The Void Between Stars (The Thorned Sigil #2)

Chapter 1

Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo—

The sound drills into my skull, dragging me out of the heavy, dreamless dark I’ve been calling sleep. Not sleep. Just the absence of consciousness. Dark, dreamless, and empty where Elle should be.

Doo-doo-doo-doo—

I crack one eye open.

Peeble is perched on the table beside my cot, antennae rigid with self-importance, their iridescent shell catching the thin light bleeding through the tent fabric.

They clear their throat. Do beetles even have throats?

Either way, they do it with the gravitas of someone about to deliver wartime intelligence.

"Good morning, everyone, and welcome to your daily Wynmire weather report," Peeble announces, projecting their voice with a theatrical resonance that has no business coming out of something that small.

"It's a balmy eighty-two degrees outside.

Partly cloudy, which matches the mood of the grump lying in the bed next to me.

" They gesture one leg in my direction. "The forecast for the week looks grim.

Intense sulking. Temper tantrums. And the kind of glare that makes flowers wilt on contact. "

I groan and press my face into the thin excuse for a pillow.

It's been like this for months. Every morning, the same insufferable routine ever since things settled enough to give Peeble no one else to torment.

They've been glued to me—perched on my shoulder, buzzing in my ear, landing on my face while I try to think.

I don't have the energy for this shit today.

"Peeble." My voice comes out rough and scraped raw. "Can we not?"

"What? I'm just trying to sprinkle a little happiness on you.

Help brighten your day." They flutter their wings, and a fine dusting of yellow powder drifts off their shell.

"Full transparency. That might actually be pollen.

Kevin and I were rolling around in a flowerbed earlier.

Either way, it's something to brighten your day.

The yellow could do wonders for your complexion.

We'll just tell everyone you're an actual ray of sunshine for once. "

I don't dignify that with a response. I sit up slowly, every muscle protesting the movement like my body has decided that lying down permanently is a valid life strategy. The deep sigh that leaves me isn't intentional—it just escapes, the kind of exhale that carries a weight I can't name.

I look around the tent for something to wear.

Clothes are scattered across the ground in a pattern that suggests I stopped caring about organization weeks ago.

I grab the closest thing within reach, a shirt that might have been dark green once but now qualifies as ambiguous, and pull it over my head.

Trousers that are mostly intact. Boots that are entirely intact. An accomplishment.

Peeble sniffs the air with exaggerated drama, their antennae curling.

"Have you considered a bath? Washing your clothes? This whole depressed, I'm grieving motif is compelling on an artistic level, truly, but it's been going on a touch long." They tap a leg against the table. "Aesthetically speaking."

I growl at them, low and guttural, and the corruption marks along my arms pulse once in the dim light. "I've been a little busy."

"I see. Well, it's probably a good thing Elle's not here to see you like this, because—" They whistle through their wings.

"I don't think you could get a slimy Watergorg from the depths of the Nethersea to flirt with you at this moment.

And they are the lowest of low, Kaelren.

Zero standards. They don't even have eyesight. "

The mention of her name lands like a blade between my ribs. Quick. Precise. The way it always does when someone says it casually, like she's just somewhere else and not scattered across every moment in existence.

I ignore it. Ignore all of it.

Elle isn’t gone.

The Root scattered her across the timelines like seeds on the wind. Somewhere out there she’s breathing. Fighting. Surviving.

And I am going to find her.

"Where's Sarnyx?"

"I believe I just saw her come back from morning rounds. She's out in camp. You might be able to find her if you venture beyond the tent flap—a radical concept, I know."

I push out of the tent and immediately flinch against the sun. Bright. Offensively bright. I blink hard, eyes watering, and squint up at the sky.

Partly cloudy, my ass.

The camp spreads out before me in controlled disorder.

Tents arranged in concentric circles around the central fire pit, supply stations marked with colored banners, patrol paths worn into the grass by weeks of routine.

We've been here long enough that it's starting to look permanent, which is a thought I try not to dwell on.

