Chapter 007 Resonance
I woke up feeling like I'd been folded in half and stored in a glove compartment.
My spine clicked in three different places as I sat up. The air inside the tent was cold, smelling of damp canvas and something acrid, like burnt hair. I rubbed my face. The skin on my arms felt tight, itchy. Not a rash-itchy, but a *growing* itchy. Like when you were a kid and your shins ached because your bones were stretching faster than the rest of you could keep up.
"It is burnt," a small, tinny voice said from the pillow next to me.
I looked down. Glimm was polishing his carapace with one leg.
"Good morning to you too," I croaked. My throat felt sandpapered.
"Xyl is attempting culinary chemistry," the beetle said. "The results are aggression."
I crawled out of the tent. The campsite was a cluster of canvas and woven vines tucked into a depression in the landscape, shielded by massive, Spirited Away-style boulders. The sky overhead was a bruised purple, transitioning into the morning's gray.
The source of the burnt-hair smell was Xyl. The little fae was battling a skillet over a low, green-flamed fire. He was yelling at a giant bumblebee the size of a football.
"Barnaby! No! Do not pollinate the eggs! They are for eating!"
Barnaby buzzed aggressively, his fuzzy butt bobbing as he tried to land on the skillet.
"Breakfast?" I asked, limping over. I wasn't wearing shoes. The dirt felt good under my feet-cool, packed, alive. Better than a memory foam mattress. That was a weird thought.
"Scramble," Xyl announced proudly. He pointed a skinny finger at a lump of gray-black matter in the pan. "Fungus cakes. High protein. Very crunch."
"Thanks, Xyl." I took the wooden plate he shoved at me. It smelled like charred socks. My stomach growled anyway. I was starving. Since the grove, since the 'First Threshold' or whatever the Chronicler called it, I felt like a bottomless pit.
I sat on a log, choked down a forkful of charcoal sponge, and looked around.
Vorn was sharpening an axe that looked heavy enough to decapitate a Buick. Sylith was sorting dried herbs into pouches, humming a tune that sounded like wind through icicles. And Thalren was standing at the perimeter.
He was facing away from the camp, looking out into the mist of Fenwood. His black coat hung heavy on his frame. He wasn't moving, but he wasn't relaxed. He stood with the rigid tension of a suspension bridge in high winds.
I watched runnels of black corruption pulse faintly along the back of his neck, disappearing into his collar. He flexed his left hand-the one with the carved runes-and then clenched it into a fist, as if testing the range of motion.
It hurt. I didn't need magic to see that. It was the kind of chronic, grinding pain you get used to but never really ignore.
"You are staring," Glimm noted. He'd crawled onto my shoulder.
"I'm observing security protocols," I mumbled, stabbing a gray lump on my plate.
"You are staring at his shoulders. And the structural integrity of his jawline."
"I am staring at the guy who threatened to kill me yesterday," I corrected. "There's a difference."
"Biologically, the response signals are remarkably similar."
I flicked the beetle. He scuttled down my sleeve, chirping in annoyance.
I looked back at Thalren. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch me watching. His eyes were shadowed, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. He held my gaze for a second-cold, assessing-then turned back to the mist.
My appetite vanished. I put the plate down.
"Eat," Vorn rumbled from across the fire. He didn't look up from his axe. "You burn fuel now. If you do not eat, the Root eats you."
"Inspiring," I said. But I picked the fork back up.
***
The training circle was just a patch of cleared dirt surrounded by stones, but with the Chronicler standing in the middle, it felt like a lecture hall.
"The Root is not a hammer," the Chronicler said. They were examining a patch of moss with a magnifying glass. "It is a conversation. You shouted yesterday. Today, you must whisper."
I stood in the center of the ring. My hands were shaking. Not from fear, exactly, but from energy. Since the grove, I felt like I had caffeine running through my veins instead of blood.
"Make it bloom," the Chronicler said, looking up. "One flower. Singular. Small."
I took a deep breath. I focused on a patch of bare earth near my toes. I visualized a flower. A daisy. Simple. Unthreatening.
I pushed.
The ground exploded.
