“Wild guess: this alban tree’s dead. We revive it.”
“I’d agree with you, but Glynn said past Chosen Ones couldn’t heal this. So if we’re meant to save this tree, I’m not sure how.”
Barrow’s charming smile returned. “Well, none of the past Chosen Ones were part of a Chosen Two.”
Ellery knew this was what they’d come here to prove. But she struggled to meet his eyes. And when she drew Iskarius, she stiffened. Its power—herpower—poured through her, plunging to unfathomable depths.
Barrow rolled his neck, shook out his limbs. As if readying for a sports match. His smile was gone. “All right. We’ve got this. On three?”
He pointed Valmordion at the trunk. Ellery mirrored him with Iskarius.
“One,” she counted, “two…”
Yet as she spoke “three,” it was only Barrow who cast a spell, not her. A soft golden glow emanated from the tree, then spread up its branches and down its roots. For several seconds it shone, until it gradually faded.
The tree remained unchanged.
Barrow glanced cautiously toward her.
“I know,” Ellery said. “It’s just that last time I used Iskarius, I… Forget it. I’ll try.”
Ellery grasped Iskarius more tightly, then leveled it once more. Barrow paused, looking like he wanted to say something.
But before he could, wind whipped through the clearing. With it came a soft susurration that crescendoed to a frantic howl.
In front of the tree trunk, flickering furiously, a monster materialized.
An outline of liquid silver coagulated into a humanoid form, but far taller than any person, stretching at least ten feet high. A ridge of spikes rippled down its back, and blue eyes blazed within a gaunt, sunken face. Yet its form was ephemeral; pieces of it shifting, always shifting, as if it were made from the static of a broken projector screen.
Ellery gaped. “Is that awinterghast?”
“Um,” Barrow croaked, “according to an acquaintance of mine, it’s called Decibel.”
“What—”
Before Ellery could finish, their surroundings shifted. Trees warped and bent at impossible angles, and Ellery staggered, stricken. A winterghast who conjured illusions, not storm.
“It’s using enchantment magic,” she rasped.
“That’s not possible.”
“Well, does that look like nature magic toyou?”
“No, but it’s a monster. It can’t—”
“Glynn told me the winterghasts might be evolving, somehow. Getting smarter.”
Barrow uttered a choked noise. “Is there anything else Glynn filled you in on that you wanna—”
The monster lunged for them. Barrow hurled a torrent of flames, blindingly luminescent. But before the spell could connect, the ghast vanished.
“Where did it go?” Ellery asked anxiously, as seconds passed.
“I don’t know,” Barrow answered. “I didn’t know ghasts could cloak—”
Decibel reappeared at the opposite end of the clearing. Barrow instantly shot a golden beam at the creature, and it shrieked as light struck its chest. The sound was unlike anything Ellery had ever heard, neither human nor monstrous. Like the thunderous crackle of white noise, serrated enough to slice through an eardrum.
As she willed herself to fight beside him, a rhythm pulsed behind her sternum. Just like the battle in Mercester Square, her magic felt like the ghast’s magic. But now that she wielded Iskarius, that connection was deeper, more intimate—as though she could sense Decibel’s heartbeat beneath her own skin.
