38. The Heart of the Jungle
THE HEART OF THE JUNGLE
ELENA – IN FLIGHT
The skiff drops low, slicing through the humid air. Rythar steers one-handed, the other anchoring me at the hip. Every time we bank, his grip tightens. I pretend it’s for stability, but the mate bond in my chest flares every time he pulls me in.
We’re flying blind, without nav lights, or comms. There’s only the line of the river to our right, and the jungle getting out of our way as the skiff passes through it. He’s told me nothing about where we’re going. Only that we would leave at full dark.
It’s pitch black except for the illuminated strip around the cockpit. The glow paints Rythar’s face in soft red, sharpening his jaw and making his scars look deeper. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t look away from the canopy, not even once. But the hand at my hip? It never moves.
He banks the skiff into a deadfall ravine, skimming so close to the branches I can see water beading on the leaves. He cuts the engine, and we glide the last hundred meters, silent and perfect, until the hull bumps the soft jungle floor and slows to a stop.
He lifts me out, one arm behind my knees, the other under my shoulders.
“What are you up to?” I smile up at him.
One corner of his mouth tilts up, but he says nothing.
The skiff seals itself behind us as vines close over it.
He insists on carrying me bridal-style as we leave the skiff behind.
His body heat seeps into mine. Every few steps, I hear the click and pop of a flexing vine or a branch making way.
It’s not just the physical. There’s a current in the air, a psychic pressure that gets stronger the deeper we go.
It’s the power of the jungle, trickling through Rythar and into me.
He finally sets me down at the edge of a low stone rise, nearly invisible under the carpet of moss and lichen.
“Is this what you were building?” I ask.
He grunts, vines move, and a seam splits open, revealing a hollow that is not cave or house or bunker, but somehow all three.
The door isn’t metal or even proper wood. It’s a living sheath, woven of vines and bark. It uncurls at his touch and seals behind us, thick enough to muffle the outside world.
He leads us inside. It’s a spiral of rooms that nest deeper and deeper underground. I can’t see more than a few meters ahead, but I sense the place is huge beneath the moss.
The walls are stone and thick root, fused tightly. As we go deeper, the roots glow with faint green, like the ambient light from the fortress but more organic. The floor underfoot is warm and soft. It gives just enough to make every step quiet.
We reach a central chamber. There’s a table carved from a slab of hardwood, and seats in various sizes. The ceiling curves high overhead, where thick root systems twist together and disappear into darkness.
He gestures for me to sit. I choose one of the chairs that’s my size.
He stands over me for a minute, then finally says, “No one can see you here.” His voice is low. “Not even Jarrett.”
I look at him, trying to gauge if that’s a boast or a warning.
He circles the chamber once, checks each of the grown archways, then returns and crouches in front of me. The posture is more animal than usual—balanced on the balls of his feet, arms loose, but every muscle tensed and ready.
“You seem a little different here,” I say carefully.
“I am. I think it will be the same for you. We will ease you into it,” Rythar says.
“This place is outside anyone’s reach,” he says, voice still quiet.
“I improved it after the Council first tried to isolate you.” He looks down.
“And it took time for me to realize that I should allow you to use your gift from the Stone. I told you before that I would stop the Council. I will not risk you, but I will let you help. If you are careful. And you listen to me.”
“Why here?” I say. “What’s here that’s not in the fortress?”
“Privacy,” he says. “And safety. But mostly privacy. I’ve been working on perfecting it. I couldn’t tell you about it in the fortress. Not without risking Jarrett knowing.”
I glance around. The place doesn’t look like it’s been used. No personal effects, no books, no tools, just the raw architecture and the pulse of the roots.
I narrow my eyes. “What’s the catch?”
He grins, and it’s a genuine smile, the kind that makes you forget you’re supposed to be afraid. “You think there is always a catch.”
“There usually is,” I say. “Especially on Xytheos.”
He leans in. The heat from his body is a wall.
“There isn’t a catch for us. Only for anyone else.
The High Lord’s spies are everywhere. Even in my fortress.
But here, the roots scramble his senses.
He cannot track you. He cannot listen. I’m not certain what will happen once you communicate with Sophia from here.
Or any other. It’s still a risk. He may see that side of the connection. But he won’t reach you.”
