Chapter 64
Symond
The ship lurched beneath Symond’s feet, and he gripped the rail tighter, glaring at the dense wall of jungle that had replaced the familiar coastal villages they’d passed just an hour ago.
Even the air felt different here—thicker, like breathing through a wet rag, full of smells he couldn’t name that stuffed up his nose with every breath.
Rotting plants and whatever the hell that sweet flowery crap was mixed together into something that made him dizzy.
Something screamed in the jungle canopy. Another answered, mere yards from the ship’s hull.
Symond shifted his weight, trying to look unconcerned.
He didn’t want to go back below deck where Rian was yapping on about Al’tera and all the things that could kill them here.
There was no point in the lesson, they already knew that what the empire taught them about the land and its people was made up.
A flash of movement caught his eye—a shadow detaching from the tree line, too fast to track. Then another. And another.
Shit.
Dark shapes swooped over the ship, huge wings blotting out chunks of sun as they spun around up there. Nightgliders. A whole damn dozen at least. Real shocker that waving empire flags in Al’teran territory got us ambushed. Who’d have guessed?
The beasts triggered a stampede as the few people on deck scrambled for the hatch, shoving each other in their desperation to get below.
Cowards. All of them.
Symond lunged for a nearby barrel, fingers closing around a fishing spear propped against it. The weapon felt flimsy in his hand, its tip barely sharp enough to pierce scales, let alone flesh. But it was better than being empty-handed.
A nightglider swooped lower, close enough that Symond could see the glint of intelligence in its golden eyes. It hovered just beyond the reach of his spear, wings beating the air into miniature cyclones that whipped his hair across his face.
Who thought it was a good idea to leave the mute on lookout? he thought bitterly, jabbing the spear forward in a warning thrust. The damn thing didn’t back off—if anything, it floated closer, like it wanted a better look at the crappy stick in his hand.
The deck creaked behind him. Symond didn’t dare turn his back on it, but he caught movement in his peripheral vision—Elora emerging from below, Rell and Violette close behind her. Thank the fucking gods.
The nightgliders’ reaction was immediate. Two broke from the circling flock and landed on the deck with heavy thuds that vibrated through the wooden planks. Symond stumbled back, spear raised, as the transformation began.
Bones snapped like twigs as the nightgliders twisted into new shapes, their fur receding to reveal naked skin beneath. Symond’s guts did a somersault watching it happen.
Within seconds, two figures stood on the deck where the beasts had been: a tall, imposing male and a lithe female whose wild beauty couldn’t quite mask the predator lurking beneath.
Symond let the spear dip, the absurdity of it slammed into him with all the subtlety of a collapsing building—this stupid stick wouldn’t do shit against monsters that could snap him in half without breaking a sweat.
He glanced toward Elora, waiting for her to handle whatever this was.
She was the reason they were all here, after all.
Their supposed guide to this godforsaken place.
Elora stepped forward, placing her fist over her heart in what appeared to be some kind of greeting. “Viliam, Kaela—” she began.
The male—Viliam—cut her off sharply, his words spilled out in a language Symond couldn’t begin to comprehend.
It sounded like water rushing over rocks, smooth one second and sharp the next.
The man’s face remained calm, almost serene, but something in his eyes burned with an otherworldly anger that made Symond’s skin crawl.
Elora’s face crumpled, her eyebrows knitting together as she struggled to decipher his words.
Fantastic. She didn’t even understand what he was saying.
Symond tightened his grip on the spear, scanning the circling nightgliders overhead.
If these two decided they weren’t welcome, they were all screwed.
The woman—Kaela—placed a hand on Viliam’s arm. When she spoke, it was in the Empire’s common tongue, her accent thick but her words clear enough.
“You disobeyed our orders,” she translated, her golden eyes never leaving Elora’s face. “Now you bring a band of Empire seafarers to our homeland.” Her tone hardened. “You must explain yourself.”
Elora stepped closer to them, lowering her voice. Symond inched forward, straining to hear her words over the creaking of the ship and the distant calls of jungle creatures.
From where he stood, he could only catch bits of her talking—something about the ship, her hands waving around to make her point. Gods, he hoped she was explaining they weren’t invaders. Last thing he needed was to end up as nightglider chow.
