My pulse quickens. Shadow-walking has never been my preferred method of travel. It requires slipping between spaces rather than through them, bending perception and intentionuntil the world allows passage. It also leaves me slightly nauseated. How is Zeidan always dealing with shadows?
I sink into the practice slowly, allowing my magic to thin rather than flare. I do not reach for Zeidan. I do not brace myself against his steadiness. This is mine to do.
The forest dims around me as I step sideways into the shadows between trees. The path beneath my feet feels unreal, as though I’m walking through memory instead of earth.
The tracking thread grows brighter. Vira descends a narrow stair carved into ancient stone, half-hidden beneath a curtain of moss. I follow at a distance, careful to let the dark fold around me rather than ripple.
Voices drift upward before I reach the base. Vira’s voice is lower now, stripped of its public warmth.
“You assured me it would destabilize gradually,” she says.
A second voice answers, distorted by layered spellwork. It's masculine and and unfamiliar.
“It did. Until your heir bonded with Velcryn.”
A pause.
“Their combined magic accelerated the decay instead of resolving it,” the voice continues. “The roots reject divided loyalties.”
My throat tightens.
“You said the poison would target only the Vrakken interference,” Vira snaps quietly. “Not the entire network.”
“You underestimate what you’ve disrupted.”
Footsteps shift.
“Once the Wildspont fractures beyond repair,” the unseen figure says, “the coven will turn on her. They will blame the bond. And Velcryn will retreat to protect itself.”
“I agreed to a purge, not annihilation. Nytheria must survive this — under stronger hands.”
The implication hangs heavy in the damp air. My stomach twists. I do not confront them.
That is the hardest decision I’ve made in weeks.
Instead, I step backward into shadow, letting the darkness swallow my outline and my breath. I retreat the way I came, slowly, carefully, refusing the instinct to run. If Vira suspects she was overheard, she gives no outward sign. She doesn’t call out. Doesn’t pursue.
Which is worse.
I don’t stop until I’m above ground again, the cool night air hitting my face like clarity.
Leadership that understands tradition. They don’t want to kill me. They want me discredited.
If the Wildspont fails under my watch, if the bond becomes the visible fracture, then the coven will demand change. And Vira will be ready to offer it.
I cannot accuse her with whispers and half-heard promises.
I need evidence that cannot be dismissed as paranoia. I need proof of collaboration. Proof of poison. Proof of intent.
I close my eyes and force myself to think strategically instead of emotionally.
Vira moves with confidence because she believes she’s insulated. That means she trusts someone. And trust leaves patterns. Trade routes. Dusk-bloom resin. Access to ward schematics. Night meetings beneath rootstone corridors.
If she’s feeding poison into the ley network, she must be replenishing it somewhere.
I open my eyes and turn toward the coven halls, already planning the next move. I wonder…
“What would Zeidan do?”