Chapter Twenty-Nine
T he path kicks out wide before narrowing and winding like a snake.
The trees whisper two riddles to us—one I solve, the other Marcella.
Their cryptic guidance leads us to a long-forgotten trail, nearly invisible beneath the overgrown weeds.
Following it, we emerge at the grove’s edge, where the trees thin before vanishing altogether, as if marking a boundary.
Beyond the opening, the descending sun bathes the snow-capped peaks of the Wolfgaith Mountains in red-gold light, the spread breathtaking.
That’s when the thread tugging at my magic goes slack, severing my connection to the flower, and we’ve been stagnant for hours since.
“Anything?” Marcella asks from her chosen resting spot—a patch of overgrown grass and wildflowers, her back leaning against a thick tree trunk. She rolls the stem of a plucked yellow flower between her fingers, inspecting it with furrowed brows.
Frustrated, I shake my head. “Not yet. How is this supposed to work, anyway? Like a child’s game of hot and cold? I get warmer when I’m close to the flower and colder when I’m not?”
When Marcella doesn’t respond, I glance at her and find her still intently examining the cheery yellow petals.
“Heartleaf,” I offer.
Her eyes shift from the flower to me. “Come again?”
I nod toward the flora she’s practically pressed against her face. “That flower. It’s called heartleaf. ”
She twirls the stem, making the petals dance.
“Oh.” Her cobalt eyes flick back to me. “Daughter of a Gardner, indeed,” she muses under her breath.
Marcella pockets the flower and fixes me with her full attention.
“There’s no right or wrong answer here, Lyra.
That’s why this is the first test to enter Bathara.
The Captains and Masters expect you to have a full understanding of your magic—and that’s the bare minimum. ”
I know she’s right, but that doesn’t soften the sting of feeling incompetent.
She opens her palms, and a fluorescent light begins to glow. With fluid, dance-like movements, she glides her hands, and a nearby branch creaks downward, bending toward her. A freshly ripened apple dangles from its tip. She plucks it and takes a loud, crunching bite.
“Your magic has an intended frequency—one that matches the core of its ability. Find that.”
“How?” I ask, frowning.
Marcella takes another bite before tossing the apple over her shoulder.
Wiping her hands on her pants, she rises to her feet.
“Everything in this world is made of energy, vibrating at different frequencies. Those with lakt? in their veins can manipulate these energies. It lets us harness and channel power by matching those vibrations.”
I blink at her.
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look, this is really advanced stuff here—stuff they’ll teach us more thoroughly at Bathara.
But what you need to understand for now is that magic is not just some tool or force to be wielded; it is the manipulation of energy .
And it is all around you, waiting to be molded.
You just need to tap into that reservoir of magic, and channel it to shape reality according to your will. Make sense?”
No.
Not even a little bit.
“Sort of.”
She rests a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“It’s one of those things that sounds really complicated when you try to explain it, but feels like second nature once you do it.
It’s much easier when you just put it into action.
” She drops her hand and tilts her head, thinking.
“Why don’t you try something simple, first. Perhaps a bed of those heartleaf flowers or an apple—whatever comes to you most easily.
With the magic fresh in your veins, I think you’ll have an easier time finding your flower. ”
“I can do that.”
I think.
I shake out the rising nerves from my hands before clenching them together. I glance at Marcella. “Thank you,” I murmur. “For helping me.”
Marcella snorts. “Don’t thank me yet. Just remember: feel the vibration of your lakt?. Listen to it. Then command it.”
Feel. Listen. Command.
Got it.
I open my palms skyward and draw in as much pine-scented air as my lungs can hold. Focusing on my veins—on the peculiar feeling within them I’m beginning to recognize as magic—I hone in on the tingling sensation.
An image takes shape in my mind. A plant I’ve worked with so often, it just feels natural to attempt it first. I will it to grow, commanding the vibrations humming in my skin to obey.
To my absolute surprise, unlike every other time, it actually listens.
Creamy-white, oblong petals sprout from the earth on a thin green stem, and my brows jump to my hairline as I realize they’re truly there—that I’ve actually used my magic.
Marcella smiles, her expression brimming with pride—though I can’t help but notice a faint indent between her brows. “See?” she teases, her tone like usual, but…not. “Not so hard, is it?”
“Not when I have such a talented teacher.” I study her more closely. “Are you alright?”
“Me?” She waves a dismissive hand. “I’m fine. Just a passing moment of fatigue, that’s all. Now, tell me—where are we heading next?”
I eye her a moment longer before blowing out a long sigh and focusing.
And it takes all of minutes until I hear something humming softly, as if calling to me. Here , it seems to say. I am over here.
I grab Marcella by the wrist and yank her forward, not wanting to risk losing the connection again.
I scurry through the trees, down near the southern border of the mountains.
I stop only when I reach a bed of flowers with star-shaped, honey-golden petals.
They glow in the night, flecks of white dotting the flora like freshly fallen snow clinging to grass.
The Gardner’s Diamond. Otherwise known as…
“Goldenstars,” I breathe.
And there, at the very center, under the silvery cast of moonlight, my essence flower blooms.
Marcella’s lips fall into a frown. “Well, that’s…interesting.”
Marcella and I prepare for the night, spreading out our bedrolls under a starry sky, where a doting moon casts the only light. My thoughts grow quiet, too tired to scream. As I settle onto the ground, my gaze drifts absently, not even savoring the sight above.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Marcella asks, her hands tucked behind her head. “You haven’t talked about your essence flower at all.” I catch her sidelong glance. “Strange, for the daughter of a Gardner.”
I hum a sound of idle acknowledgement.
She is silent for a passing moment. “The plant you created with your magic—it seemed to come easily to you. What was it?”
I scoff a dry laugh. “You really want to know?
“I do.”
“It’s called soporis,” I say. “It was the first thing to come to my mind because I worked with it so often when making sleeping tonics for myself and the other night attendants.” My biting tone leaves little room for further conversation, and Marcella doesn’t try to force it.
And as I consider what I’ve just told her, my stomach churns with both anger and disgust.
Despite the countless flowers and plants I shared with my mother, when asked to create something tied so deeply to my heart, my mind reached for something tainted. Something born of necessity, used to shield myself from the blatant disregard of so many.
When it mattered, it was the bad I remembered most easily, not the good.
What am I supposed to make of that?