Chapter 50
Chapter fifty
The wind tore at her hair as Hika’s wings beat the sky, each stroke carrying them forward over a world blurred into patchworked shadow.
“He lost control of the fire when your mother died giving birth, Bran. That’s how you came into this world.”
Fenn’s voice was quiet, rough with memory.
“The flames consumed half the Reach before they settled in you. Entire blocks turned to ash.”
Elara’s arms slid around Bran’s shoulders, holding him from behind, as the Great Phoenix soared through the night toward the nearest Waygate.
“My essence was never meant to live inside a single body. The Hearth was built to contain me...and to keep me hidden from the enemy,” Hika murmured, her voice laced with sorrow.
“Your father’s heart was a miracle, large enough to hold me on its own, like yours is.
But…” She faltered. “His heart broke when he lost her.”
Taren reached for Bran’s hand, their fingers tangling. Bran turned, meeting the young man’s eyes, but neither of them spoke. None of them did. Not for a long time. The land below rushed past, and the stars wheeled above them as the Great Phoenix carried them onward.
Rynna had always wondered why the people of Ember Reach seemed to hate the wild young boy. Finally knowing the answer didn’t make it any better. Only when the great wings began to slow, air buffeting against her, did the silence break.
“This is as close as I can take you,” Hika said. “The Waygate’s energy is too volatile. If I get any nearer, I might disrupt it.”
But she didn’t descend yet. Hovering in place, her wings stroked the night air, almost as if she were waiting. Holding the moment open. Kaelith blinked hard, shoulders shifting like he was shaking off a weight no one else could see. Then—
“I almost came for you after it happened,” he said, voice nearly lost to the wind.
Everyone turned to him.
“I knew what the Reach would do,” he continued, eyes downcast. “I knew they’d fear you. Maybe kill you. Or worse—let you live, but raise you in shame and hate. All for something that wasn’t your fault.”
He still didn’t look up.
“After Rynna disappeared…I couldn’t breathe, let alone raise a child. Bringing Ben to Ember Reach was the best I could do. The only thing I could do.”
Hika began to descend slowly.
“But by the time you were born…” Kaelith’s voice strained. “I didn’t trust myself. Not with the power you held within you. I was afraid I’d break you and take it for myself.”
Bran’s knees gave slightly. He leaned heavier into Elara, and she didn’t let go.
“When I saw you at the tournament,” Kaelith said. “With Rynna…and the wolf…” His gaze dipped toward the other man. “I’d been replaced. Forgotten.” His face lifted to the stars, eyes squeezing shut. “But not returning for you had clearly been the right decision.”
The Phoenix settled onto the ground, her wings folding in.
No one moved.
The silence pressed thick around Rynna, sitting heavy in her chest. Her lungs refused to work—at least not properly—as she stared at Kaelith. His head was still bowed. Hands still slack at his sides. And the lines of his face unmoving.
Over and over, she had failed him. She’d left without a word the first time, vanished into another war on another world.
Then, when the Weaving brought her back, she hadn’t remembered him.
Hadn't even recognized him. At the Ascension, she’d rejected him outright—blade drawn, fire in her blood—because it was easier than facing the truth.
And somewhere in the midst of it all…she’d fallen in love with someone else.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
She shook her head once. No. She’d never regret loving Fenn.
Her gaze turned toward him, where he stood a few feet away, soundless, watching her.
His brow was drawn, his expression unreadable, but his eyes…
they searched her like he could hear every word she wasn’t saying.
Her heart clenched, the ache blooming behind her ribs. And now she was failing him, too.
The ocean was still miles away, but she could hear it now, churning behind the hills and trees, near the closest Waygate in Tide Reach. Then Fenn stood, brushing his palms against his thighs.
“What was it you used to say, Rynna?” he asked, glancing at her. “The Weaving weaves as it wills?”
She nodded once.
Fenn, Kaelith, and Fang Unit. They had all been tied together and put on this path since before most of them had even been born. It was becoming clearer every day.
But still…
Kaelith dragged a hand down his face, fingers lingering at his jaw before dropping away. His spine straightened. Air hissed through his teeth. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, lazy and familiar.
“I think what the wolf is trying to say is: maybe we survive the day before we go drowning in the past.”
He pushed upright with a groan and extended his hand to Rynna.
“Plenty of time for that later,” he said, squeezing her fingers once their hands met. His eyes held hers. “Right?”
Rynna’s throat tightened. She didn’t know if there would be a later. Not for her. With them. But she’d claw one out of the ashes if she had to, even if it meant tearing herself loose from the Weaving itself.
