Chapter 23
Beyond the mists is a forest of trees like giants.
“Skyquills,” I breathe, only knowing the name through stories. Whispered legends about trees tall enough to scrape the sky itself. “Silver skyquills.”
The trunks are thicker than both Raker and me combined. The needles are silvery green in the sun. I stop and look up. I just look, and look, gaping.
“What?” Raker snaps.
I shake my head. “Do you ever feel … utterly insignificant? In … in a good way?” Tears prick my eyes, stupid tears, because we almost just died a half dozen times, but this world …
this world with claws and teeth is beautiful.
I look over at Raker, only to see him looking at me. His stature says unimpressed.
“No” is all he says, before he turns around again.
Of course not. Harlan Raker, famous warrior, is anything but insignificant.
We made it through the mists. Part of me was sure I would die there, lost forever, like that hidden sword.
But slowly, the cold of the fog falls away, slipping off my skin, melting from my bones as I walk through the forest in quiet awe.
Something about this place feels just like the Bone Woods …
Ancient. Untouched. Yet instead of piercing, cold dread, all I feel here is steady warmth.
It’s not just the sun, which felt absent in the fog.
No. The trees are so tall, they cast so much shade, that sunlight is shredded into glimmering ribbons, unraveling through the woods.
It’s something else. A warmth from the nature, maybe. A pulse like a heartbeat.
We keep walking. Raker’s posture never changes. But about an hour later, he stiffens. Turns. I hear it.
The gentle lapping of water. I don’t even wait for him.
My feet are snapping against twigs and kicking up dirt as I run toward the sound, and then suddenly, I’m kneeling by a creek.
Perfectly clear water. Finally. I could laugh.
I could cry. I take it by the handful, drinking from my palms, washing my face. My back is still crusted in blood.
The stream isn’t deep, but it’s enough water to bathe.
I turn toward Raker, who is approaching with far less vigor. He’s covered in blood too. But none of it has reached his skin except for his hands, not with the armor, hood, and mask. I open my mouth. Close it. Decide it’s not worth the trouble of asking.
But he’s already reaching into his pack. I hear something break and nearly collapse in shock as he presents a piece of his soap. Before I can say a single word, he tosses it at me. It lands in my lap.
His soap. The one I like so much. I blink, not able to find the words. Not knowing how he possibly just did something that resembles a kindness. Before I can attempt to thank him, he says, “You need it.”
Then he turns to leave.
Even his insult can’t breach my happiness. I breathe his soap in, and sigh. Mine, I think. All mine.
When I can’t hear Raker’s metallic steps through the woods anymore, I begin to take my clothes off piece by piece.
The fabric sticks to my skin, bound by the dried blood.
It peels off painfully. Raker’s right. I stink.
But with just a few scrubs with his soap, the blood clears.
My hair is smooth again. I tie it back into my normal style, letting the braid hang down today, then I wash my clothes, before unfolding them to dry.
As I wait, I lie against the rocks, sighing into the stone, letting the shallow, gentle rush of the water smooth across my body. Across my markings. It’s strange, being out in the open, with all of me showing. But Raker’s far away. These woods are silent.
I need—I just need a moment to rest and remind myself that I am alive.
I survived. No, we survived. The last weeks are a haze, filled with thirst and hunger and pain and blood. So much blood.
I stare at the sky and melt further into the rocks. This world has taken bites of me. I can feel them. It has gnawed at my confidence. It has chewed through all my assumptions. It has punched holes through my fear.
I’ve only been here twenty days, yet I feel transformed. Like years have been folded into moments. Seconds of bravery, of skill, of foolishness that determined my fate.
I feel like those pieces at the forge, scraps of metal that Stellan and I would give a second life—smelt into a completely new sword. I’m not sure what I’ve turned into, but I know that I am not the same.
And some of those new pieces, some of those shards of strength I found in this world …
they were forged by Raker. They were forged from flames that rose in response to the taunts, to the figure it out, to the moments he didn’t interfere, forcing me to rise by myself.
Forcing me to dig into the trenches of my soul and claw out the embers of my strength.
I curse him. I thank him.
I don’t know how I expected to make it to the gods. But now, for the first time, I feel like I really could.