Viliam’s face changed as he listened, the fire in his eyes cooling to embers. His stiff shoulders dropped a notch, and he cocked his head like a bird sizing up something that might be friend or food.
Elora’s voice lifted just enough for Symond to catch a fragment: “—condition of Nyt’morah?”
Who or what the hell was Nyt’morah? And why was she asking about them now? Symond gripped his spear tighter, frustration building in his chest. They were surrounded by hostile shifters who could tear them apart in seconds, and she was making small talk?
Kaela’s response carried clearly across the deck. “It is rejuvenated. The progress was slow until last week when it sang.”
It sang? Symond’s brain short-circuited. A singing... what exactly? Person? Animal? Some weird Al’teran pet rock? Gods, he’d kill to have his voice back—just to yell “what the actual fuck?” Instead, he just stood there like an idiot, white knuckling his stupid stick while they babbled nonsense.
Kaela turned to Viliam, who had begun speaking again in that fluid language. She nodded, then translated: “He worries this flock of Empire-born may corrupt the sacred tree. He does not want to take the risk.”
Sacred tree? Symond’s head throbbed. First singing, now trees. None of this made any sense.
Elora stepped forward, her voice rising with passion. “Please, let the elders decide. Or have a truthkeeper prove we have no ill-intent. Just give them a chance.”
Symond stopped trying to make sense of the conversation.
His temples pounded with the beginning of a headache, the unfamiliar humidity and alien concepts combining into a perfect storm of confusion.
He’d spent his entire life learning the Empire’s version of the world—methodical, orderly, comprehensible.
This place seemed determined to shatter those foundations with every passing moment.
Viliam studied them all for a long, uncomfortable moment before nodding slowly. He leaned closer to Elora, speaking softly. Whatever he said made her shoulders relax.
Without warning, the two Al’terans began to transform again. The nightgliders beat their massive wings launching themselves into the air. The circling flock followed, diving back toward the dense jungle canopy until they vanished among the trees.
Symond scrawled on his slate, chalk grinding against the rough surface as he wrote out his question. Before he could finish, Rell spoke up.
“What the hell was that?” Rell demanded, his voice carrying across the now-empty deck.
Symond lowered his slate, irritation prickling under his skin.
Violette stepped forward, her practical mind cutting straight to what mattered. “What was their verdict?”
“Our future here lies in the hands of the elders,” she said simply. “Viliam is taking us to them.”
Symond frowned and finished writing his question anyway: Who is Nyt’morah? He tapped his slate with the chalk to get her attention.
Elora’s eyes widened slightly when she read it. “It’s... complicated. One of the sacred trees. A daughter of Mahōamorah, but different.” She glanced toward the dense jungle. “I’ll explain more when we reach the city.”
City? Symond hadn’t seen any signs of civilization since they’d entered Al’teran waters, just endless green and the occasional flash of wings overhead. He erased his slate with his sleeve and wrote again: When?
“Soon,” she promised. “For now, we wait.”
∞∞∞
The small boats glided through the winding river, carved wooden hulls barely disturbing the glassy surface.
Symond perched at the front of boat number three, watching the jungle squeeze in around them like it was trying to swallow them whole.
Seven rickety little boats altogether, hauling their weird parade deeper into Al’teran turf.
Sweat trickled down his spine, soaking into the thin fabric of his undershirt. He’d stripped off his leather vest and outer tunic hours ago, along with everyone else. The humid air clung to his skin like a second layer, making each breath feel like drinking soup.
Even Violette had abandoned her usual layers of protective gear, down to a sleeveless undershirt that revealed the network of scars mapping her arms. Rell wore only loose trousers, rolled up to his knees, his chest bare and gleaming with sweat as he helped the Al’teran guide propel their boat with a long wooden pole.
Their Empire-made clothing looked absurdly out of place here.
The Al’terans guiding their boats wore garments that seemed to be part of the jungle itself—woven leaves, bark cloth dyed in earthy pigments, seeds and shells strung into intricate patterns.
Like Elora’s living leaf coverings, their clothing breathed with the land, shifting and rustling with each movement.
The river bent sharply around a cluster of towering trees, and suddenly the dense jungle canopy broke open.
Symond’s grip tightened on the edge of the boat as it glided into an enormous lake that stretched so far he couldn’t see the opposite shore.
But it wasn’t the expanse of water that stole his breath.
It was the tree.