Chapter Twelve

Germination

Elloren

Northern Dyoi Mountain Range

“I was wrong about Elloren,”

Yvan’s mother calls out to my adversaries beyond the runic wall separating us, the light from Or’myr’s moons suffusing the night and Soleiya with a violet tint.

Sylvan, Iris, Yulan, Alder, and Vang Troi bracket Soleiya, a warm shimmer of emotion coursing through me in response to Soleiya’s vocal support, my ravens on guard in the sky above us, just below our dome-shield’s cloud-high apex.

I lean into Yvan, and he shoots me a quick, fervent look, his arm and fire aura wrapped around me, both the Dyoi Forest and the distant Zhilaan sending out palpable swirls of support around the two of us—Icaral and Dryad Witch united.

Fixed as two fiery stars.

“What of the Prophecy?”

one of the Amaz behind our wall of magic snarls—a young, gray-hued, heavily tattooed Elfhollen woman with braids the color of steel. Her silver eyes glint with a battle-hardened ire as she sets her gaze on me.

“Fallon Bane is the Black Witch!”

my sister Diana growls, her amber eyes aglow. “I warned you of this many, many months ago!”

“The Forest is forging a new, more powerful Prophecy,”

Soleiya insists to the Elfhollen soldier. “It is forging a new Prophecy for us all.”

She holds up her palm, displaying the III mark imprinted there.

An audible gasp rises, and Soleiya turns to me. I meet her incandescent gaze, our magic flaring out to each other in a blaze of alliance that twists my heart with the best kind of ache as she turns back to her allies and launches into a description of what the Forest revealed to her.

“I believe,”

Soleiya finally states, her voice hitching with emotion, “that if my husband, Valentin, were alive today . . .”

She stops, her mouth quavering into a grief-stricken grimace.

Yvan’s eyes meet mine before he goes to her. He takes hold of his mother’s hand, invisible spirals of his aura winding around their joined hands and arms as tears streak down Soleiya’s face. Yvan murmurs something to her in Lasair, and she nods, seeming bolstered by his words as she straightens and peers back out at the crowd of Vu Trin, holding tight to Yvan.

“I believe,”

Soleiya starts again, her splintered voice stronger now, “that if my husband were here with us right now—”

she glances at me once more “—that he would not only join with the Forest, but embrace Elloren as an ally and as family. As the Wyvernbonded mate of my son.”

Yvan’s heat shocks through our bond, his gaze flashing to mine with such ardent force that a flush warms my skin.

Hostile murmuring breaks out amongst our adversaries. Their outraged silence descends, everyone’s gazes settling on me. Sparks flying between us, Yvan extends his hand to me.

Feeling the press of fate circling down on us all, I go to him and wrap my hand around his, the contact triggering another rush of heat through our bond. An affectionate smile on his lips, Yvan draws me close, the Forest’s support flooding my rootlines with shimmering light power. I glance at the purple-lit tree line edging the ledge—the beautiful, complicated, absolutely vital-to-our-survival Living Wilds—my gut tightening against the dire situation we’re all faced with.

Reckless courage rises within me like an elemental storm, fueled by autumn’s prismatic power. I look first to Yvan, then to my allies and adversaries both, my heartbeat striking against my chest as I briefly meet the gazes of Mavrik and Gwynn, then Sage, Ra’Ven, Rivyr’el, Thierren, and Fain.

Unsheathing the branch at my waist, I drop it to the ground, fully disarming. Recklessly decided, I voice the words that are a leap off a cliff. “Strike down the wall between us.”

Shock flashes through Yvan’s and Soleiya’s power, through everyone’s power, my airborne ravens pulsing their cautioning Darkness through the scene around me as they land, ready for battle.

“Elloren,”

Yvan protests, “their hostility has not abated.”

I meet his blazing stare with my own. “We’re out of time,”

I insist, motioning to Alder, Sylvan, and Yulan. “You heard what my Dryad’kin and I sensed from the trees. The Mages are razing every Forest they can access. And now, Fallon has hastened the descent of a Shadow winter. No matter the risks, we can’t remain divided one second longer.”

Steeling myself, I meet Errilor’s pitch-black eyes and mentally petition both him and the rest of my flock to keep hold of their power before I turn back toward those allies who had a strong hand in crafting the shield-wall.

“Are you sure, Elloren,”

Trystan presses.

