Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
The days of travel through the Stone Rifts were a labyrinth of craggy cliffs and towering boulders.
Rocks jutted out like giant teeth, their sharp edges cutting into the night sky.
Deep ravines and narrow chasms carved the land.
The shadows stretched across the paths, forcing them to tread carefully.
A crisp breeze carried the scent of moss and soil. Each step sent a faint tremor through the earth, as if the land itself were breathing beneath them. Muscles ached and sleep was fleeting.
“We’ll set up camp here,” Thorne said, running his hand through his hair. “Gisela, you need rest.”
“Says who, pretty boy? I’m doing just fine.”
Thorne’s mouth curled into a grin. “You think I’m pretty?”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.
Silas chuckled as he rummaged through his bag searching for the small tents. “I’m tired too. It’s been a long day.”
Gisela moved to help him. “How long until we reach Aquamere?”
“Probably two more days. One, if we stay on the trade route but it’s probably not safe,” Silas said, glancing at Thorne.
In their tent, Gisela rested her head against Thorne’s chest, her arm draped across his waist. The warmth of his skin grounded her, but her mind wouldn’t stop turning over everything that could go wrong.
“I’m worried,” Gisela said.
“About what?” His fingers traced slow, gentle patterns on her back.
“They know you’re a Mystic now. There’s no going back from that.”
He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “I’ll be safe in Aquamere. At least for a little while.”
“And then what?”
“Then we’ll have Marina. Four awakened Mystics. Whatever the King and that Zaro guy are planning, we have the power to stop it.”
Gisela sat up, reaching into her bag for the piece of parchment Elysande had given her at the tavern. She unfolded it, scanning the familiar writing.
“What’s that?” Thorne asked.
She glanced at him, then back to the page. It was a fragment torn from Elysande’s book. She read it again. “A prophecy . . . I completely forgot about this.” She handed it to him.
Thorne squinted at the words inked on the page, reading aloud:
“Through veils of time, a Mystic King shall awaken,
With fiery passion, the kingdom’s fate is taken.
When fire stands witness beneath the sun’s churn,
In the ember’s glow, new paths shall burn.”
Thorne looked over at Gisela. “I don’t understand.”
“Elysande alluded to this after the last inspection. She must’ve been searching for evidence in Rockridge. She handed this to me in the tavern.”
Thorne shook his head. “A Mystic King though?”
“Yes. I think this prophecy is why King Thraxus started the executions.”
“It was because of the Mystic in Thunderpeak. The one who lost control. An Elding.”
“I think it was the perfect incident to justify his ruling . . . don’t you?”
“You think he started them because of a threat to his throne?”
Gisela lifted a shoulder. “That’s what it sounds like.”
“But why is that relevant now? King Ravenor isn’t a Mystic.”
“You’re right, he’s not.”
They sat in a comfortable silence, their thoughts racing as they tried to piece together the meaning of the old prophecy.
Thorne set the parchment aside. He tilted her chin to meet his gaze and softly kissed her lips. The kiss deepened, and heat pooled low in her stomach.
“As much as I’d like to continue where we left off, I think we need as much sleep as we can get,” she whispered against his lips.
Thorne sighed. “Fine. But as soon as we get a room to ourselves . . .”
Gisela pursed her lips, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. “I don’t think you’ll do anything.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Is that a challenge?” he asked, his voice low and teasing. He flipped her underneath him, pinning her wrists above her head. He leaned in, his breath warm against her neck, lightly teasing her senses.
A soft whimper escaped her lips.
“I wonder what other sounds I can coax out of you,” he said.
A faint shuffle came from the other tent.
“He’s still awake. We have to be quiet,” Gisela said, giggling.
“We can’t do quiet,” Thorne said. “So, go to sleep, Freckles.”
“You just won’t let that nickname go, will you?” she said through a yawn.
“It’s because I love them so much.”
Thorne eased his weight off her and drew Gisela against his side, one arm settling around her. His fingers traced through her hair. She pressed closer, seeking the heat of his chest.
The prophecy, the King, the Stones—they could face all of that tomorrow. Tonight, they had each other.
Her mind slowed as she drifted toward sleep, but she could have sworn she heard him whisper, “And I love you even more.”
Gisela woke up alone to the light of the morning sun. She blinked against the brightness and peeked her head out of the tent’s opening, where Silas was already packing their gear.
She sighed, running her hands through her tangled hair, longing for a bath. As she braided it back, a familiar pulse of magic thrummed beneath her fingers.
Eira stirred inside her.
“Anyone hungry?” Thorne’s deep voice cut through her thoughts.
She pushed her way out of the tent and stopped.
Thorne stood a few paces away with a boar slung over his shoulder. Its coarse fur glinted in the morning light.
“Nice job, Thorne,” Silas said, wiping dirt off of his hands.
With a burst of flames, Thorne started a fire. Smoke curled up in lazy spirals.
Silas conjured fruit and vegetables from the ground to have with their breakfast.
“You’re able to conjure food here but weren’t able to on the mountain,” Gisela observed.
Silas nodded. “Seems that way. But it feels weaker than it should be.”
“None of the animals looked rabid while I hunted this morning, though. No white eyes,” Thorne added, tossing a small branch into the fire.
“Were your parents Mystics?” Gisela asked, settling onto a moss-covered stone that Silas had grown for her.
“My mother. She was an Earthshaper too,” he said, flexing his fingers absently.
Thorne took a bite of meat. “Any siblings?”
“A brother. My father was worried we would become Mystics. Luckily, I met Helena, and she helped me when I found my mark. My brother wasn’t a Mystic, and he never knew I was.