He stands, offering me a hand. I take it, more curious than cautious.
He leads me to a wooden wall. The grain runs in spirals I've never seen in any natural wood. He presses his hand to it, and the wall softens, then parts, revealing a set of stairs carved into the earth. The air beyond is warmer, denser. It hums with the energy of the jungle.
We descend.
The staircase winds in a tight spiral. After a dozen steps, the temperature jumps. Sweat beads at my temples. At the bottom, the world opens up.
The chamber is massive. Bigger than any room I’ve seen in the fortress, bigger than the hangars where they land the air skiffs.
The ceiling is a tangle of roots. At the center, a pool of water glows blue, ringed by a web of tendrils.
The floor is stone, but veined through with the same roots as above.
The scent is wet, green, and minty, with a charge like static.
“This is the nexus of the Green Reach,” Rythar says. “Everything in the biome flows through here.”
I step closer to the pool. The surface is perfectly still, but when I look in, the reflection is blurry.
“What’s it for?” I say.
He shrugs as if the answer should be obvious. “This is the heart of the Green Reach. My heart, Elena. Only the biome lord may enter. In a thousand years, no other foot has touched this floor.”
The roots around the pool shift. They lean toward me the way a plant leans toward light.
Rythar watches the roots carefully. “They should only do that for the biome lord,” he says quietly.
I look at him.
Rythar looks back, eyes intense. He says, "If you wish, you can come and go without me. I will show you how."
I stare at him. After all the bolted doors and posting guards, he is handing me freedom. "Why?" I ask.
He doesn't answer right away. His jaw works. He looks at the pool, not at me. "Because if you want to leave, you will find a way to leave."
“Hey,” I say. “I’m not leaving. I don’t want to leave. Do you trust me?”
His eyes fix on mine. One corner of his mouth quirks up.
“If I did not trust you, I would not have let you in the heart of my jungle. And I would not let you leave it. I could have hidden you deep in the jungle from your first day here. Never let you see another soul besides me. It would have kept you safe. You never would have gone to Vorak. Or the High Lord.”
“But you didn’t do that,” I say.
“No,” Rythar says.
He stands at the edge of the pool, silent, watching the surface swirl.
“If you can learn to use this, you can see what I see. You can add my network to yours. Try it, Elena.”
“What do I do?”
He shrugs. “The first time, I just sat next to it and did it. It is a gift from the Stone. One I now hope to share with my mate.”
Condensation clings to my hairline and trickles down my neck. I sit cross-legged at the edge of the pool, hands pressed to the stone. The bride mark on my finger throbs in sync with the heartbeat of the chamber.
This was never just about me.
I let my fingers touch the water, and close my eyes.
The world tilts sideways, then blurs, then disappears.
All that’s left is the sound of my heartbeat and the soft, wet rhythm of the jungle life.
The Green Reach. But it’s too big. Rythar is there, holding it for me now.
Our minds touch. Then I pull back and reach outward, beyond the Green Reach.
I reach for Sophia first. I picture the old security uniform, the way she’d stand with her arms folded and a look that could stop a general. I imagine the smell of gun oil. The connection snaps into place.
If the connection to the Reach is a warm pool of green, Sophia’s mind is a pinpoint of light.
I feel her before I hear her, like a tightness behind my eyes.
I brush the tips of her thoughts softly.
I don’t know where she is, or if she can take this.
She’s tense, having to be braver than any of us want to be, but she’s okay.
Then Maya. Her presence is smaller, more distant, but I catch a flash of her. She’s alive. Jarrett is too close to her.
Who to try next?
Dana. I felt her spark before.
I find her pinprick of light and push towards her. The temperature in the chamber jumps. My ears ring. I push more, reaching, reaching—
And hit a wall.
I lean in, trying to force the connection, and the wall hits back, flooding my brain with static.
I gasp. My hands spasm, nails digging into the vines. Sweat beads on my forehead, blurring my vision. I hear the echo of Dana’s voice, but it’s scrambled. On the other side of that wall, something waits. Watching.
The High Lord is there. His attention presses on the bond, pinning me like a doll under a heavy rug. I try to pull back, but I’m locked in.
I can’t breathe. My hands shake. My chest hurts.
