1
AMELIA
The blight has spread again.
I sit atop my mare on the edge of the ridge, staring down into the valley where thick black veins now coil through the roots of once-sacred trees. The sight turns my stomach. This land, our land, is dying, and every hour we delay, more of it turns to ash beneath the surface. I tighten my gloved grip on the reins, feeling the dull ache behind my eyes. The connection to the Wildspont is flickering, thin and cracked like brittle glass.
A breeze tugs my cloak as I press a hand to the sigil burned into my skin just below the collarbone. The mark pulses faintly, a weak imitation of what it once was: vibrant and strong, an unbroken bond to Nytheria. Now, it’s just... fading.
Another breath, sharp with the rot of the cursed valley below, and I turn my mare toward the capital.
I ride hard, kicking up clouds of dying leaves and ash. The magic in the ground no longer greets me. The land used to sing when a Purna approached. Now it groans.
By the timeI reach the outer wards of Nytheria, the sigils etched into the gates flicker. They were once brilliant, runes ofprotection and pride. Now they shimmer dull gray, as if the city itself is barely holding on.
The guards at the post straighten when they see me. Not because they fear me. Because they know what my arrival means: more bad news. I nod at them but say nothing. I’ve run out of words to soften truth.
Inside the city, everything feels... smaller. Hollow. The white-barked trees that line the walkways droop like weeping elders. Vendors whisper instead of shout. Even the children play in silence.
When I dismount, my boots hit the stone path with a solid echo. I draw the cloak tighter around myself. The sigil on my skin burns faintly, not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me we’re running out of time.
A familiar voice stops me halfway to the tower. “Heir Crow.”
I turn. Councilor Myris stands at the archway, his expression more worn than usual. His robes hang off his frame like they no longer fit.
“She’s summoned you.”
Of course she has. All I do is nod before I start following him. Hopefully, this time, I will leave this place with a plan for action.
High Matron Elysiasits propped up in a throne of pillows and layered silk, but no finery can hide how much she’s changed. Her skin looks translucent in the candlelight. Her once-silver hair is dulled to a pale gray. The magic that once radiated from her like sunlight on crystal is dim and threadbare.
I kneel out of habit, even though she’s told me a thousand times not to.
“You’ve seen it?” she asks, voice like dry leaves.
I nod. “It’s worse. The entire western grove is gone.”
She closes her eyes. I can feel the ache that ripples from her like a second heartbeat in the room.
“The roots?” she asks.
“Dead. Hollowed out. The sigils didn’t hold.” I pause. “And the Wildspont didn’t respond when I called on it.”
Elysia opens her eyes again, still that deep, knowing violet. “Then we don’t have time.”
I shift. “There’s more. The spirits didn’t come. Not even the lesser ones.”
That gets a reaction. Her thin fingers curl slightly against the blanket. “They’ve abandoned us.”
“No,” I say, more sharply than intended. “They’re being blocked. Something unnatural is severing our line.”
Elysia sighs. “Then we have no choice.”
I straighten. “There has to be something else. The archives?—”
“Amelia.” Her voice cuts across mine. “We need help. From outside.”
I go still. My heart starts to thrum with the rhythm of denial.