I nod.

They all hesitate for a brief, fraught moment longer, before raising branches and styluses in unison and murmuring spells.

The shield flashes out of existence in a spray of multicolored light.

My adversaries move to take their runic weapons in hand, and Yvan and his mother slide protectively in front of me, but I gently motion them back and step forward, pulse thundering, acutely aware of my vulnerability and my adversaries’ battle magic rising.

“Noi’khin’nur, Amazakaraan’veer, and Lasair’shin,”

I say, addressing my adversaries with the Noi, Amaz, and Lasair terms of highest respect. I gaze pointedly toward the Shadowed wasteland. “We’re staring down the possibility of the true end to Erthia. My Dryad’khin and I . . . we can’t fight this battle alone.”

I hold up my III-marked palm. “I’m begging you, Noi’khin’nur, Amazakaraan’veer, and Lasair’shin—”

I sweep my hand toward the trees “—to simply hear the Forest out.”

Silence falls, weighty with portent, my breath suspended in my chest as defensive magic continues to rise, every trace of Yvan’s and Soleiya’s fire poised to blast around me with weapon-repelling strength.

Queen Freyja Zyrr steps forward, her hazel eyes fixed on me. “Elloren Guryev, I will hear your Forest out.”

Heat explodes through Yvan’s and my bonded fire, Freyja’s gutsy move to name me Guryev triggering a shock wave through the magical aura of every adversary.

As well as through my own.

I turn to Yvan and find him giving me a look of such fiery love, I fear I might come undone. The name feels so right, so true, as heart-expandingly right as accepting Lukas’s surname finally became. The full withdrawal from the yoke of my Gardnerian surname, grief-marked as it is, tastes like hard-won freedom. And the deepest mark of Yvan’s love.

“I’ll join you, my queen,”

a voice calls out, shock further unsettling our collective magic as the Elfhollen Amaz woman steps forward.

Yvan, Soleiya, and I exchange cautious yet hopeful looks as several more Amaz volunteer to connect to the Forest, Yulan and my other Dryad’khin allies accompanying them to the trees.

But one Amaz in particular remains aggressively unmoved—Diana’s nemesis, the huge axe-wielding Amaz warrior, Alcippe Feyir. A furious expression smolders on Alcippe’s face, her amethyst eyes fixed murderously on Yvan and me, her fists clenched around her axe’s rune-marked handle.

A growl erupts from Diana’s throat at the same moment that Alder breaks from our ranks and strides toward Alcippe. She comes to a halt before the huge warrior, a grayed Dyoi Eagle with half-singed purple feathers perched on Alder’s shoulder.

“Fierce One,”

Alder greets her in Amazkaraan, an uncharacteristically emotional edge to her perennially timber-calm tone. “You placed my very first runic spear in my hands when I was but eight years of age, an orphan amongst the Amaz. You have been a mentor and a protector to me, and to so many of the Goddess’s Own. I ask you, Revered One, not just as a Dryad’kin, but as an Amaz, to hear my Forest out.”

Alcippe’s broad jaw stiffens, her expression flexing with what looks like almost violent conflict. But then something miraculous happens that makes me feel as if the whole world is tilting beneath our feet.

Alcippe nods, quick and tight.

Wasting no time, Alder walks with her into the Forest’s tree line, accompanied by Alder’s entire flock of giant kindred eagles.

Midnight is closing in, a deep-night chill enveloping the world, when the Amaz, Vu Trin, and Lasair who entered the trees begin to emerge. All transformed.

All imprinted with III’s image.

A silver-eyed, purple-furred Noi Grizzly Bear kindred is seated behind Queen Freyja Zyrr, all of us, including a blessedly alive Lucretia, gathered on the huge ledge around one central, runic bonfire when Alcippe finally emerges from the tree line, a gleaming shard of what looks like rose quartz gripped in her fist, a stunned expression on her tattooed face.

Yvan and I rise to our feet, along with Vang Troi, Freyja, and so many others.

Alcippe breaks away from Alder’s side and makes a beeline for Yvan, her fierce, pale pink eyes fixed on him. Alarm sears through me—I’m clear that the Amaz are forbidden from polluting their gazes by staring directly at men, unless in the act of using them to create more daughters. Or striking them down.

I grip protective hold of Yvan’s arm, but it’s his turn to caution calm through the reassuring flow of his hot aura around mine.

