Chapter Seventy-Eight
ELYSSARA
We find a steady rhythm over the next five days—easy conversation, hunting, a meal beneath the rising moon, and a flask of liquor that burns all the way down to my belly.
The group falls into a natural dynamic—Therion and Rhyven lead, track and hunt, Jax provokes Merrik in ways that make him cringe and grumble in frustration, Daelen and Ronyn laugh and share inappropriate jokes, and Rubi makes Seren blush with wild stories of experimental herbs, pranks and tales of Therion and Kael as young boys.
It leaves Kael and I trailing at the back of the group, sharing stolen kisses, long embraces, and stories about who we’ve been before each other. We spend a lot of time in silence, simply enjoying the convergence of our world and the people in it.
The beauty of The Riverian Jungle is mirrored in the people around me—so full of color, life and magic. The contrast between this place is stark compared to the dying streets of Virellin, thick with rot and the reek of The Black Stream.
I feel as if fate has dragged me here, pulling me along with invisible strings, urging me to the next place, the next relic, the next moment. But now that I’m here, I feel like I’m choosing it—to stay, to live, to see this through, whatever the cost.
My thoughts are swallowed whole by the sound of rushing water. I sit up straighter in the saddle, and Kael leans forward, brushing his lips across my neck, “I think we’re about to find a lost kingdom, Duskae.”
Gooseflesh ripples across my skin at his touch, “And some dragons,” I add.
He hums his agreement, and Therion and Rhyven urge the horses on, brushing under low-hanging vines that cloud our view ahead.
My chest tightens. The air here feels charged—like the space between lightning and thunder.
The hushed sound of water turns into a roar as we sweep through the vines, and the view steals my breath.
Water cascades over layered rock like glass, veiling the cliff side like moving glass, ancient and alive. The falls pool in the crystal-clear turquoise waters below that shimmer under dapples of sunlight, while lush greenery hangs overhead, framing the falls.
Dragonflies flit across the water’s surface, and land on moss-laced stones that border the pools. Mist clings to my skin, and the air smells of petrichor and damp earth.
Despite the beauty in front of me, my eyes don’t stay on the pristine waters—they go searching, scanning the area for the rune Kael told me exists here.
There.
Seren inhales sharply.
“Threshold to the forgotten,” she whispers, her voice ethereal and distant, eyes locked on the rune. Her eyes are wide, glassy—like memory has brushed past her skin.
“Holy fucking Stars, it exists,” Ronyn mutters in awe, as if he never really believed it would.
“I’ll scout ahead,” Rhyven announces, already drawing his swords and slipping into that low, predator-like stance he adopts when danger might be near. Kael gives him a tight nod.
“Do we have any idea how we actually find this threshold to the forgotten, Seren?” Kael asks.
She closes her eyes, tilting her head slightly, like she’s listening for a melody none of us can hear. “In terms of records from Rowan or my books, no,” she admits. “But...” Her brows pinch faintly. “I can feel it... calling to me.”
The group exchanges glances, uncertain. “Little Star, what do you mean?” I ask.
“Do you remember at Lyssar Temple? When I could hear the song of the wind without knowing how?” she says, and I nod slowly. “It’s like that. But stronger. Like there’s a melody in the water, or the wind. A memory. Like it’s part of me.”
My breath catches. Part of her. The way the light seems to linger on her skin here, how the wind keeps brushing her hair into her eyes—it’s as though the waterfall itself is trying to remember her.
I glance down at my chest, half-expecting to see the Astral Compass gleaming in the sunlight—but it’s gone.
Hidden. Along with the blade and crown Kael and I secreted away before we left Thornewood.
The ache of separation from them is unfamiliar, but the blade Revryn forged still hangs at my thigh. It has never failed me.
“What is it calling you to do, Little Star?” I ask gently.
Seren’s voice trembles. “To follow the water home.”
The words settle between us like mist—soft, reverent, full of something ancient.
“Then we follow the water,” Therion says without hesitation.