Chapter 5: The Marked Path

Rain fell in sheaves of water over the fire-blackened forest as Eryndor struggled on, each step a muted splash through dripping underbrush. Trees along the way towered above any he'd seen before, but unnatural in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on bark like petrified bone, limbs that creaked with no wind. The farther he went into the Weeping Wastes, the more he felt the life around him unraveling, not dying, but disintegrating. Something old pushed against his senses, such as an eternal whisper.

Sylven padded at his side in quiet, silver-white fur besmirched with dampness, tail low but interested. She had not uttered a word in hours, at least not in words. Her thoughts danced across him like feathering breezes, watchful and restless. He sensed her wariness in the twitch of her ears and the recurrent jerks of her eyes to the shadows.

"You feel it too," Eryndor whispered, his lids narrowed.

Sylven growled low.

He didn't need her to answer in order to know the truth. Whatever stood in front of them was not just a sector of the Wastes; it was the Wastes. A power older than cities and nastier than winter. And they were heading directly into it.

They had no other option.

After the gathering at the Whispering Glade, when he'd used lifeweaving to calm the fury beast guard, there'd been no retreat to safety. Word would get around. A mage who could manage raw life? All the factions, all the power centers, would want him or want him eliminated. It was Brann's final warning before he disappeared again: "West. Go west into the Wastes. Follow the old stones. Find the Ashroot Grove.". If anything of our sort, it's there."

Eryndor hadn't yet a clue what Brann said our sort.

The Wastes did not appear on a map. They were believed cursed by all. They were where the old magic had decayed, where the last wars between the Flameborne and the Deepwood charred the ground and left it peculiar. No one with a sane brain went in unless they were desperate or suicidal.

Eryndor was beginning to think he was both.

They reached a meadow at sundown, the sky a bruised red smear on high. In the center was a solitary pillar of black obsidian, worked with lifelines that glowed very dimly with gold light. A circle of ash-colored flowers surrounded its base, glowing faintly even in the darkening. The moment Eryndor drew near, the flowers leaned toward him, opening.

His breath caught.

The pillar's sigils glowed. Sylven stiffened, hackles standing.

Eryndor's hand extended toward the stone, and it felt drawn to the heat that appeared to emanate from its face. Not fire, at least not as he understood it—a beat, a vibration of power that appeared to cause his bones to hurt. And then his hand touched the stone—

And the world dropped away.

A blast of air tore through his head, not only sound but memory, feeling, voice.

"Lifeweaver… born of breach, marked by balance. The flame you lacked, you traded for breath."

The voice was inside him, neither male nor female, as broad as sky and as intimate as a breath. He stumbled, but the pillar kept his hand in place, threads of golden light around his wrist.

He saw catches of ancient forests before they burned, creatures made of braided bark and starlight, and a vine-clad woman with an urn that poured starlight. He saw war, endless war. And in the center of it, a boy with eyes as silver as the coin standing alone, untouched by flames but alive.

Him.

The vision faded, and he fell to his knees, wind torn from his lungs. Sylven was beside him immediately, pushing her head into his hand.

"I… I saw it," he rasped. "I saw where it started."

He could not say any more. Not before the scream.

It cut through the forest like the breakage of glass. A woman's shriek, shrill and frightened. Then another scream grunted, enraged.

Eryndor and Sylven shared a glance.

He didn't think, and he sprinted towards the cry, dodging curved trees and leaping across knotted roots. The screams died in a flash, and he heard growls and a revolting, wet crunch.

He shoved through the vegetation just in time to see a horror looming over a battered body. Cadaverous flesh, too many limbs, eyes like hot coals deep in embers. A Wretch. But this one was armored—the armor broken, in pieces, forged into its flesh.

It was looking at him.

Its mouth opened wide—too wide—and spat.

Eryndor did not wait. He wrapped his lifepulse around him, drew it in tight, and released a blast downwards through the earth beneath its paws. Vines shot upwards from the earth, wrapping about its legs. Sylven burst from the shadows, fangs bared, and attacked its flank with a scream.

The Wretch reeled back, shrieking, but did not fall. It twisted, pulling away from the vines with a macabre contortion motion and knocking Sylven against a tree.

"No!"

