“I could not sleep.”
Her eyes flickered to the closed book, but she did not move to take it away. Instead, she stepped closer, the scent of lavender and old paper following her.
“It is early, child,” she said. “The body requires strength for the trials ahead. You must rest.”
“I understand.” I pursed my lips, offering a halfhearted nod. “I suppose… I am worried about the future. Of the possibility of never finding an Elarthai.”
Sora’s expression softened.
“We have time, dear,” she murmured, stepping into the circle of light. “Do not unravel your soul before necessity demands it.”
I nodded begrudgingly.
Her warm hand landed on my cheek, guiding my eyes up to hers. “You best get some rest, now. The trials begin at the sun’s rising. Let us hope for answers, yes?”
“Yes, Keeper,” I whispered.
* * *
The forest beyond the Isvale cliffs was a tangle of silver-barked trees and shadows that did not move with the wind. I walked quickly, the hem of my white ceremonial robes catching on brambles as I pushed deeper into the thicket.
I had run from the Isvale cavern before the Priestess hosting the Moonlit Trials could even call the next name.
No crystal designed by the hands of the High Court would ever tell me the truth of my soul.
There was only one thing I trusted to give me the truth, and the path there was not marked on any map.
The Lake of Veilith was said to be hidden through the dense woods behind the Archives, at the bottom of a steep, treacherous decline. If the stolen sketches in my satchel were accurate, alarge canopy would mark the left of the cliff, hiding a set of rocky stairs buried beneath layers of rot and debris.
It would be a struggle to reach, but I had foraged the highest peaks of the mountain; I was certain I could conquer a few forgotten stones.
The normal rustle of dry leaves suddenly became louder, syncopated by a wet slither.
I froze, my foot caught midair, and turned my head slowly.
A thick, pale vine was winding its way around a cedar trunk, moving with an intelligence that no plant should possess.
I made no further movements—my very breathing ceased—as the head of the plant turned toward me.
From the corner of my eye, I could see a milky sheen coating a wet, bulbous eye with no iris. It moved quickly, darting between the terrain, and surveying the area.
What on earth was this thing?
My lungs began to burn from the lack of oxygen, and a small, involuntary cough escaped me.
The vine snapped toward the sound instantly, its fleshy length rippling as the milky eye dilated.
My eyes widened.
I was not sure if I should run or attempt to become one with the trees.
Its head tilted, the eye pulsing one last time before it turned away, slithering back into the brush.
Sucking in a deep breath, my shoulders sagged and my foot dropped to the ground, leaves crunching unnecessarily loud beneath my boots.
Before I could even exhale, another vine dropped from the tree above. It dangled like a pale, fleshy noose, its sheeny eye right in line with mine. A scream tore from me before I could stop it, my feet scrambling backward before my brain could catch up.
I tripped on a stray branch, my body flying backward toward the jagged roots. But before I could hit the ground, a powerful arm wrapped around my chest, lifting me off my feet and hauling me into the dark.