The symbol on the arrow is not a house crest. It is not Velcryn. It is not a coven mark. It is a contraction glyph.
“Someone who wanted plausible deniability,” I murmur.
Zeidan’s voice drifts from the doorway. “Meaning?”
“It collapses layered enchantments into a single signature. You see one mark. Underneath, there are three.”
He shifts slightly closer. “Can you separate them?”
“Yes,” I say, though I am not entirely certain.
I press my fingers lightly against the cloth-wrapped shaft and draw a thread of magic into the glyph. The archive wards stir in mild disapproval but do not interfere. I breathe slowly and peel back the outer linework, revealing the faintest echo beneath it.
There. Three overlapping roots. Not decorative. Intentional.
I turn to the oldest codex and flip through brittle pages until I find what my instinct is already whispering.
Wildspont corruption rites.
The ink is faded, but the illustration is unmistakable, three-rooted sigils used in ancient attempts to “redirect” ley energy when a Wildspont became unstable. Most of the rites were abandoned after catastrophic failure.
Because they do not heal blight. They feed it. My stomach tightens.
“Zeidan,” I say quietly. “This isn’t just assassination work.”
He moves to my side immediately. I turn the book so he can see the illustration. His gaze sharpens.
“It’s a feeding structure,” he says after a moment.
“Yes.”
The arrow is not simply poisoned. It is keyed. Designed to destabilize ley-aligned beings, Vrakken, Purnas, anyone deeply attuned, and channel the magical discharge into something else.
Something below.
“The blight,” I whisper.
Not natural. Sustained.
Zeidan’s jaw sets. “You’re certain?”
“I’m certain this symbol appears in rites designed to siphon Wildspont energy through sacrifice or trauma.” I meet his eyes. “And you were shot on the outer perimeter directly above one of the older root tunnels.”
Silence stretches between us.
“If someone is feeding the blight,” he says slowly, “they need a conduit.”
“And proximity to sacred ground.”
We both think of the ruined temple. Abandoned generations ago after the ley lines shifted. Declared unstable. Avoided by most of the coven except historians and the foolish.
“Of course it’s the temple,” Zeidan mutters.
I close the codex gently instead of snapping it shut.
“We should move before someone else does,” I say.
Zeidan nods, but he doesn’t step away from the table. His eyes remain on the arrow, on the exposed glyphs, calculating.