Vines erupted from the dirt like relaxed springs, whipping upward in a chaotic tangle. In three seconds, I was standing waist-deep in a thicket of thorns and purple bell-shaped blossoms that smelled like rotting meat.
"Less," the Chronicler said instantly.
"I tried less!" I clawed my way out of the briar patch. "It doesn't do 'less'. It has no volume knob."
"It does," a gravelly voice cut in.
Thalren stepped into the circle. He kicked a vine that was trying to wrap around his boot. The plant withered instantly at his touch, turning black and crumbling to dust.
"You're letting it drive," he said. He walked toward me. The vines parted for him-not out of respect, but fear. "You're opening the door and letting the floodwater in. You have to be the dam."
"I'm not exactly an engineer, Thalren."
"If you can't control it, you are a liability," he said. He stopped two feet from me. He was tall enough that I had to crane my neck. The smell of ozone and wet earth hung off him. "And we discussed what happens to liabilities."
"You kill them," I said. "I remember. You only said it six times."
"Show me control," he challenged softly. "Make it sing."
"Excuse me?"
"Resonance," the Chronicler clarified from the sidelines. "If you structure the internal fibers correctly, the plant will vibrate with the ambient magic. It sings."
Thalren didn't blink. "Do it."
I gritted my teeth. Anger flared-hot and sharp. *Control. Show me control.*
I looked at a single bud on a vine near my hand. I didn't push this time. I imagined a vice tightening. I imagined the structure of the stem, the tension of the petals. I pulled everything back, compressing the energy until it was a needle point.
The bud shivered.
I held it. Sweating. My collarbones burned. The marks on my skin felt like they were being traced with a soldering iron.
*Sing,* I thought. *Just one note.*
The bud opened slowly. It wasn't purple this time. It was a pale, translucent blue. The petals unfurled with mechanical precision.
*Hmmmmmm.*
A sound came from the flower. A low, resonant hum, clear as a finger running around the rim of a crystal wine glass.
Thalren's eyes widened slightly.
He took a step closer. As he moved, the air between us suddenly grew heavy. Static electricity prickled along my arms.
The humming from the flower got louder.
And then, Thalren's hand-the one with the carved runes-flashed. The black ink flared with a sick, silver light. He hissed, grabbing his wrist.
The flower's note pitched up, turning into a screech.
I gasped. I felt... him. Not his thoughts, but his magic. It felt like cold iron and salt. It slammed into my senses, grating against the lush, wet green of my own power. Like pouring bleach into a garden.
"Enough," Thalren rasped.
He slashed his hand through the air. The connection severed with a physical snap. The flower blackened and died instantly.
I stumbled back, catching my breath. My heart was hammering a techno beat in my ears.
Thalren was breathing hard, clutching his left wrist. He looked at me, and for a second, the mask was gone. There was shock there. And something else. Recognition?
"What was that?" I whispered.
"Resonance," Glimm said from the safety of a rock. "Fascinating. Your frequencies are... polarized."
Thalren shoved his hand into his coat pocket. "We're done for today."
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the circle. The air felt suddenly empty without him.
***
"Sit still," Sylith ordered.
I sat on a crate while the healer inspected my hands. Sunlight-actual sunlight-was breaking through the clouds now, but it felt weak.
"It hurts?" she asked, pressing down on my nail bed.
"It throbs," I said.
Sylith hummed. She tilted my hand to the light. "Look."
I looked. Underneath the clear surface of my fingernails, distinct green lines had formed. They looked like veins in a leaf, spreading from the cuticle toward the tip.
"Pretty," I lied. "Does this mean I don't need nail polish anymore?"
"It means the Root is integrating with your biology," Vorn said. He was chewing on a stick of dried meat, leaning against a tree. "You are changing substrate."
"Am I going to turn into a tree, Vorn? Just give it to me straight."
"No. A tree is limited," Vorn said. He pointed his meat-stick toward the path where Thalren had disappeared. "He is salt. Nothing grows where he walks. The magic he uses was carved into him. It is a parasite."
Vorn took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed.
"You," he pointed at me. "You are soil. You are letting the magic remake the house so it can live there. You are evolution. He is just dying slowly."
