and mourning, their hands joined. The barrier held, but only barely.

  Aurora knelt beside Ymir, healing magic already forming around her palms.

  “You’re bleeding,”

  “I’m fine!” Ymir snapped, jerking his arm away.

  His eyes glowed brighter now. The Rift still clung to him, and for a heartbeat, Aurora saw something else behind them.

  “You’re not!” she cried. “You’re not fine, don’t lie to me!”

  He stood, unsteady, and glared across the field toward Kegan, who was now engaging the creature alone.

  “He’s going to get himself killed.”

  “So go help him,” Aurora said, standing too. “ Together. Use your training! One soldier can't fight an army alone, remember?”

  Ymir hesitated. Then nodded and ran.

  Together, Ymir and Kegan converged on the beast, Ymir striking from high, Kegan from low. Where one cut, the other followed. They moved like a storm, wild, uncoordinated, but relentless. Kegan barked a curse in a forgotten tongue. Ymir answered with a howl.

  And the guardian staggered.

  Lili stepped forward, whip raised, cracking loudly as she caught the monster’s attention.

  “I am Lili DeepVine!” she cried. “Daughter of the Grove! Guardian of Root and Flame!”

  The creature paused. It heard her. The vines trembled. She stepped closer, hand extended. Wild, green threads of magic seeped from her hands. Her eyes flared golden as she spoke to it.

  “You are not his. You are not a weapon. You were made to protect.”

  The Rift-fire in its chest flared, then cracked. With a sound like thunder and grief, the guardian let out one final groan and fell to its knees.

  Kegan and Ymir stepped back, panting, covered in dirt and sap.

  Alora lowered her staff. Aurora exhaled, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

  Lili walked forward. She pressed her hand to the creature’s ruined core. Speaking softly to it, as a mother consoles a hurt child.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “Go home now. It's time to rest.”

  The roots curled inward. The light faded. And the Veil let go. Lili kneeled on the ground and wept. The pain it must have felt, the fear. Who would do this to such an incredible creature? She whispered a prayer for the creatures’ forgiveness.

  Alora walked up and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. The rift did this; we can fix it. It will be at peace.”

  Lili wiped her eyes and stood up to hug Alora around the middle.

  “Thank you,” she sobbed.

  “Um. You’re getting my cloak all gross. It’s okay now, there, there, Lili. Let’s take a deep breath and pull ourselves together.” Alora gently patted her head, trying to comfort her in an awkward moment, feeling unsure about how to handle the situation.

  Aurora threw her arms around the two women and wept. Alora looked at the men helplessly.

  “Women.” Ymir chuckled.

  “You need a hug, too, big guy?” Kegan laughed beside him.

  “You touch me, and I will run you through,” Ymir grumbled.

  Hours later, they stood at the forest’s edge. The air smelled cleaner. The light was real again.

  Far on the horizon, the capital city’s walls shimmered in the distance like a promise yet to be made. Aurora looked at Ymir and Kegan.

  “You both fought like idiots.”

  Ymir scoffed as Kegan smirked. “Then we’ve finally got something in common.”

  Lili stretched. “Well. If all Veil hikes come with existential crises and sap monsters, I’m going to need a much bigger flask.”

  They laughed. And walked on. Together.

  As they broke camp the next morning, Aurora reached into her pack for the Book of Tomes and stopped.

  A small shard had come loose from its covering. It shone in blue, a cold, constant flame that radiated light without burning. Ymir glanced at it and recoiled. Backing up slowly, away from the book.

  “What is that?” he asked, voice hollow.

  Aurora slowly tucked it away. “It’s something that has helped us. A book that seems to be giving us questions more than answers lately.”

  She glared at Kegan, handing him the small shard that had fallen off the book. Kegan stepped forward as she dropped it in his hand.

  “It wasnt ment to be a guide to the all-knowing. Just a… memoir of sorts. In case I forgot things in my old age.” He shrugged. “If you ask the right questions, it will give you the right answers.”

  “Or we can just torture you for the answers.” Lili quipped.

  “True, although I'm not sure where the shard came from. It could be a piece of mine when the others were formed. It seems odd that it would have been placed in the book; I don't remember putting it there.”

  Kegan opened his hand wide and let the light fall onto the shard. It wasn’t like the others, which almost shone brightly with light. It was dull. Lifeless, like the magic had escaped. The nearly transparent center showed a crack through the middle.

  “Maybe we should ask the all-knowing book.” Lili whispered

  “If I don’t know what it is, what makes you assume the book would?” Kegan sighed, placing the shard in a pocket.

  Lili and Alora exchanged a glance, but said nothing.