Eryndor flung out his hands. Power burned him—not fire, but pressure, growth, raw creation. A blast of green light flashed from his palms, striking the Wretch in the middle of its body.

It screamed, smoke boiling from the wounds.

And then, at the border of the trees, a second figure emerged.

Not a Wretch.

A woman.

Hooded.

And aglow.

The woman emerged into the clearing with unhuman silence, the light on her form pulsating in soft beat. She was dressed in dark leathers etched with writhing silver runes, her hood casting deep shadows over her face. But Eryndor could feel her eyes, as substantial and weighty as a hand on his chest.

The Wretch turned to face her, teeth bared. It hissed again, though this time with doubt in its stance fear.

She raised one hand, fingers spread wide apart. A circle of glyphs flared into being beneath her palm, hanging in the air like shattered glass. The glyphs sang, a single note so keen Eryndor's ears throbbed.

The Wretch stepped back but not in time.

The glyphs shot out in a shudder of clean light. Where it struck the creature, its twisted flesh cracked open and blackened. The light did not burn—it unwound. The Wretch let out one scream, then collapsed into a pile of smoldering flesh and incinerated bone.

Silence fell.

Eryndor stumbled forward, kneeling beside Sylven. She came to beneath his touch, bruised but living. Relief hit him so hard he nearly toppled over.

"Thank the roots," he gasped.

She's tough," she whispered.

Eryndor lifted his eyes.

She had cast off her hood. Her face was lean and white, with long black hair highlighted by green locks. Her eyes sparkled like leaves wet with dew at night—silver-speckled green, strange and alien.

"Who… who are you?" he barked.

"I might ask you the same," she told him. "But since I saved your life, I think I'll get to speak first. My name is Sylrae. And you're standing at the edge of the Ashroot Grove."

Eryndor blinked. "You're… from the Grove? But Brann said—"

"Brann's alive?" Her eyes widened, but for only a second. "Then maybe hope hasn't died completely."

She went to the broken pillar and caressed it softly.

"This grove was once the center of the forest. Before the burnings. Before the Flameborne purged the wild magics from the earth."

"I am not Flameborne," Eryndor answered quickly. "I was born of their blood, yes—but I hold no fire."

Sylrae turned to him slowly. "You're the one they drove out."

Her words were not a question.

Eryndor stood firm. "Yes."

"And you can wreathe life," she went on, voice softer now, full of marvel. "I felt it when you touched the pillar. The forest awoke. Even the Wretch retreated. That kind of connection… hasn't been noted in centuries."

Eryndor's mouth fell, but there were no words to put into them. Instead, he looked down at his hands. His skin still radiated with a soft green glow.

"I didn't ask for it," he said. "I didn't even know it was a thing. All I've ever done is try to survive."

Sylrae studied him for a moment longer. Then she knelt beside Sylven, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. Light flickered beneath her fingers, and Sylven let out a soft sound, body relaxing.

"She's bonded to you," Sylrae breathed. "But not as a familiar. Not as a servant. As a reflection. Lifeweavers don't dominate. They bridge. That's what makes your magic so deadly. Not because of what you can shatter… but because of what you could heal."

Eryndor's breath caught. "Then why do I always feel like I'm just tearing things apart?"

Sylrae stood up.

"Because the world is not ready for you," she said. "But soon it will be. If you'll come with me."

He hesitated. "Where?"

"To the Grove," she said. "To the Circle. To those who remember the old ways. The ones who survived in secret. We have no time to lose. Something has changed in the balance. The Wastes are awakening. The Void-scarred are gathering. And you, Eryndor of no Flame…"

She looked him in the eyes.

"…You are the spark we've waited for."

Behind her, the forest began to glow softly, ancient trees humming with unseen breath. Eryndor could feel it now—roots beneath his feet, threads of life stretching in all directions, waiting. Beckoning.

He turned to Sylven. She stood slowly, limping slightly but determined.

He looked back to Sylrae. "Then let's go."

She nodded once.

But when they turned to press on down the path deeper into the woods, Eryndor's boot struck something metal.

He froze.

Partially buried in the dirt was a pendant—a shattered shard of obsidian encircled in silver.

The same that Brann wore.

He picked it up, a chill run flooding into his stomach.

