Chapter 15

  Morning hit before anyone slept. River snapped his pack shut and chose the southern route.

  They stood again at the edge of Norvil in that washed, early morning sun. Air crisp, sky pale with the promise of a long day that would not ask permission.

  His eyes found Nymeira first, subtly bigger, the bond tugging tight after Amalia’s tier jump.

  Albert stood taller, confidence earned. Tessa loomed beside him, the hammer riding his shoulder like it had been waiting.

  Calira thrummed in River’s skull, the new pendant warm as a coal. Tessa loomed at his side, quiet as a hill. The massive hammer rode Albert’s shoulder as if it had been waiting for him since it was forged. Calira practically thrummed, her voice ricocheting bright in River’s skull. The new pendant—an artifact meant to deepen her affinity—radiated warmth against her chest, a coal with its own breath.

  “Let’s try this thing out.” The words flew from her lips, sparks already skittering along the chain.

  River had to talk her down before she set half the city on fire by accident. Perfect match for a phoenix—also a hazard in boots. For half a minute he let himself feel only the presence of his friends. The mission faded. The danger stepped back a pace. Nice—briefly.

  Albert tipped his head. “Ready?”

  River nodded, the weight returning to its place on his shoulders like armor. No speeches. The three of them stepped beyond Norvil’s border again.

  South, then west—quicker, riskier. Their final destination. Klints Gate: rumor had it people vanished at night, crops soured—silent ruin creeping through thresholds. Even if it wasn’t the shadows, something was wrong.

  By mid-morning, the walls were far behind. The road corkscrewed through low hills and brittle grass. Trees leaned at odd angles, bark striped with black scars—burns or something worse. Birds sang, but only here and there; the wind brought no scent, just a thin hush that didn’t feel like peace.

  River tightened his grip on the wooden box at his hip—the King’s communicator, their lifeline. Whatever was coming had already passed through here. The land remembered.

  Dust and gray-green brush blurred. His thoughts walked faster than his feet: training, the vault, the King’s voice with urgency. Images flickered like fire behind closed eyes, and one stayed.

  Philip. Smiling. Watching. Waiting.

  A shiver knifed down his spine. The spiral began.

  Calira cut it with heat, sharp and warm. Focus on something happier. He’s not worth the rent in your head.

  No shit, he thought, exhaling hard through his nose. But what else am I supposed to think about?

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I don’t know, maybe use that big brain to get us there faster? I’m bored.

  She’d grown, yes. Her patience had not.

  He let the idea rattle around a minute. Then his eyes snapped open. Calira… can you get big enough to carry us? Or is that too much?

  A laugh rolled up from her, low and fond. You lazy fuck. A sigh followed. Possible. Maybe not in one shot—we’d need a stop.

  Good enough. Any flight would claw back miles.

  He looked to his friends. They walked ahead, pace steady but heavy with the mission’s pull. “Calira can carry us,” he called.

  They turned, eyebrows twin knots. None of them had seen her large enough for that. Yet.

  Before questions could form, heat braided the air beside him. Fire licked upward, coiling to a column, and from it Calira stepped, stretched, then kept going. Feathers of blazing crimson and molten gold unfurled until she shadowed the clearing.

  “Surprise,” she said, grinning, voice deeper with power.

  Even Amalia stepped back. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

  “I like dramatic entrances.” Calira winked, wings flexing. “All right—everyone on. Hold tight.”

  River swung up first, the warmth of her essence wrapping him like a second skin. Albert followed, hauling Tessa with one arm and keeping the hammer slung. Amalia climbed last, eyes pinned to the horizon. Nymeira curled behind her, already half asleep, shameless.

  One mighty beat and the ground fell away.

  Wind clawed at their clothes and tangled hair, but Calira’s warmth held the cold at bay. Below, the land spilled out beneath them—and with it, an awful truth they’d hoped wasn’t real. What should’ve been green and alive was gray now, streaked with scars. It looked sick. Like rot, spreading in veins that reached further with every beat of Calira’s wings. The deeper they flew, the worse it got.

  “We won’t make it in one go,” Calira called over the wind. “I’ll set us down before I drop you.”

  River knew it before she spoke; her essence was already dulling, a far cry from its familiar blade-bright red.

  Dusk smeared itself across the treeline as they made landfall. They scraped together a tight little earth hut—efficient, no flourishes. River took first watch, unspoken but understood. There wasn’t any need for chatter; just the sound of hands moving dirt and the hush that settles when people have been through too much.

  Somewhere in the long dark, River made up his mind: they'd head west. If the blight really was spreading, that direction would meet it sooner. Best to see the rot coming, if it was coming at all.

  Morning broke pale and cold, the sky smudged like it had been half-erased. They ate in silence—not the awkward kind, but the kind that feels shared, like both sides are carrying the same weight

  River touched the mark. “Calira?”

  A warm thrum answered. “I’m here. I can take us the rest.”

  She burst forth in a flare of crimson and took her full shape again. Her eyes were sharper now; the lines of her wings read focused instead of showy. River climbed first, then pulled Amalia up; Albert settled in behind.

  The second flight held fewer words. Below, land stretched dull and brittle—burned fields, twisted trees, patterns of harm that didn’t look natural. Calira’s wingbeats slowed, more careful, as the haze broke the horizon, its light cresting structures.

  Then they saw it: a walled town folded against a shallow ridge.

  Wrong.

  Smoke drifted thin from a few chimneys, but the road stood empty. No carts. No figures. No guards at the gate. The wind blew through without stirring anything up.

  Calira dipped lower and set them down just beyond the southern entrance. They dismounted without discussion.

  The gates yawned open. No one came. Not even a shout. There was a ghost of cooking in the air. Tracks still sharp in the mud. River stepped first, hand on the wooden box, heart ticking loud enough to hear.

  “Stay sharp,” he murmured.

  Together, they crossed into the stillness.