Chapter 5 Beneath the Ash Trees

The silence after a scream is the worst kind.

Mari stood in the hollow, breath shallow, hands still smeared with the blood of someone she couldn't save fast enough. The fire was long gone, but the heat hadn't left. It simmered under her skin, a rising tide she couldn't control.

She clutched the medallion tight. Her knuckles whitened around the jagged edge of it as if she could will it to give her something more-power, direction, a damn miracle.

But it stayed quiet.

The ash-scrawled words on the tree behind her pulsed in her mind like a drumbeat.

"She's ours now."

Except she wasn't.

They took Thorne.

And Mari felt the absence like a limb torn away. His presence had become a constant, even in silence-a steady heartbeat somewhere just beyond hers. And now, that rhythm was gone. Cut off. Severed.

But not entirely.

There was still a thread. Barely there. A thin pulse of awareness tugging west, toward the ridgeline and beyond.

She ran.

The trees blurred around her, but the pull sharpened with every step. Her legs ached. Her chest burned. But none of it mattered. The bond throbbed faint and frantic, a beacon made of pain. He was alive. For now.

She crossed a shallow stream, the rocks slick beneath her boots, and emerged into a clearing she hadn't seen before-too perfect, too circular. The grass grew in concentric rings, and at the center stood a single, massive ash tree, its branches heavy with leaves the color of bone.

Mari slowed. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

She didn't know why she stepped toward it.

Only that she had to.

The medallion in her hand grew hot. Then brighter, glowing faint gold. As she reached the tree's trunk, the ground trembled beneath her boots-and split.

A section of earth groaned open, revealing a narrow stairway spiraling downward, swallowed by roots.

A voice, not hers, whispered in her mind: When the moon bleeds, the way shall open.

She didn't question it.

She descended.

The walls narrowed around her, slick with moss and old magic. The roots pulsed with a low hum, as though the tree was alive in more than name. She moved faster, half-blind, led only by the medallion's glow. At the bottom, the air changed-cooler, older.

And there it was.

A chamber of stone, untouched by time.

The walls were carved with symbols she didn't recognize: wolves in moonlight, flames entwined with crowns, and always-the same sigil that marked the medallion. Crescent. Blade. Ash.

At the center of the room lay a raised slab.

On it, a figure.

Mari's breath caught.

The woman wasn't breathing.

But she also wasn't decayed.

Her skin looked too real. Her silver hair spilled like water over the stone. Her hands rested crossed at her chest, clutching a dagger with a hilt shaped like a crescent moon.

And her face-Gods-was familiar.

Not from memory. From mirrors.

Mari stepped closer.

She was looking at herself. Older. Wiser. Broken, maybe. But unmistakably-her.

She reached out, fingers trembling. "Mother?"

The woman's eyelids fluttered.

And then opened.

Mari jerked back.

The woman blinked slowly, then sat up, unbothered by time or explanation. She looked at Mari like someone long accustomed to destiny walking through doorways.

"Maris," she said softly. "I hoped I'd see you before the end."

Mari swallowed hard. "You're supposed to be dead."

"I was."

"That's not helpful."

"No," her mother agreed. "It's not."

Mari stepped closer again, wary but unwilling to waste another second. "They took him."

Her mother's gaze sharpened. "The wolf?"

"Thorne. The one I bonded with."

"You shouldn't have done that."

Mari narrowed her eyes. "I didn't have much of a choice."

"There's always a choice."

"He was dying."

"People die."

Mari's voice rose. "Not him. Not again."

Her mother didn't flinch. She studied Mari a long moment, then nodded as if something invisible had been confirmed.

"You're stronger than I expected."

"I don't care."

"You should," her mother said. "Because they'll make you choose."

"Between what?"

"Love," she said. "And legacy."

Mari turned away.

She couldn't do this. Not here. Not now.

Not when Thorne could be bleeding out on some stone floor while she stood in a crypt with riddles and ghosts.

"I need to find him," she snapped.

"You will," her mother said. "But first-take it."

Mari turned. Her mother held out the dagger.

"This was Naera's," she said. "It responds only to bloodline. And to fire."

Mari took it without hesitation.

The moment her fingers closed around the hilt, it flared gold-hot in her palm, the blade igniting with a low, humming flame.

Her mother smiled. "So it begins."

"What begins?"

"The unmaking."

The earth shuddered again.

Her mother collapsed.

Mari caught her before she hit the stone.

"I'm not ready," she whispered.

Her mother smiled faintly. "Neither was I."

Mari rose. The chamber was already dimming, the symbols fading. The path back wouldn't stay open long.

So she ran.

Again.

Up the stairs. Out of the tree. Back into the cursed forest.

This time, she didn't falter.

The bond led her.

West. Always west.

She moved until the trees thinned and the valley opened to reveal a ravine carved into black rock. Smoke drifted from a structure half-buried in the cliffs-a ruined fort, ancient and abandoned.

But not empty.

Mari crept to the ridge.

She saw them-four hunters. Tribunal. Their hoods bore the insignia of House Thalor: a raven devouring a star. They stood around a stone pit, and at the center-

Thorne.

Chained. Bleeding.

But alive.

Barely.

One of the hunters crouched beside him, whispering something too low to hear. Then he drew a blade and held it to Thorne's throat.

Mari didn't hesitate.

She stood. Raised the dagger.

And threw it.

The blade soared across the ravine, igniting mid-air.

It struck the hunter in the chest-flame erupting instantly.

The others turned, shouting, reaching for weapons-

But Mari was already moving.

She vaulted down the slope, fire roaring through her veins.

They weren't ready.

The first fell before he could draw.

The second managed to lunge, but Mari twisted, catching his wrist, and slammed his head into the stone.

The third tried to run.

She let him.

She reached Thorne.

He was unconscious. Pale. But breathing.

She dropped to her knees, cutting the chains with her mother's dagger. The blade sliced through enchanted iron like silk.

"Thorne," she said, shaking him. "Hey. Open your eyes. Please."

He groaned softly.

And then he smiled. "That's twice you've saved me."

Mari felt something crack in her chest.

"You're not allowed to die," she whispered.

"Noted."

She helped him up.

Footsteps echoed beyond the pit. Reinforcements. Dozens.

They were out of time.

But Mari was done running.

She turned to face the ravine mouth, her hands glowing faintly, the dagger pulsing with that same molten light.

Thorne leaned on her, blood dripping from his side. "You've got a plan, right?"

"No," she said.

He laughed weakly. "Perfect."

The first hunter appeared at the edge.

And then stopped.

Because behind Mari-

The air shimmered.

Then parted.

Dozens of glowing figures emerged from the trees, eyes lit like moons.

Liora stood at the front, alive, whole-and furious.

"I brought friends," she said.

Mari stared. "I thought-"

"They tried."

She nodded toward Thorne.

"Now they'll regret it."

The Tribunal hunters froze.

Outnumbered.

Outmatched.

And-for the first time in centuries-

Afraid.

Mari stepped forward, dagger burning in her hand.

Her voice was calm. Certain.

"Go back to your masters."

One of the hunters spat. "You're a child playing queen."

Mari smiled coldly.

"No," she said. "I'm the fire they tried to smother."

And then-

The earth split open beneath the hunter's feet.

He screamed as roots pulled him under.

The rest ran.

Mari lowered the dagger.

Thorne leaned against her.

"Remind me never to piss you off."

She laughed, almost too exhausted to stand.

Liora approached, placing a steadying hand on Mari's shoulder.

"The world's changing," she said. "They'll come harder next time."

"Let them," Mari said.

Because she wasn't alone now.

And she wasn't afraid.

Not anymore.