She squeezed his hand back. “Right.”
For a moment, none of them spoke. The silence stretched—not heavy like before, but tentative, fragile.
One by one, their eyes moved across the circle: Fenn's steady gaze met Rynna’s, Taren glanced between Bran and Kaelith, and Elara’s grip on Bran’s arm hadn’t eased.
They were bound by more than just mission or necessity—blood, history, grief, and something like hope held them tight.
Below them, the Phoenix shifted, feathers rustling as her talons scraped against stone. The sound cracked through the stillness, grounding them, and Rynna exhaled, the ache within loosening just enough for the moment to move forward.
Taren cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the hush. “You sure you can direct the Waygate to the lost continent?”
Rynna swallowed, then gave a single nod. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“And you know what to look for?” His attention shifted to Kaelith.
Kaelith pursed his lips, drawing the ridge of his thumb along his jaw. “Hard to say. You’ve only described it twenty times. Maybe hearing it once more will improve my chances of remembering.”
Taren took a step forward, blue sparks dancing in his eyes. Before he could speak, though, or fry Kaelith to a crisp, Bran’s hand came down gently on his shoulder.
Taren froze, the light dimming. He flexed his fist once, exhaling slowly. “This isn’t a joke.”
Kaelith lifted a hand in a lazy wave. “I’m the one who taught you how to locate and open primal shrines, remember?
” He tilted his head toward Fenn. “Between the wolf and me, we’ve got enough pre-Source blood to trigger whatever seal’s in place—if your hypothesis is right.
” He shrugged. “If not, Rynna will knock the door down.”
“Sure,” Rynna muttered, glancing between them. “Why not.”
Taren—the closest thing this world had to a grandmaster wizard—was convinced the key to unraveling the barrier lay behind an ancient seal on one of the lost continents. One he couldn’t break.
Right. She snorted, an image slipping uninvited into her mind: Taren in long, flowing robes, staff in hand, wild-eyed as he proclaimed himself “the great enchanter Tim!” while random explosions went off behind him.
All eyes snapped to her.
Heat flushed her cheeks. “Earth joke. Never mind.”
They stared at her, eyes wide, until Fenn coughed.
“And you three will connect with the Wardens. Organize a withdrawal of all civilians in the path of the dead. Protect the Reaches.”
“Protect everyone,” Taren cut in. “Not just the Reaches.”
“Of course.” Fenn dipped his head.
“Even if I have to strangle every Warden to do it.” Taren’s jaw locked, shoulders squared, the light in his eyes flaring brighter for a heartbeat.
“The Wardens are the Reaches’ strongest Hollow-born,” Fenn replied evenly. “Having them fight beside you instead of against you would be the wiser course.”
Taren flexed his fist once, exhaling through his nose. “I will do whatever is necessary.”
“Takara will agree,” Fenn interjected. “Get her on your side, and you won’t have to strangle the others.” A hint of fang flashed behind his smile. “Trust me.”
Taren’s expression shifted—eyes narrowing, lips pressed thin—as the thought settled in. “Very well.”
Her gaze swept the circle—Fenn, Kaelith, Bran, Elara, Taren. They had only just found each other again, and already the Weaving was scattering them to different fronts.
Then Elara stepped out from behind Bran, and without a word, she drew Rynna and the others of Fang Unit into her arms.
“Don’t die out there.” She held them together, looking to Rynna. “Any of you.”
Rynna pressed her forehead to Elara’s.
“But,” Taren broke in, voice dry, “if you have to sacrifice one of them, you know who I’d pick.”
Rynna managed a small smile, though it wavered at the edges. She leaned in, resting her forehead briefly to his, holding on to the moment before it slipped away.
“When this is over,” Bran finally spoke again, “you’ll tell me about them? My family?”
Her stomach clenched, and she touched her forehead to his, too, then Elara’s, one by one, binding the circle. “When this is over, I will share every memory I have of your father, your grandmother, and the Hearth.”
Crickets sang in the darkness, yet the moment between them felt untouched, suspended.
“We fight for each other,” Bran whispered.
“The Hollow-born standing beside you,” Elara added, her hand finding his.
“And the ones who can’t defend themselves,” Taren said, taking Bran’s other hand.
“Fang Unit.” Rynna squeezed shut.
“Fang Unit,” they echoed together.
Rynna opened her eyes and glanced over her shoulder—first to Fenn, solid as stone, then to Kaelith, shadows carved along the sharp line of his profile.
They were ready. But not to die—no.
To fight. To endure. And to make damn sure none of them were lost this time.