My gaze catches on Vashael and Nimor emerging from their tent.

Together. His arm brushing hers, her pollen-touched skin luminous in the morning light.

Nimor is more solid than I've ever seen him—less shadow, more man—and the reason for that is obvious in the way he looks at her.

Like she's the only real thing in the world.

They finally accepted what the rest of us saw from the beginning. Good for them. I try to be happy about it.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't fucking hurt every time I looked at them. Not because I begrudge them the happiness—because it reminds me exactly of what I lost.

I force my eyes away and head toward the fire pit, where the smell of something vaguely edible pulls me toward the cooking station.

Bryx and Mora are serving breakfast, or rather, Mora is serving breakfast with quiet efficiency while Bryx provides commentary that no one asked for.

Kevin hovers nearby, his massive bee form casting a shadow over the area, antennae twitching with territorial interest over the porridge.

Mora sees me first. She ladles something thick and grainy into a bowl and holds it out, her expression soft. She gives me a small smile—the careful kind, the kind people give when they know better than to ask how you're doing because the answer is written in the hollows under your eyes.

I take the bowl.

"Morning, boss!" Bryx pipes up, compound eyes bright with an energy that borders on criminal at this hour. "Glad to see you up and about. Kevin and I had a bet going on what time you'd surface after how much drink you put away last night." He leans toward Mora conspiratorially. "What time is it?"

"Half-past eight," she answers.

"Dammit," Bryx snaps his fingers. "Kevin, you might have won this round. But I'm thinking we do double or nothing on the next go. I've got a system."

"Your system," Mora says mildly, "is guessing randomly and then claiming it was strategy."

"It is strategy. It's called intuitive forecasting."

I give Mora a slight nod, the closest I can manage to gratitude, and carry my bowl away from their warmth. Not because I don't appreciate it. Because being around people who care about me only makes the silence feel heavier.

I spot Sarnyx off to the side, hunched over a map spread across a makeshift table made of flat stones stacked together and topped with a plank of smoothed bark.

A few of the locals hover around her, their shells dim with morning sluggishness, obviously reviewing some kind of formation or trade route.

She's got that look on her face, the scrunch between her brows that means she's calculating distances, probabilities, problems she hasn't told me about yet.

I walk over. "What's the morning report?"

She straightens, rolling her shoulders as if she's been leaning over that map since before dawn. Probably has.

"Quiet," she says. "Patrol came back clean.

The settlements nearest the new blooms are stable: Thornhaven, Mossbridge, and the river colony are all holding.

" She taps a point on the map. "They're adjusting to self-governance, but it's messy.

No regency to answer to anymore, so each settlement is trying to figure out how to lead itself.

Some are doing councils. A few have appointed speakers.

There's been disagreements about trade routes, who controls what, who ships where, who gets priority on the restored waterways. "

"But?"

"But it's been peaceful." She meets my eyes. "Genuinely. The rot is still receding in most areas. New growth is coming in strong. Whatever Elle did—" she catches herself. Recalibrates. "The balance is holding."

“Peaceful,” she repeats.

I turn the word over in my mind like a stone with sharp edges.

Relief that the rot is no longer spreading, yes.

That the realm isn't actively dying, yes.

But peace? There is no peace without Elle.

She is the anchor that keeps the darkness in me from taking everything.

She is light to my corruption, warmth to my cold, and without her I am exactly what I was before she fell into this world. A weapon with nothing worth protecting.

There hasn't been a single minute of a single day that I haven't thought about her.

I've been digging with Eltrien through the deepest archives the Thornwood has to offer, scouring texts so old the language has to be translated three times before it makes sense.

Looking for something, anything, on temporal dispersal, on navigating the spaces between moments, on how to bring someone back from the kind of existence that isn't really existence at all.

We've had leads. Small ones. References in ancient Bloom texts about consciousness existing outside linear time. Root archives that describe entities who once spanned multiple moments and found their way back to a single now. But every lead ends in ambiguity, or silence, or trust the process.