Chapter 7 Elle
Elle
The smell of something burning dragged me from dreams of vines and violence.
“Shit, shit, shit—” Bryx’s voice carried across camp, followed by the distinct sound of wings beating frantically.
I groaned, every muscle protesting as I sat up.
My entire body ached from the journey here—days of riding giant bees and sleeping on the ground had left me feeling like someone had taken my bones out, put them back wrong, then decided to set them on fire for good measure.
The marks at my collarbones pulsed with a dull ache, like the world’s worst sunburn but under my skin.
The Sage had been right about passing the first threshold—it had bought me time.
Instead of hours until I lost myself completely, I now had days, maybe a week before the second threshold hit.
The transformation had slowed to a steady creep rather than a wildfire, though I could feel it eating away at my humanity with every heartbeat.
Outside my tent, the camp was already alive with morning activity.
The air hummed with the sound of a thousand tiny wings—not just Bryx’s bees, but the native insects of Wynmire that glowed faintly blue in the dawn light.
Vashael tended to her mobile garden—plants growing in containers made from hollowed gourds and woven root baskets, their leaves releasing a scent like jasmine mixed with copper.
Nimor flickered in and out of visibility near the perimeter, probably scouting or just enjoying making people nervous.
Eltrien sat cross-legged near the fire, grinding something in a mortar that sparkled like crushed stars, organizing his healing supplies with the kind of methodical precision that suggested he’d seen too much chaos to leave anything to chance.
And Bryx was definitely burning breakfast.
I emerged to find him frantically trying to salvage what looked like fungus cakes, now more charcoal than food. Kevin, his favorite bee, hovered nearby making disapproving buzzing sounds.
“I just looked away for one second,” Bryx protested to the bee.
“You were telling a story,” Sarnyx corrected from where she sat sharpening her thorns. “A long story. With hand gestures.”
“It was a good story!”
“Was it worth burnt breakfast?”
I made my way to the fire, trying not to limp. My ribs ached where I’d landed wrong during yesterday’s “controlled falling” exercise, which was the Sage’s fun way of saying “throw yourself at the ground and try to make plants catch you.”
“There’s porridge,” Eltrien offered, gesturing to a pot that looked significantly less destroyed. “And some preserved fruit Vashael found.”
“Thanks.” I accepted a bowl gratefully, settling onto a log that someone had dragged near the fire. The porridge was bland but filling, with chunks of something sweet that might have been fruit or might have been crystallized tree sap. At this point, I didn’t ask.
Kaelren stood at the edge of camp, his back to us, silver eyes scanning the forest. He hadn’t acknowledged my presence, which was pretty standard. What wasn’t standard was the way he kept flexing his left hand, the one where his carved marks were darkest.
He was in pain. I could tell by the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself. But asking if he was okay would probably result in him glaring at me until I spontaneously combusted from embarrassment, so I focused on my breakfast instead.
Stop staring at him, I told myself. He literally threatened to kill you three days ago. Multiple times. He’s probably cataloging your weaknesses right now, figuring out the most efficient way to end you when you inevitably lose control.
But damn it, even plotting my death, he was unfairly beautiful. The morning light caught in his dark hair, turned his pale skin to alabaster. His carved marks, visible through his shirt, created patterns that were horrifying and mesmerizing in equal measure.
Focus on not dying, not on how his jaw could cut glass.
“You’re brooding into your porridge,” Peeble observed, landing on my knee. “It’s not that bad.”
“I’m not brooding. I’m thinking.”
“About our fearless leader’s murderous tendencies or his cheekbones?”
I nearly choked. “What? Neither!”
“Liar.”
“I’m thinking about training,” I said firmly, though my face was definitely red. “The Sage said we’d work on shaping exercises today.”
“After what happened with the trees yesterday? You nearly pulled three of them down on us.”
“That was an accident.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘I wonder if I can make them dance.’”
“I didn’t think they’d actually try!”
The Sage appeared then, materializing from wherever mysterious mentors go when they’re not being cryptic. Today they looked more solid than usual, settling on the appearance of a middle-aged person with silver-streaked hair and eyes that held too much knowledge.
“Ready for your first real training?” they asked cheerfully.
“First? What do you call everything else that’s happened?”
