Chapter 28 Landon #2
But I follow anyway. We all do, weapons drawn and ready. Hrolf stays just behind me. Garrett and Aelfric bring up the rear, their blades unsheathed and gleaming in the spectral light.
The path narrows until we're walking single file, shoulders brushing the walls. Then suddenly it opens into a vast cavern.
"Shit—" Garrett walks face first into something and recoils, clawing at his face. "What in the—"
The thin threads cling to his face and he tears at them with both hands.
Webs. Everywhere.
They shimmer faintly in the dark, catching what little light the lantern provides. Thick silver cords like harp strings stretch from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. I duck beneath them carefully. The further we go, the more complex they become.
Aelfric's hand tightens on his blade. "This isn't an herb cave."
"No," Landon agrees quietly. "It's not."
I raise my hand to halt the others. At the center of the cavern lies a massive shape.
A spider.
She is enormous, easily the size of a house, her body low to the ground. Eight legs span the width of the chamber. Silver and black, the same colors as the webs she made.
The others fall back. Even Hrolf looks uneasy, his hand moving to his axe.
She lies coiled in the heart of the chamber, body sunken and limbs trembling. There is no menace in her stillness.
Only ruin.
The spider is dying.
She would have been terrifying once. But her carapace is cracked along the thorax.
Her abdomen has deflated, her legs curling inward beneath her, slow and involuntary.
All eight eyes are open but the brightness is leaving them.
One catches the lantern light and reflects Landon's face as he steps forward.
Landon drops to his knees at her side without hesitation. The cold edge of him falls away completely. He presses his forehead briefly to her head and grief crosses his face.
"My old friend," he whispers. "Doireann."
The spider shifts barely. One foreleg moves just enough to touch his outstretched hand.
"I told you I'd come back, old girl," Landon says, his hands gentle against her enormous carapace. "I brought food."
This fucker.
The spider makes a sound—a faint, fragile chirr. Barely audible, yet it carries affection and warmth.
A farewell.
He presses his forehead to hers, heedless.
"I'm here," he murmurs soothingly. "I'm here."
Aelfric and Garrett exchange a look, uncertain and deeply unsettled. Even Hrolf stands silent, his grip loosening slightly on his axe.
"I'll care for them," Landon promises softly. His hand spreads over the cracked shell. "I swear it. I'll protect them."
The spider exhales, a slow, shuddering breath.
With her last strength, she lifts one trembling limb toward a vast sheet of web strung across the cavern's back wall.
She plucks a single strand.
The web sings.
One clear note hums through the darkness, resonant and pure. Vibrating through stone and bone.
Then she goes still.
Landon remains kneeling beside her for a long moment. Then he straightens and turns to us. "We need to go. Now."
"Why?" Garrett asks.
Landon points to the ceiling.
I follow the gesture and understand.
The stone above us isn't bare.
It's alive.
Thousands of spiderlings cling to the stone above. Pale as bone, no larger than marbles. They cover every surface and they're moving. Descending on threads of silk, drawn by their mother's final song.
"Run," Landon says.
We don't need to be told twice.
The spiderlings swarm toward their mother's body with single-minded purpose. We burst from the cave just as the first wave reaches the corpse. Behind us, the sound of thousands of tiny mouths beginning their grim feast echoes from the darkness.
We stop running once we're far enough away.
"What was that?" Garrett gasps as we put distance between us and the cavern.
"The young eat their mother," Landon says without slowing. "It is the way of her kind."
Branches whip past us as we run.
"It's how she gives them life even in death," he continues, his voice steady, almost reverent. "Her body becomes their first meal and gives them the strength they need to survive."
I surge forward.
Before I fully think it through, I seize Landon by the front of his cloak and slam him back against the trunk of a tree. The impact sends bark splintering.
"Enough," I snap.
Steel glints in the corner of my vision as the others tense.
"No more riddles. No more detours." I press him harder into the wood. "Can you save her or not?"