Alcippe halts before him, making no move to draw the axe strapped to her back or the blades sheathed all over her body. Yvan’s wings draw in tight as he faces her, his fire power a molten ball in his center.

“You saved my Icaral child, Pyrgomanche,”

Alcippe roughly states, her tone deep and intense. She raises her free hand, and relief shimmers through both Yvan’s power and mine as we view the image of III imprinted there.

“The Forest,”

Alcippe says to Yvan, “it showed me your rescue of Pyrgo from the Mage prison in Valgard. And it showed me how you aided our Selkie’khin, and so many others of womankind. The trees . . .”

She falters, an emotional sheen to her eyes as she lifts the quartz gripped in her other hand. “They not only showed me all this . . . they unbound my power. And restored the geomancy stripped from all Urisk womankind by men.”

Disgust tightens Alcippe’s features as she holds Yvan’s stare with condemning force. “But, perhaps,”

she allows, the weight of an anvil in her tone, “there is room on Erthia for men such as you.”

Shock stills my breath as Yvan snaps his wings out to their full span. “You have my fire, Alcippe Feyir,”

he vows. “You and your people, and your Icaral child.”

“And you have my axe, Icaral,”

Alcippe vows in turn as my reverberating shock shifts the very ground beneath my feet.

Naga contracts into her human form and leaps onto an elevated ledge of stone, her wings snapping powerfully out as her narrowed gold-fire gaze sweeps over the Vu Trin forces. “Unbroken Ones of Erthia!”

she growls. “It is time to create a new kind of force! With a living flag and banner! Rise up with us, Dryad’khin, as Defenders of Erthia!”

Vang Troi unsheathes her runic sword and raises it, a flash of her sapphire power illuminating the night. “Who here,”

she booms, “will unite as a Dryad’khin force so we can combine our power, throw our dome-shield over the entire Eastern Realm, and unite the East to take back Erthia from the Magedom’s Shadow?”

I suck in a breath as every single one of our former adversaries raises III-marked palms, an emotional sound torn from Yulan.

“Well, then, let’s get to work, shall we?”

Hazel drawls, a wicked smile forming on his black-lipped mouth where he stands beside Wrenfir, my uncle’s large black bobcat kindred hugging his side. Wrenfir’s and Hazel’s arms are slung over each other’s shoulders, their magic looped around each other, a surprisingly intimate energy thrumming through it as the mounting foliage power of the Forest pulses through us all.

“We need Oaklyyn,”

Sylvan calls out to Hazel from where he stands beside Iris Morgaine. Everyone grows silent as Sylvan levels a finger toward the West, at the Shadow threat bearing down, his pine eyes severe. “Oaklyyn holds a special talent for crafting Dryad runes, including the amplification, linkage, and expansion runes. We need those runes to break through Vogel’s Shadow net and throw our shielding over the entire East. We hold great power, but not enough to achieve this before the Magedom’s Shadow winter closes in. Not with foliage season shortened. If we’re going to outpace Vogel’s forces, we need Oaklyyn on our side, but she has estranged herself from us all.”

“I have sought her out as well, Dryad’kin,”

Yulan tells Sylvan, a mournful edge to her tone and in her kindred heron’s eyes, “but there is no convincing her to ally with us.”

“I went to her, as well,”

Alder admits, her green brow knotting tight. “But a more powerful enemy than even the Magedom has taken hold of her. She has lost all hope.”

“We can’t abandon her,”

Aislinn insists with a vehemence that sends an ache through my heart—I’m certain that my Lupine sister is all too clear on what facing misery without hope or aid can do to a person.

“Aislinn’s right,”

Jarod says from beside her, his arm wrapped around Aislinn.

“She needs us to be her khin,”

Thierren passionately agrees.

“Raz’zor and I sought her out soon after she retreated into the wilds,”

Ariel reveals, a troubled look tensing her sharp features, the raven kindred on her shoulder bristling. “She’s ready to attack anyone who comes near. Raz’zor asked me for the chance to try and break through to her alone.”

Troubled, I send a line of my fire out to Raz’zor. His returning ruddy flame is suddenly streaking through our horde bond with an impassioned red sizzle I’ve never felt in my horde mate’s fire before. Along with a cautioning flare, emphatically fierce, and I struggle to respect the demand for distance I feel in it.

Because we’re running out of time.