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I step back as their hands lift and briars twist up from the ground. The vines knot into a spiral rope, curling tighter and tighter until it holds steady in front of us.
“After you, princesses,” I say, sweeping a hand.
Wrenley rolls her eyes and steps forward. Rosalina gives me a sympathetic smile and follows her sister.
The climb is faster this time. The air gets colder, and vines creak underfoot, but they hold strong.
The moment we step off the bridge and onto solid ground, I sense something’s wrong. The earth is black. Even the destroyed city had thick, lush plants growing through the ruined stones.
Up here, dark veins spider through the ash-colored stone. It gives the eerie impression of something moving within the isle’s crust.
And the trees…
Hundreds of them.
All bone-white. Tall and narrow, bark smooth and pale as moonlight, clawing branches scratching at the air. They don’t sway in the wind. They don’t move at all.
It doesn’t look like any of the other isles we’ve seen.
There are no animals. Even the clouds seem to avoid this place.
“Okay, so it’s not a forge.” I squint at the trees. “Unless we’re forging nightmares.”
Wrenley shoots me a glare, then steps into the grove.
I sigh. “Don’t suppose we want to stay behind, let her check for traps?”
“Come on, Day.” Farron smiles at me, because of course he’d still be smiling after discovering a bunch of creepy trees. I bet he’s positively itching to decipher what species these are. He grabs my arm, and I let him pull me forward with the rest of our party.
The ground barely makes a sound below my boots. There are no leaves to crunch or dirt to displace. The earth itself has been sucked dry.
Wrenley walks ahead, then stops before a tree right in the middle. This one is different; it’s taller than the others.
She places her hand against the trunk.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then the bark splits with a crack. A seam opens down the length of the trunk, glowing from within.
Something falls out.
Correction: someone.
He lands in a heap at Wrenley’s feet.
A fae man.
Both Rosalina and I gasp, and I reach out, pulling her against me.
The man looks around Farron’s age, maybe a little younger, but there’s an ancient sort of shimmer to his skin, like moonlight’s been soaked into his bones. Wavy hair, the color of red wine, sticks to his brow. His mouth is parted, lips pink. Eyes shut.
He’s naked besides a pair of worn gray pants, but it’s what’s sticking out of his back that I can’t stop staring at.
Wings.
Delicate, iridescent, mothlike wings are folded tight against his spine. Mottled with soft yellows and browns and speckled gold, they shimmer like the brink of twilight.
“Well,” I mutter, “good thing Ez wore his armor after all.”