  The group didn’t speak for a while after the shard dimmed. The silence that followed wasn’t peace; it was the kind that presses against the lungs, heavy and expectant. The forest watched them go, its grief fading into memory as they crossed the last of the Veil’s roots.

  By the time the trees began to thin, the sun hung low and blood-orange on the horizon. The air was cooler here, touched by the scent of stone and river.

  They stopped at the edge of an overlook, the world unfurling below them, rolling plains streaked with silver streams, and far in the distance, Velmoura’s towers rising like pale fire against the dusk.

  Lili sank to the ground with a dramatic sigh. “Finally. Civilization. You think they have taverns that serve drinks stronger than despair?”

  Alora smirked faintly. “With you around, they’ll need to.”

  Aurora barely heard them. Her gaze lingered on Ymir, who stood apart from the others, half in shadow. The fading light painted the Rift-mark on his hand in shades of violet and blue. It pulsed faintly , once, twice , as though echoing an unseen heartbeat.

  She approached quietly. “You should rest before we descend.”

  He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on Velmoura, distant and unfocused. “That light,” he murmured. “It feels… wrong.”

  Aurora frowned. “The city lights?”

  He shook his head slowly. “No. The Shard’s. When it flared, I saw something. A place. A throne made of glass and bone. And someone sitting on it.”

  Her blood went cold. “Mol’therak?”

  Ymir hesitated. “No. Worse. Older.”

  Kegan’s voice cut through the air behind them. “Enough talk of shadows. We’re almost there, and if I don’t get real food soon, I’m eating Lili’s boots.”

  “Joke's on you,” Lili called, “they’re moss-lined and taste like victory.”

  Aurora smiled despite herself, the warmth of it barely masking her unease. She turned back to Ymir, but he had already started walking downhill, his spear slung across his back.

  Alora came up beside her, Gravebloom glowing faintly in the twilight. “He’s changing,” she said quietly.

  Aurora glanced at her. “You mean the Rift?”

  “I mean everything. His aura’s... fracturing. It’s not just sickness anymore. The Rift recognizes him. It wants him back.”

  Aurora’s throat tightened. “Then we make sure it doesn’t take him.”

  Alora looked at her, expression unreadable. “You can’t save what’s already half gone, Aurora. Not without cost.”

  Aurora didn’t respond. She only clutched her staff tighter, feeling the faint warmth of its healing crystal pulse against her palm.

  The wind shifted then, carrying the distant echo of bells, Velmoura’s gate towers, welcoming travelers and merchants. For the first time in weeks, the sound of civilization touched them. It should have been comforting.

  But none of them smiled.

  They descended in silence, the last light of the day bleeding away.

  Ymir’s shadow stretched long across the road, flickering faintly violet as if another figure walked beside him.

  They made camp on the final rise before the plains. Below them, Velmoura gleamed faintly in the starlight, the capital’s great walls stretching like a sleeping titan’s spine across the horizon.

  The fire burned low, its smoke curling upward and scattering against the wind. For the first time since the Veil, the night was quiet, just stillness.

  Kegan sat with his back to a stone, blades laid beside him. He stared into the flames, but his gaze wasn’t on the fire. It was distant, fixed on something only memory could see.

  Alora watched him from across the camp. “You feel it too,” she said quietly.

  He nodded once. “The air’s wrong. There’s power moving beneath the earth. Slow, but awake.”

  “The Rift?”

  “Or what came before it.”

  Aurora lay awake, her staff across her knees, its crystal dim but warm. Ymir slept nearby, his breathing uneven. Each time his chest rose, faint wisps of violet light threaded from his skin and sank into the ground. The earth seemed to drink it in.

  She brushed her fingers against his temple, whispering a prayer under her breath. The light faded, for now.

  On the edge of the camp, Lili stared out toward the distant city lights, chin resting on her knees. “Almost there,” she murmured. “If the world doesn’t end first.”

  A faint wind swept through the grass, gentle at first, then colder. The flames flickered, bending east.

  Kegan looked up sharply. His hand went to his blade.

  “What is it?” Alora asked.

  He didn’t answer. He just listened.

  Somewhere far beyond the hills, something shifted, a deep, rolling tremor that wasn’t thunder. The kind of sound that doesn’t echo so much as remember itself.

  The ground beneath them pulsed once, faintly. The Rift’s heartbeat.

  Aurora’s eyes snapped open. Across the fire, Ymir stirred, whispering a name in his sleep that none of them recognized.

  And for the first time since the field, Kegan felt it, a shadow stretching out from the north. Something vast. Something is coming.

  He exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling in his chest.

  “Velmoura won’t be ready.”

  No one spoke. The wind carried the scent of rain and something older, something waking.

  Far below, the bells of Velmoura rang again, faint and distant. Welcoming them.