“Survival. This is education.” They gestured to the cleared area near the camp. “Today we begin shaping your power properly.”
I stood, brushing crumbs from my clothes. The vine belt had curled itself more comfortably around my waist while I ate.
“Still adjusting to the new clothes?” Vashael asked, noticing my fidgeting.
“My belt just rearranged itself,” I said. “I know it’s supposed to be learning me or whatever, but it’s still weird.”
“Give it another few days. They settle eventually.”
They’d better. The first two days had been a nightmare of fabric that decided on its own when to tighten or loosen. I’d woken up the second morning practically mummified because the shirt thought I was cold. At least now the clothes were getting the hint about personal space.
Other things I’d gotten used to: bathing in freezing streams while keeping one eye out for the water beetles that Vashael swore were “mostly harmless.” The soap concentrate she’d given me that first day worked miracles but smelled like crushed flowers and regret.
Eltrien had taught me how to heat water using smooth stones from the fire, which had made everything infinitely more bearable.
And the bathroom situation—well. I’d learned which trees provided the most privacy and which plants were polite enough to look away.
A low bar for civilization, but I’d stopped being precious about it after day two when something with too many legs had scared me mid-squat.
Sarnyx had laughed for ten minutes straight.
Julian would have had a breakdown by now, I thought, watching the crew go about their morning routines with the casual efficiency of people who’d been living rough for years.
He’d have demanded a hotel, proper plumbing, a shower with good water pressure.
Would’ve been on the first metaphysical bus back to Earth.
The thought didn’t sting as much as it used to.
“Everything here lives,” Vashael said, apparently reading my expression. “The clothes, the trees, even the water sometimes. You’re doing well, adjusting to it.”
“Weird beats dead, right?”
“Exactly right.”
As I walked to the training area, I caught Kaelren watching me. His expression was cold, calculating. Probably noting how the marks had spread slightly overnight, determining how many more days before he’d need to follow through on his promise to Josephine.
“Focus,” the Sage said, drawing my attention back. “The Root responds to emotion, but it’s controlled by will. Yesterday you shouted. Today, you’ll whisper.”
“How exactly does one whisper to an ancient magical force?”
“The same way you’d whisper to a lover—with intention and delicacy.”
“Wouldn’t know. My ex thought whispering was weird unless it was criticism about my life choices.”
The Sage tilted their head. “Interesting baggage. We’ll unpack that never. Now, start small. A single flower. Call it into being gently.”
They gestured to the cleared training ground—a circle of packed earth surrounded by ancient stones that hummed with residual magic from countless exercises before mine.
The crew had drifted to the edges, settling in to watch.
Bryx perched on Kevin’s back. Sarnyx leaned against a tree, already looking bored.
Eltrien stood ready with his healing supplies, which was never a good sign.
Even Kaelren had positioned himself within striking distance, arms crossed, face expressionless.
No pressure at all.
I moved to the center of the circle, feeling the weight of their attention.
The ground here was different—softer, more receptive, like it had been waiting for someone to ask it to grow.
I knelt, placing my palm on the earth. The marks at my collarbones warmed immediately, spreading heat down my arms. I could feel the Root beneath, vast and patient and eager.
It wanted to explode upward, to transform everything into green chaos.
No, I thought. Just one. Just a small one.
The power pushed against my control like a dam about to burst.
“Breathe,” the Sage instructed. “The Root follows breath. In for control, out for release.”
I breathed. In, holding the power. Out, releasing just a thread of it.
A tiny shoot pushed through the soil. Then another. Then fifty.
“Too many,” the Sage said mildly.
“I noticed.” I tried to pull the power back, but the shoots kept growing, becoming stems, budding with flowers that shouldn’t exist—blue roses, pale luminous daisies, something that shimmered with its own inner radiance.
“Control it.” Kaelren’s voice, sharp as a blade. “Or I will.”
Right. Because if I lost control, ending me was his job. No pressure.
“I’ve got it,” I said through gritted teeth, though I definitely didn’t have it.
The flowers kept blooming, spreading in a circle around me. Some of them were starting to move, turning to track the sun like time-lapse footage on fast forward.
“You’re fighting it,” the Sage observed. “Stop fighting. Guide.”
“That’s not helpful!”
“Most truth isn’t.”