Page 132 of Vasmora

“I’m sure you are.” Dravien awkwardly clambered onto his horse, his injuries seeming to have healed some, but he still cradled his arm. He jerked his head toward the road. “Onward.”

Kazhimyr groaned and clicked his tongue, turning the horse onto the path away from the castle.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ZEVANDER

After dressing, Zevander led Maevyth out of the cave, both trailing after Lothare, down the path toward the camp. The creak of wood echoed around him, like trees swaying in a violent gust, yet there was no wind, and steps halting by instinct, he lifted his nose to sniff the air. Even through the mask, the sour stench of rot, thick in his throat, had him swallowing back the urge to gag.

Zevander twisted toward a colossal oak, massive and imposing at his back, its canopy a dark shadow against the night sky. A flicker of movement at the base drew his eyes to where a stark whiteness climbed from its upturned roots toward the trunk, sketching the shape of the tree in the surrounding darkness as the bark blanched. Its vibrant branches curled and retracted as though the air around it burned.

“The forest is dying,” Lothare said beside him.

Zevander trailed his gaze over the surrounding trees, a white silhouette of decay, and what sounded like eggshells being crushed had him looking down at the forest floor that rippled and paled as something stripped its natural colors like an incoming tide of frost.

Maevyth knelt and placed her palm over an actively turning patch of grass, but flung her arm back like she’d been stung. A troubled expression flickered across her face as she stood, cradling her hand.

“What is it?” Zevander asked, gently taking her hand in his, examining her fingers for any sign of injury.

“It’s so cold, it burns. Such a strange feeling. Dreadful.” Her brows tightened as she rubbed her fingers together.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Lothare twisted toward another majestic oak that’d turned as white as a paper birch. Even its once green leaves fell from the branches like delicate scraps of parchment.

At the distant sound of clopping hooves, Zevander glanced toward the other end of the camp, where a rider approached garbed in the same leathers and mask as Lothare’s other men, flanked by three wolves that prowled after him. Presumably one of the men Lothare had sent to meet with Akmyrios—the one named Andalone, who’d scoured Zevander’s memories.

The rider abandoned his mount and ran through the camp toward them.

Perhaps it was the mercenary’s frantic haste or the fact that Zevander couldn’t see more than his eyeballs that had his instincts flaring, his scorpions skittering over his skin. Zevander brushed the dagger strapped to his hip, his eyes tracking the man’s steps and the way he kept one hand to his chest.

Beside him, Lothare rested his hand on his own weapon.

Stopping short of them, the Wrathborne fell to his knees, bowing his head. He cradled his hand that glistened pink, as if the skin over his knuckles had been flayed. Studying it brought the twitch of his thumb to Zevander’s attention. A nervous tic, maybe, but annoying to look at for too long, particularly without its skin. “My liege, I’ve word from Akmyrios. I have seen terrible things.”

Behind him, one of the wolves standing guard bared its teeth, a low growl rumbling free. A few of the other mercenaries shifted on their feet.

Lothare glanced toward the wolf and back to Andalone. “Doesn’t it trouble you, what he said just now?”

Andalone also threw a glance over his shoulder and frowned. “The wolf? I must’ve missed it in my preoccupation. What did he say?”

Ignoring the question, Lothare crossed his arms. “Where’s Keiryan?” he asked, looking past him. A traveling companion, Zevander presumed.

Andalone shook his head. “We were attacked by city guards. Keiryan suffered a fatal blow.”

Lothare stared down at him, tapping the hilt of his sword, an edge of wariness in his voice when he said, “How unfortunate. He was a good man.”

“He fought well.” Andalone kept his head bowed.

“What are these terrible things you’ve seen?”

“The end of worlds. Blackness.” Andalone slowly shook his head. “A suffocating blackness, like fire in the lungs.”

“Show me.”

With a nod, Andalone rose to his feet and held his palm outstretched. Images materialized in the air, as if sketched from Zevander’s own thoughts. He watched through foreign eyes while Andalone slipped through the golden city, alongside another of Lothare’s men, both keeping to the shadows, until they reached what looked to be the gods’ temple, given the many depictions of Soladei carved into the stone.

Deep in the undercroft, the two met the mage Zevander recalled from the alehouse. The one who’d gotten away.

“Name,” Andalone demanded.