Page 79 of Roaring Spell

“Humming?”

“Building power. Getting ready to discharge.” His jaw tightens. “We need to move faster.”

We push through the undergrowth, and the Overgrowth pushes back. Branches snag at our clothes. Roots shift beneath our feet. The path twists and doubles back, fighting our progress with every step.

“It’s the wild magic.” I reach for my power, letting elemental awareness extend around us. “The siphon is corrupting it. Making the forest even more hostile.”

“Can you counter it?”

“Maybe, with Grandmother Peach’s charm.” My fingers grasp the charm around my neck. I close my eyes, feeling for the threads of elemental energy that run through this place. The wild magic is chaotic—unpredictable in ways that make my own power seem tame by comparison. But underneath the chaos, I can sense patterns. Currents. The natural flow of energy that the siphon is disrupting.

I push my awareness into those currents. Not controlling—guiding. Asking rather than demanding.

Let us pass. We’re trying to help you.

The forest hesitates. Then, slowly, the resistance eases. The path straightens. The branches pull back.

“How did you do that?”

“I asked nicely.” I open my eyes. “The wild magic isn’t evil. It’s just... wild. The siphon is hurting it. I think the forest wants us to stop it.”

“You think?”

“Elemental communication isn’t exactly precise.” I start forward again. “But the path is clear now. Let’s not waste it.”

We move faster, the forest parting before us like we’ve been given permission. The humming grows louder—a bass vibration I feel in my bones. And with it, another sensation: wrongness. The same distortion I felt at the other siphon sites, but amplified a hundredfold.

My magic screams in response. Pressure builds in my chest, electricity crackling at my fingertips. The elements surge toward the surface, desperate to strike at the thing causing such pain.

Hold it together. Hold it.

Torin’s hand finds mine. Squeezes.

The electricity subsides. Not gone—just contained. Waiting.

“When we get there,” he says quietly, “stay behind me until we assess the situation.”

“Torin—”

“Please.” His voice is rough. Vulnerable. “I know you can handle yourself. I know you’re powerful. But I need—” He stops. Starts again. “I need to know you’re safe before I can fight. If I’m worried about you, I can’t focus. My bear won’t let me.”

I should argue. Should insist on equality, on not being protected like a fragile thing.

Instead, I squeeze his hand back. “Okay. Until we assess. Then I fight with you.”

“Deal.”

We reach the clearing.

The nexus point is beautiful and terrible.

Wild magic concentrates here like light through a lens—visible as shimmer in the air, as colors that don’t quite exist, as a pressure that makes my ears pop and my heart race. The trees form a perfect circle around the space, their branches woven overhead into a living cathedral.

And at the center, the siphon.

It’s larger than the others—a crystalline structure nearly as tall as I am, pulsing with stolen power. Light spirals up from its core, reaching toward the canopy, toward the sky, toward the Warding Line that it’s slowly, inexorably draining.

Valesh stands beside it. Behind her, three other figures in dark clothing—her cell, her believers, her soldiers.