Talia looked at her as she approached. Without waiting for permission, Auryn placed her palm against the shield.
She called to the metal, let its pain course through her body, coaxed it into conversation, asked it to remember what it was like to be whole. Threads of silver stirred beneath her skin. The metal drank the light as if starved for its miracle. One by one the cracks sealed, molten edges fusing, until the shield gleamed wholein Talia’s arms.
Gasps erupted around the ring. Awe. Unease. Both at once. Auryn lowered her hand, pulse steady despite the storm of words and voices.
“You mended it,” Talia breathed.
“It wants to fight with you,” Auryn said. “It wasn’t ready to be discarded.”
Talia touched the surface where cracks had been just a moment ago, then looked at Auryn. Awed. Stunned.
Thessia’s glaive dipped. Not in hostility—but in interest. Those sharp violet eyes held Auryn’s like a predator catching the scent of something fascinating.
“Where’s your focus stone?” Thessia asked.
Auryn tilted her head. “What is that?”
“You know.” Thessia made a circle with her hands, like cradling a sphere. “The conduit that lets you cast.”
“Why would I need such a thing?” Auryn brushed her fingers across the shield one last time. “I will, and so I do.”
The murmurs swelled again—fear, awe, doubt.
“I’ve never seen a weapon like that,” Auryn said, examining Thessia’s glaive.
One end had a double serrated blade while the other functioned as a spear. The haft was ivory; bone fused with metal and etched with different symbols.
“Family heirloom,” Thessia said. “I’d let you see it, but something tells me you’d topple over from the weight.”
Auryn raised a brow, gauging the words. Not an insult. More of a tease to coax a response.
“Each of us has our own strength,” Auryn said.
“Well put,” Thessia nodded. “I don’t conjure silver light and mend shields without a forge.”
Auryn smiled, and Thessia grinned back, slow and dangerous. Something in her chest unknotted, lighter than it had been in days, as though a truth deeper than words had passed between them.
The Riftwardens gathered in the command ring at dusk, their Dowsing Rods flickering with captured light. The company stood hushed around them, listening as predictions were made.
“They’ll come through soon,” one of the Wardens said. “The tear will open within days. We should stay here—better to be braced than caught in motion.”
Auryn shifted, her pulse racing. The wind carried a song sharp enough to cut her lungs, like silver threads pulled taut. “It isn’t fixed,” she said. “The rift leans east. If we stay to the high ground, it will open ahead of us—not on us.”
The circle stilled. A few eyes turned toward her, measuring.
One of the Wardens gave a thin, forced smile. “The Sokâr hears songs in the wind now? With respect, the Doctrine teaches us to rely on Riftcraft, not…charms and whispers.”
The jeer rippled outward, sharp as broken glass. Some scoffed. Others murmured uneasily.
Resh’s voice cut through. “Clarify,” he ordered, turning to Auryn. “What do you mean?”
She swallowed, her gaze rising to the bruised sky. “There is never clarity in the way the sky tears open,” she said, steady despite the weight of so many stares. “Rods of crystal may sense the coming of it, but not this…not this tear.” Her voice softened as she struggled to explain her reasoning. How could she describe the sound of Ennea’s heartbeat? The way the wind whispered to her? The way the world itself hummed beneath her feet?
“It shifts,” she said. “Moves. It will not come when or where you wish.”
Silence pressed.
The Riftwarden bristled, his mouth opening with a sharp retort—only to snap shut when Thessia’s voice rolled over the gathering like thunder.