I don’t notice Rythar until he’s at my side, arms wrapping around me, one hand braced on the back of my neck, the other crushing my fingers in his grip.
“Stop,” he says, voice raw. “You have to stop.”
I try to pull my mind back, but I’m trapped under the mental rug.
He lifts me, cradling me against his chest.
“You’re burning,” he mutters. He strokes my hair, words rumbling into my skull. “You have to let go. Let it go.”
I need to know what happened to Dana.
He rocks me like I’m a child with a fever. My breath comes in gasps, every inhale harder than the last.
“Stop,” he says again, the word less a command and more a plea.
I blink, force my eyes open.
He’s not angry. He’s terrified. His jaw clenches, eyes wide, every inch of him coiled and ready to fight the intangible.
“I’m fine,” I croak. It’s a lie.
He knows it. “You were saying Dana’s name. The High Lord is watching her, isn’t he? He could use her to find you.”
I try to pull free of his arms. “Then help me,” I whisper. “Help me reach her.”
He shakes his head, but the doubt is there.
“You could make things worse for her,” Rythar growls. “He is waiting for it. I can feel the surveillance through the jungle senses.”
I turn in his arms, press my ear to his chest, and let his presence fill the space where the fear used to be.
He rocks me slowly. The motion is soothing, almost hypnotic.
Eventually, my pulse slows. I close my eyes, let the world shrink to the sound of his heart and the cool, damp air of the root chamber.
The next time I open my eyes, the light is different.
I’m sprawled on a mossy pad in the main chamber, cocooned in a light blanket.
A warm, watery glow spills through the ceiling, filtered by the living root thatch overhead.
For a moment, I can’t remember where I am.
My mouth tastes of mint, and the ache behind my eyes is a warning that whatever I did, I shouldn’t do it again.
Rythar’s gone, but not far away.
The air is thick with his scent, that blend of green and spices and sex. A mug of broth sits beside the sleeping pad. It’s still steaming. He’s been watching me. I take a slow sip of broth. It’s salty, faintly sweet, and delicious.
I pad barefoot through the house, trailing my fingers along the strange walls. The hallway curves gently, following the path of a vine thick as my torso. There’s more here, parts I haven’t seen.
The next room is small, circular, with an aperture in the ceiling that lets in a shaft of morning light.
The moss here is softer, finer. There’s a sleeping pad grown directly into the floor, and a stack of clean clothes folded with the kind of precision that only comes from a lifetime of military routine. Many human lifetimes, in Rythar’s case.
A second door, this one more hidden, is set into the wall.
I hesitate, then push it open. The walls beyond are lined with soft, woven vines.
There’s a tiny shelf, a basket of painted stones, and a set of wooden toys lined up in perfect order.
One is a small animal, hand-carved, the paint pristine. It’s waiting.
I don’t know why, but my eyes sting.
I sit there for a long time, cradling the toy in my lap.
It’s been years since I saw a child. This is a house built for futures, not just survival. The concept is almost too much.
I remember what Rythar said that night in the mating chamber. A hundred children. A thousand years.
I hold the toy tight until my hands stop shaking. I’m not afraid of a future with Rythar, of the two of us raising a child as mother and father. I’m afraid it won’t happen.
And Rythar is so hopeful that he’s already built us a nursery.
I turn, and there’s Rythar. He’s so silent I don’t even hear him approach. He fills the doorway, shadows falling across his face.
He says nothing. Just looks.
I hold the toy up.
“You built all this for children we don’t even have,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He shifts his weight and steps into the room. “I fortified it for you, for now,” he says. “But yes. I built this area for our children.”
My hands go tight around the animal’s belly. “Why bring me here now?”
He says nothing, frowning. “Perhaps I should have kept this section closed.”
I set the toy down. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He exhales, and the sound is as old as the planet. “The world is changing. The Concord Stone—” He shakes his head. “When I touched the pool, I knew. You were righter than you know. It is failing. The Council knows. The High Lord knows. If it breaks, there will be no more law.”
I try to picture the world without him. I can’t.
“You think Xytheos is going to fall. You think we’ll never get to use this place.”
He shrugs, massive shoulders rolling. “I don’t know. But I know the future is not what we planned.”