"Maybe," he says, not struggling.
"No more tricks," Hrolf says firmly, moving to stand beside me. "His wife is dying. We're running out of time."
"You think I went there just to say goodbye?" he asks quietly.
I tighten my hold.
"If you mean to help her, say so plainly."
Landon exhales through his nose, almost impatient.
"I gathered what I said I would." He reaches slowly into the pouch at his belt and withdraws a small bundle wrapped in dark leaves. Even crushed, the herb gives off a metallic, bitter scent. "Bloodroot of the deep hollow. It slows the spilling. Forces blood to clot."
He looks between us.
"I do not lie."
Hrolf's jaw tightens but he nods once. "A blood debt is sacred," he says. "You owe me your life. I call it in now—to save hers."
Landon nods slowly. "Very well. I understand. Take me to her."
I release him and step back. I call on Coinneach's power, feeling my familiar respond instantly. Shadows gather and twist, forming a portal in the air.
The portal opens. A slit in the world, pulsing with darkness and possibility.
Landon goes rigid, staring at the shadow portal. "That's one of the Ysendrals."
"He's one of the ancients," I confirm. "Bound to me."
"You have an Ysendral bound to you?" Landon's breath hitches. His gaze shifts to me with new wariness and what might be fear. "How is that possible? They were sealed away in Astefar."
"Save your questions for later."
“Dorcha, my wyvern. I do not travel without her,” he says evenly. "She is bonded to me."
"I am not waiting while you indulge sentiment." My patience thins to a wire.
He meets my stare without flinching.
"It is not sentiment." His voice sharpens slightly.
Before I can drag him toward the portal by force, he continues.
"I also require my equipment," he says. "I need proper surgical instruments. Medicines and binding agents. If I am to attempt this, I will not do it with crude guesswork."
He gestures toward the treeline. "We will reach Volundr shortly on Dorcha's back."
"A wyvern in Volundr?" Garrett protests. "The people will panic."
"Let them," I say. Whatever the price of her survival, I will pay it. "Go through the portal. Warn them we're coming. Clear the square and prepare the healing house."
Aelfric nods once, already turning. Garrett hesitates only a fraction of a second before following. They step through the portal in quick succession.
Hrolf lingers. His gaze moves between Landon and me.
"Arescaine is my apprentice," he says at last, his voice edged with something deeper. "He carries my name in craft and in honor."
He steps close to the fae healer.
"The debt you owe me, you pay it by saving his wife. All of it. Every last drop," Hrolf says quietly. "Save her."
Landon inclines his head once. "Done, Forgefather. I will do my best."
I catch Hrolf's eye briefly.
I'll be fine, I nod to the master blacksmith.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then steps through. The portal closes behind him.
"He has refused kings before." Landon looks toward the space where Hrolf stood. "For him to name you as his apprentice is not a small thing."
He looks at me differently now. "I will help your wife."
"Quickly," I tell him.
We return to his refuge at a run. The wyvern is waiting where we left her, as if she sensed the urgency. Her head lifts the moment Landon approaches. He gathers his supplies quickly, stuffing them into saddlebags.
When I step closer, Dorcha's wings flare slightly. A low warning rolls through her chest.
"She does not carry strangers," Landon says without looking at me. "I can summon another wyvern."
"No need."
The pressure builds between my shoulders. Bone shifts, muscle tears and reforms. Fabric splits as wings surge outward from my back in a sweep of dark span and pale-edged fire.
They unfurl once, vast and controlled.
"I've never seen a nightwalker do that," Landon says, something genuinely unsettled in his voice. "I didn't know your kind could fly."
"They can't," I say. "Move."
Dorcha launches.
The force of her takeoff shakes the trees.
Wind slams into me as her wings beat powerful and steady.
I leap after her and follow close behind.
As we clear the treeline, Landon raises a hand and speaks a single sharp phrase in the old fae tongue.
