“Only what’s left of it,” I counter. “And the Reds’ capital stands in between.”
Nick swallows hard, a range of emotions flickering across his face. “Lorntre Hollow was scorched, and an entire way of life waserased right there.” He studies the markings again. “The whole area’s sealed off. A warded stone wall was built after the fire to keep us from our roots and away from the source of our power.”
“Or to keep some dark, ancient power inside,” E mumbles.
Nick slides his hand back up the closest river and examines a small area on the south-west border where the Summerlands begin, specifically the province of Eterna, the capital of the entire Fae continent.
“Lysandra and her kin made camp here,” he says. “Right on the Summerlands border.”
“So to reach them, we have to climb the rivers upstream,” E sums up.
An eager grin curls my brother’s lips. “That’s the plan. Judging by this map, and depending on the terrain, I’d say it’s a two—maybe three-day walk. Just as we thought.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I admit.
We’ve packed enough provisions for a week, but we’re still very naïve about what could be waiting for us in these woods. Whatever Nick says, we haven’t set foot in Faerie since we were kids. And while the temperature is above freezing, it’s not a tropical forest by any means. Good thing we know how to pitch a tent.
My attention drifts to the center of the map again. “I know it’s silly, but a part of me wonders what would happen if we headed east instead. Seems ridiculous to turn away from the center…”
There’s a strange tickling in my gut that tells me we should head east, toward the Lorntre. Closer to the hollow, a second network of lines appears. These don’t follow the lay of the land. They don’t descend from mountains or obey gravity. Instead, they loop and coil around Lorntre Hollow, wrapping around it in slow, deliberate curves.
“I feel the same way. If we followed the water down…” Nick trails off.
I meet his gaze. “It would take us straight to the Reds.”
I brush the borders of Lorntre Hollow with shaky fingers. Up close, the red lines no longer look like rivers at all. They look like veins and arteries encircling something alive, something pumping in the middle of the forest.
A heart.
The open wound left by the Reds still bleeds, which means the forest stilllives. That it can still be saved.
I clear my throat. “It’d be way too dangerous, of course.”
Nick scratches the back of his neck, blinking as though he’s just been pulled from a trance. “Right. The Summerlands’ border is safer.”
“Are you two all right?” E asks wistfully.
“There’s just something intriguing about this place.” I press a hand to my sternum. “Ever since we stepped foot on red soil, I’ve felt a current in the ground. In my blood. A mix between a sense of euphoria and an electric jolt. That strange humming yearns for me to head east and find the heart.” I shake my head. “It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I feel it. And there’s a sort of mournful ache in my chest at the thought of turning my back on the Lorntre tree.”
“It howls for us,” Nick mutters with a sharp nod. “It wants us to come home.”
I nod. There’s no better way to say it.
E bristles. “Hold on there before getting lost in the woods, Hansel and Gretel. I don’t like how you two suddenly sound like eager disciples of a sentient tree. That’s definitely not how dark possession stories begin. Tell me, who should I slap first?”
The dry humor helps shake off some of my malaise.
“Err—right. Let’s organize ourselves and leave this hut before this strange pull overrides our free will,” I say with a forced chuckle, unsure if I’m joking or not.
We search the cabin, just in case, but it hasn’t been used in years. Maybe decades. The flour in the pantry has gone sour, clumped, and is crawling with mealworms fattened on damp grain and neglect. The roots of the neighboring tree chewed into the wood, growing straight through the floorboards. Mice have made a home in the thin walls, their nests packed tight with shredded paper and old blood wards long since drained of power.
There’s ink and paper on the desk, neatly stacked and untouched, but no unfinished letters, no names, and no sign of who, besides Mabel, ever passed through here.
“We should leave the crate here,” I suggest.
Nick’s brow knits together. “But we only just found the spindle. Why leave it behind?”
“It’s heavy, for one thing. And let’s be honest, we’re a bunch of newbies walking straight into a world we know very little about. This spindle is our only leverage. We should repaint the protective wards and leave the crate in the pantry. That’ll ensure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands if we walk straight into a Red patrol.”