A flash of movement has me sitting up, breath caught in my throat, water parting around me.
I reach for my blade … and promptly let my grip sag.
I watch a glowing, translucent horse gallop through the forest—then disappear in a curl of mist.
I blink. Just when I’ve convinced myself I imagined it, the horse appears again, several feet in front of where it disappeared, sparkling silver trailing behind it, like a star-swept breeze.
Its hooves gently clop upon the forest floor, before it stills. It turns—and spots me. As its eyes bore into mine, I don’t feel a single ounce of fear. Maybe I should. Especially as the horse canters in my direction, stopping only at the edge of the stream.
This could be another illusion, I think. Another beautiful thing I’m supposed to fear.
Slowly, I rise from the water. I keep my sword in my grip, just in case. I walk over toward the horse, expecting it to be spooked.
But as I get closer, it simply dips its head. And my silver markings glimmer beneath a stream of sunlight as I reach out to touch it.
It’s cold as ice. Its mane is soft as silk. Its fur is coarse. I smooth my hand between its eyes, and it huffs out of its nose.
Beautiful. Before I can get a closer look, the horse takes off again, making a circle.
I watch it go—then still, when it runs right toward me again.
This time, it doesn’t stop. Shit. I’m about to leap out of the way when the horse careens off the ground, flying above me, jumping over the stream. Landing.
Then becoming another curl of mist. It doesn’t appear again.
I didn’t read about those in the book. Both wonder and dread fill me as I consider that there are even more creatures out there, unreported or undiscovered.
Knowing Raker is probably sighing deeply and regretting ever giving me a shard of his soap, I go back to the stream.
I twist my clothing, squeezing out any remaining water before putting them back on.
I don’t have time to let them sit and dry more.
I really should see about getting more clothes, I think, as I step through the forest, looking for Raker. I doubt he went far.
In the direction he headed in, shrubs brush against the base of the Skyquills, their leaves coarse and pointed in various places.
A sweetness pierces the air. It’s hard to see anything buried in the thick, knotted green, but I carefully piece through the leaves, until I catch a flash of color. My eyes widen.
Huckleberries. Elderberries. I pick several, my fingertips staining violet, stick one in my mouth, and sigh deeply.
Yes. The fruit on Stormside—so limited and rare—is like ash compared to Starside. Everything here is heightened—the landscapes, the flavors, the colors—as if magic has touched everything.
I sink to my knees, and pick them all, eating a large fraction. The rest I stick into my wet pockets. I consider calling Raker over, to fill his pack with them.
I’m so happy, I hardly notice that a shadow has stolen all the light from the forest. And that the already quiet woods have gone deathly silent.
Until a sticky glop of something hits my shoulder and slides down my freshly washed clothes. I scrunch my nose. Sap?
I look up at the tree.
And stop breathing.
A bear larger than the trees themselves is on its haunches, looking down at me, fang-full mouth parted, drool dripping. Another stream falls directly on me, sliding down my entire body, but still, I don’t move.
Until it throws its head back and roars, rattling the very foundations of the forest, sending me to the ground. Trembling hands clutching dirt, I watch its maw remain open. And from its mouth, a silver, glimmering stream of pure and utter power pierces the sky like a blade.
Magic. It has magic.
I scramble to my feet, and I fucking bolt.
This wasn’t in the book. But if this creature is anything like the bears on Stormside, it’ll have poor vision.
It’ll rely on hearing and smell. Its drool will mask my scent, won’t it?
And as for its eyesight, it won’t be able to spot me easily through the trees …
That’s what I tell myself as I run for my life, heart in my throat, sweat spilling down my skin.
Then I hear those ancient, steady trees snap like they are no more than twigs, and any hope of surviving this beast turns to dust. I look over my shoulder, and the bear is on all fours, bounding through the woods with singular focus, cutting down everything in its path.
Long needles erupt from its back, sharp as spears.
Fuck.
If this bear doesn’t kill me, Raker certainly will. At the very least, he is never letting me use his soap again.
Why does trouble always find me? I was picking berries. Why couldn’t it have happened to Raker instead?
The beast lunges—falling just short of me with such force the woods shudder. I scream as I’m hurled forward. From my knees, I watch as the bear opens its mouth again with a sickening snarl … and I know what that means.