The roots

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The moonflowers’ roots taste like regret.

I chew them at dawn, their bitter sap coating my tongue, a ritual as hollow as the cabin’s scorched husk. Kael watches from the tree line, his amber gaze dissecting my every twitch. He knows what I won’t admit: the roots aren’t just a tether to the Voidmother—they’re a crutch. My storm may be gone, but the hunger remains, gnawing at the hollow where lightning once lived.

Eden arrives with the crows. They circle him now, their feathers glinting with an oily sheen, loyal as shadows. He no longer flinches when they roost on his shoulders. His Crown scar has quieted, but his eyes betray him—too sharp, too calculating. The boy who chased tadpoles is buried under layers of venom and vigilance.

“The eastern clans are demanding an audience,” he says, tossing a crow’s skull at my feet. Its eye sockets weep resin. “They’ve heard about the mirror.”