The wild does not wait. And the dark does not forgive. For every mark left on stone, the wild carves its own in flesh and bone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Eryon
The mountain breathes, and I breathe with it.
We are bound by dharma—each of us playing our part in the great turning of the world. The wind carries my purpose forward, and I follow.
Snow drifts in slow, silent waves, curling through the air before settling into the folds of the earth. The storm is growing, gathering in the hollows of the ridges, sharpening like a blade. The sky is clear, but the mountain has begun its work, shifting beneath the weight of what does not belong. The trees whisper, branches shuddering beneath layers of ice, warning of what is to come.
But it is not the coming storm that commands my attention.
It is them. The intruders and the women both move steadily toward my home. One party is blind in their arrogance. The other is determined in their desperation. And between them, I wait.
I crouch along the high ledges, my form pressed into the rock, watching the first group below.
Ben and his men move in a tight, nervous cluster. Their scent is thick with sweat and nerves, their bodies sluggish under the weight of their gear. They move like prey, yet they believe themselves the hunters.
I have seen men like this before. The ones who come thinking they can conquer the mountain. That it is simply another obstacle to be subdued.
They do not listen. They do not respect. And they do not belong.
But the mountain will not be conquered. It devours. The wind cuts through them like teeth, stealing warmth from their bodies, gnawing at their resolve. They struggle over the uneven terrain, cursing each misstep and each other. Weakness spreads through them like rot.
Even the guide they have paid to lead them glances over his shoulder too often. His steps are halting where they should be sure and steady. He knows the mountain watches, and he knowsIwatch. He was right earlier. They should not be here.
But Ben? Ben is oblivious. He presses forward, driven by greed, too arrogant to understand that he is already lost.
I shift and climb, moving higher along the cliffs. The ice beneath my feet is familiar, the sharp ridges and deep crevices carved into my memory. This is my land.
But I am not only watching them. She is here, too. Dahlia moves differently. She is smaller, lighter. Though exhaustion weighs on her, she does not falter. She listens to the mountain. She reads its signs. She is learning.
My fingers press into the ice, gripping the cold even as fire races through my veins at the mere thought of her—her fierceness, her tenacity, her defiance.
She is not alone. Her friend and guide walks beside her, leading her toward me. Another human. Another risk. But the woman does not move with the greed of the others. She moveswith reverence. She walks with the quiet knowledge of one who has heard the stories. She has seen my mercy.
I watch as they stop at the sentinel stones where I left a sign for her there. Not merely her name scratched into rock, but my claim. A guide for her on her journey. Will she find my mark and know my heart?
The wind shifts, carrying the sharp, bright sound of her laughter up the cliffs to me. It is a small thing, fragile in the storm. But it reaches me all the same.
She understands. She is coming. She is choosingme.
Yet still, a part of me hesitates. I have spent centuries alone. I have seen greed, betrayal, and destruction. I have known what it is to be feared, hunted, worshiped, and abandoned. I have seen what men do to the sacred things of this world.
Dahlia is not like them. I know this. I feel this. But she is still human. And humans are fragile. Their hearts. Their bones. Their trust.
And I—I am not made for fragile things.
What if I am wrong about her? What if she breaks under the weight of this land? Under the weight of me? What if I ruin her before she even has the chance to regret her choice?
A shift in the snow—small, barely a whisper—and suddenly, I am not here. I am elsewhere. I amthen.
The snowling had been so small. No larger than my own hands. Yet it held the entirety of the universe in its eyes, reflecting the silver light of stardust and mystery and infinite possibility back at me.
The wonder. The exquisite love that sank into my heart with the weight of a thousand mountains when I held him close, tucked under my chin. I spent so much time marveling at how such a small thing could bring such great joy.
The first sneeze, I had ignored. It was a silly sound from a little snowling. The second, I had not. And then the coughing started, and when his strength gave out, when his tiny bodyslumped against my chest, too weak to even hold his head up—I knew.