Sylrae saw it too. Her expression turned somber.

"Brann passed by here," she whispered. "But he never made it to the Grove."

A hush settled.

Then, from somewhere far behind them in the trees, something howled—long, low, and wrong. Not a beast. Not human.

Something in between.

Sylrae drew her blade. "We're not alone."

The howl rippled through the trees like a gust of cold wind through dead leaves. Birds took flight in frenzied flutters. The undergrowth fell still.

Eryndor's breath caught in his throat.

"That wasn't a Wretch," he murmured.

No, Sylrae answered, her voice laced with conviction. "That was something old."

She moved like water—silent and fast—between ferns and gnarled roots, the runes on her bracers fading to a soft light as she removed them from the broken path. Eryndor followed behind her, grasping Sylven's scruff tightly as they scrambled under broken branches. Even the trees leaned in, their branches softly creaking in hushed urgency.

Eryndor tucked the obsidian pendant into his pouch. It weighed more now. As if watching him from within.

"Was it following us?" he demanded.

Sylrae did not turn back. "It's not a follower. It's a memory."

"What does that mean?" he pressed.

"It means," she said icily, "that something we buried a very long time ago has begun to stir."

The path opened abruptly into a clearing surrounded by monolithic stones carved with runes like roots curling skyward. In the center stood a massive tree blackened with age, limbs twisted but alive. Its bark shimmered faintly with the same life-light that danced across Eryndor's skin.

"The Heartwood," Sylrae said. "We're here."

Eryndor looked. It wasn't much—a tormented, dying tree in a heaping pile of rocks—but standing there was the same as standing at the brink of a storm. Power seeped from the rocks and soil like breath. A pull, low and deep, reaching for him.

He stepped into the circle.

The runes on the rocks flared with green fire. The Heartwood's leaves trembled.

Sylrae stood beside him, voice subdued. "Touch it."

Eryndor flinched. Then slowly reached out and touched his hand to the bark.

Reality shattered.

Flicker images, cutting and disjointed, flooded his brain—

Forest burning. Ash swallowing cries. Tower looming over a lake of glass. Eyes like stars blazing down out of a broken sky. A voice, distant but known: You were never meant to take their path.

Eryndor jerked back, gasping for air. Sylven whimpered beside him.

What was that?" he panted.

"The Grove remembering you," Sylrae said. "And reminding you what comes after."

"I saw… a spire. A lake of glass—"

"Then the visions are true," Sylrae panted. "The Mirror Spire has returned."

Eryndor frowned. "What's the Mirror Spire?"

Sylrae took a deep breath, then faced him squarely.

"A prison," she said. "Commissioned on purpose to hold the one who snapped the weave of life the first time. Before the world bifurcated. Before the Orders came into being. And if it's waking…"

She stopped there. But Eryndor saw it in her stomach—the fear.

"How is this related to me?" he asked.

"The Voice you heard," she said, eyes clenched. "It wasn't the Grove. Not even this world. It was them."

Eryndor's heart was racing. "Them?"

"The Weavers," said Sylrae. "The first of them. The ones who created the threads before flame and stone. Before time."

Eryndor's legs were trembling. He held on to Sylven for balance.

"They are calling to you, Eryndor," Sylrae went on. "And if the wrong people answer first, it will not be this forest that will die."

The Heartwood groaned behind them, its limbs twisting upwards. From within its hollow, a light began to shine; pale and unyielding.

Sylrae moved forward. "There is a gate inside. It will take us deeper—in deeper than the outer wood. Into the Groves which lie hidden."

Eryndor swallowed. "And the thing that howled?"

She drew her sword again. "It will follow."

And then, from the trees beyond the ring of stone, a shadow slipped from the bark—tall and thin and jerking as if it wore on its skin like loose clothes.

It turned its head slowly. Wet ember eyes.

Eryndor did not move.

Sylrae spat, "Run."

The gate creaked open deep within the Heartwood. Light blazed.

Sylven pressed on, Eryndor holding her as Sylrae clung behind them.

The creature screamed; a crackling like shattering bone.

And as they leapt through the shining hollowness of the Heartwood, the draw of the gate caught hold of Eryndor's very essence.

He did not look back.