It’s random, you know. Just because you have a Mystic parent doesn’t mean you’re guaranteed the gift.
” He paused, his gaze dropping to the fire.
“I couldn’t tell them. Knowing would’ve put them in danger.
And they never had to worry about me dying the same way my mother did—at the hands of the Kingdom.
” He blinked, swallowing whatever emotion threatened to escape.
“I can’t imagine having to worry about my parents that way,” Gisela said.
Silas tilted his head. “One of your parents has to be a Mystic.”
“I don’t have lineage. Neither does Thorne.”
Crag appeared next to Silas, arms crossed. “There is always lineage. It is in the blood,” Crag said, firmly.
“Maybe I’m an anomaly.”
“A grandmother? Grandfather?” Crag pressed.
“None.”
“We have not been in close range to your parents, Gisela, so I am unsure. But I did not sense an awakened Primal in Thorne’s father,” Ignitus said, appearing next to Thorne.
“My father isn’t a Mystic. He despises them. He would’ve never married my mother if she were one either,” Thorne said pointedly. He adjusted the fire, eyes distant.
Silence fell and it wasn’t the comfortable kind.
Tension was thick, like a secret hung in the air that she wasn’t privy to.
Gisela had always been secure in who she was.
A daughter. A sister. A friend. A healer.
When she found the mark on her birthday, it hadn’t changed who she was inside.
It had shocked her, yes—a cruel mistake she once believed.
But now, listening to the others, she realized she didn’t know enough.
She didn’t know nearly enough about the world she was part of, or the powers that might shape it.
“What type of Mystic was Helena?” Gisela asked, breaking the silence.
“She was an Aquamancer. Marina is too,” Silas said, chin high.
“Helena named her, you know. An act of defiance, naming her after water. Something she did to shove it in the kingdom’s face.
” A warm smile crossed his face, but there was a hint of pain in his eyes.
“She was a feisty one. You would’ve loved her, Gisela.
Marina is a lot like her mother.” Silas’s face sank as he said the words.
“But I’m not sure she’ll ever speak to me again. ”
“I’ll talk to her,” Gisela reassured. “Once she knows what’s at stake, she’ll join us.”
“My knees aren’t what they used to be,” Silas said, swinging a leg over the ridge and landing on loose gravel.
Gisela landed beside him with far more grace than she felt.
Thorne hopped down last, the crunch of his boots loud in the stillness. “You’re not even that old.”
“In my forties and wise enough to know joints age faster when you spend weeks following the courtship of two people who swore they were ‘just friends’.”
Thorne blinked, and Gisela laughed.
“So,” Silas continued, tone maddeningly casual, “how long?”
Gisela nearly tripped on a stone. “You mean how long we’ve known each other? Since we were kids.”
“Mm.” Silas adjusted the strap of his pack. “Right. Known.”
“Believe me, I couldn’t stand the sight of him until—well . . .” Her gaze flicked to Thorne.
He stayed silent, a faint curl of a smile tugging at his lips.
Silas glanced back at him. “Not the same story for you, huh?”
“Well . . . I think I always—”
Silas raised a finger, cutting him off. “Voices.”
Up ahead, muffled footsteps and murmurs reached them.
“They’re off the trade route,” Silas whispered, ducking into a narrow crevice between the rocks.
Thorne grasped Gisela’s arm, guiding her into the shadowed opening.
It was hard to breathe but the feel of Thorne’s hands running up and down her arms slowed her pulse.
“. . . turn back before dusk,” one guard’s voice carried. “Lands unstable. I’m not staying for another rock avalanche.”
Silas pressed his back to the stone, eyes wide.
Another guard spat. “If he burned Cillian that bad, you really wanna be the one dragging him home anyway?”
A low whistle answered. “Not me. He’s probably long gone now. I say we turn back.”
Gravel crunched as their footsteps faded.
Silas waited until they were out of sight before stepping out. “I don’t know what’s worse, being hunted, or a rock avalanche.”
The mountain answered him with a sharp crack.
Silas spun first. “Move—”
Loose stones tumbled from the ridge above. A deep groan of shifting weight followed, and cold, absolute fear shot through Gisela’s veins.
The slope was collapsing.
A boulder broke free, smashing into the path in a spray of dust and shards.
Gisela coughed, grit stinging her eyes.
Silas thrust his hands upward, the earth trembling in response, but the mass was too heavy. His knees buckled under the strain.
Crag appeared alongside him, pushing at smaller rocks as the cascade continued.
Thorne lunged to shield Gisela as she began to fall backward.
Dust filled the air, blurring her vision. Her hands shot out beneath his arms, fingers splaying. A rush of cold surged from her fingertips, obedient to her will.
Ice burst skyward, forming a thick, sturdy wall between their bodies and the shattered slope. Rocks pounded against it, but it held.
Thorne landed on top of her with his arms braced on both sides of her head. Neither of them moved, the world reduced to the roar of stones pelting ice.
Gisela blinked up at him, chest rising and falling with adrenaline.
Silas coughed through the settling dust. “By the Six.”
She stared at her hands.
Eira appeared next to her, smiling. “Well controlled, Gisela.”
Thorne’s gaze lifted to the frozen barricade. “Impressive,” he murmured.
Silas dusted himself off. “Looks like my knees won’t be the death of me after all.”
Thorne shot him a look, half amused, half exasperated.
Together, the three of them scrambled to their feet and pressed on. The echo of the avalanche faded behind them, leaving a foreboding sense that the land, and the gods who watched it, were far from pleased.