The words landed heavy in the clearing.
*He's just dying slowly.*
I looked at my hands. Evolution. It sounded nice, scientific. But looking at the alien green veins under my nails, it felt more like an invasion.
"Can I stop it?" I asked Sylith.
She released my hand. Her touch was gentle, cool. "You passed the Threshold, Aria. The door is open. We can guide what comes through, but we cannot close it."
Great. Just great.
***
I found Thalren an hour later.
He was in a small clearing about fifty yards from camp. He'd set up three training dummies made of bound logs and thick vines.
Two were already destroyed. Not cut-obliterated. The wood looked like it had been eaten by acid, black and crumbling.
He was working on the third one. He moved like a blur, his sword a streak of gray steel. He struck the dummy, and where the blade connected, black decay spread like ink in water.
*Wham.*
Backhand strike. The wood groaned.
*Snap.*
He pivoted, drove the blade through the "chest" of the log. He twisted it. The log shattered.
He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, sword tip resting on the mulch.
"You're going to break the sword," I said, leaning against a tree.
He didn't jump. He just pulled the blade free and wiped it on the leg of his pants. "It's forged from star-metal. It doesn't break."
"But you do."
He sheathed the sword with a sharp *clack*. He turned to face me. Sweat made his hair stick to his forehead. He looked exhausted.
"Is there a point to this, Aria? Or are you just avoiding Vorn's lecture on history?"
"You're getting worse," I said. I gestured to his neck. The black veins were higher now, visible above his collar. "Every time you use that magic, it eats a little more of you. Vorn said-"
"Vorn talks too much."
"He said you're dying."
Thalren walked over to his pack, grabbed a waterskin, and took a long drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"We're all dying, Aria. It's the one thing we definitely have in common."
"Don't give me the emo philosophy crap. You're accelerating it. Why?"
He stared at me. His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, gray and turbulent. "Because I have a job to do. I get you to the finish line. I keep you alive long enough to fix the mess the Crown made. That is the agreement."
"And then?"
"And then I fulfill my promise."
"To Josephine?"
His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. "Do not say her name."
"Josephine is dead, Thalren. Her opinions are irrelevant."
It was cruel. I meant it to be. I wanted a reaction that wasn't just cold dismissal.
I got one.
He stepped into my space, fast. I flinched, backing up until I hit the tree bark. He slammed his hand against the trunk next to my head. Not touching me, but caging me in.
"She is dead," he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Because I failed. Because I wasn't strong enough, or fast enough, or ruthless enough. So I will not fail again. I will drag you to the Thornwood Throne if I have to carry you in pieces. And when you are seated, and the world is safe... then I am done."
"You want to die," I realized. It wasn't a question.
He pulled back. The fire in his eyes died down to ash.
"I want rest," he said evenly. "There is a difference."
He turned and walked away, leaving me standing against the tree.
***
I sat in my tent that evening, staring at the canvas roof.
My fingernails were glowing faintly in the dark. A soft, bioluminescent green.
I tried to picture Julian.
Julian was probably at a bar right now. Or maybe at the gym. It was Tuesday, right? Leg day. He'd be checking his form in the mirror, worrying about his protein intake, maybe texting me to ask where I'd put the remote.
If I were there, we'd be arguing about what to order for dinner. Thai or pizza. The stakes would be incredibly low. The biggest danger would be heartburn.
It sounded safe. It sounded comfortable.
It sounded painfully, brain-meltingly boring.
Julian would have had a breakdown by now. He would have demanded to speak to a manager about the lack of Wi-Fi in the magical forest. He would have looked at Thalren and wet himself.
I curled my knees to my chest.
Here, everything wanted to kill me. The plants, the Crown, the magic in my own blood. I had a suicide-bomber bodyguard and a beetle that critiqued my pores.
But I felt... awake.
I looked at my hand. I flexed my fingers. The green light pulsed, syncing with my heartbeat.
"Okay," I whispered to the dark. "Let's see where this disaster goes."
I closed my eyes. Outside, the wind rustled the leaves, and for the first time, I could hear the rhythm in it. A song.
It wasn't a lullaby. It was a war drum.
But it was catchy.