The barrier parts just wide enough to admit us, the magic peeling back like silk drawn aside.
We pass through.
Behind us, the ward seals again, smooth and seamless.
"The elf," Landon calls over the wind. "She's your mate?"
I don't dignify his question with an answer. I keep my eyes forward. He's quiet for a moment.
"I've seen it before," he continues, unbothered by my silence. "Finnbheara was the same. His mate took a fever three winters ago. He broke a healer's wrist for moving too slowly."
A faint pause. "I was that healer."
I glance at him.
"I survived," he says dryly. "She did too. I work well under pressure."
Dorcha banks slightly, catching a current.
"I'm saying I understand," he says simply. There is no jest or condescension in his words.
Below us, the land shifts from forest to stone and sea. The journey that took us days on foot takes hours by air. Volundr appears below us, still showing damage from the waves but alive. They're rebuilding.
Near the western quarter, bright cloth hangs from a tall beam — Aelfric's marker. A cleared stretch of courtyard lies open beside the healing house, guards already pushing civilians back.
"There," Landon calls, leaning forward over Dorcha's neck.
The wyvern answers with a sharp cry and banks hard.
She circles once above the designated landing space, wings casting a vast shadow over the courtyard.
Her landing shakes the stones. Wind blasts outward in a violent rush.
People scream and scatter at the sight of her, some stumbling, others dropping to their knees at the sheer size of the beast and the fae astride her back.
I land moments later, folding my wings tight.
"Where is she?" I demand of the first healer who stops long enough to acknowledge us.
"Third floor—" Her eyes widen as she takes in Landon properly. "Is that a fae? What's he doing here?"
"He's here to help," Aelfric says, appearing from inside.
"Lord Rainer moved her to the temple chamber," the healer continues, still staring at Landon. "The Hlaryan elves thought the sacred pools might help stabilize her. But it's not working."
"Take me to her. Now," Landon mutters.
We run through the healing house corridors, past wounded who stare at the fae commander in their midst with fear and hatred. But no one tries to stop us.
The temple chamber is at the very top of the healing house. A room with windows overlooking the mountains. They've moved Rhianelle's bed here, surrounded her with candles and herbs to make her comfortable.
I rush to her bedside and drop to my knees. She looks worse than when I left. Her breathing is so shallow I can barely see her chest move.
"I'm here," I whisper, taking her hand. "I made it back to you. I brought help."
Behind me, the door opens.
I sense rather than see Landon enter. Feel the shift in the air as he steps into the room.
Something invisible snaps tight.
I turn to look at him and freeze.
Landon has stopped in the doorway. His entire body goes rigid, his eyes fixed on Rhianelle. He stares at her like he's been struck by lightning.
Light explodes between them.
Golden and brilliant. The mating bond strikes like Elli warned it would. I can see it now, the threads fate has woven. They connect Landon and Rhianelle with cords of pure destiny.
The air crackles with power as the bond settles into place.
Color returns to Rhianelle's cheeks. Her breathing deepens, strengthens. The healing begins immediately, powered by the sheer life force of a connection blessed by the Un themselves.
Landon staggers back a step, gripping the doorframe for support. "No," he whispers. "It can't be."
The bond pulses between them. Golden threads wrap around Rhianelle. They sink into her skin, feeding her strength and life.
I watch as fate rewrites itself before my eyes. This fae commander, the Herald of the Wild Hunt, is her true mate. The one Blight and the Un have chosen. The one who fits her perfectly.
Rhianelle's eyes flutter open.
For the first time in days, she's truly conscious and aware. Her twilight eyes focus, seeing clearly rather than staring through fever dreams.
She looks at Landon first. Recognition flashes across her face. "Landon?"
Her voice is stronger already. The bond is healing her, knitting together what medicine and magic couldn't touch.
Then her eyes find me kneeling beside the bed. She looks at me like she's never seen me before in her life.
"Who are you?" she asks.