In his time alone, he found himself hungry for more knowledge, about the past and whatever it was that was happening to him now. There was always the chance it was madness, of course, that had him hearing other voices, but as he searched his memories, he began to recall similar whispers during his time back in Locke when he was younger. They’d never lasted as long, not like the ones he experienced out here, and they had always seemed farther away. But he was almost certain that he had felt the sensation before being left in the jungle.

So he focused his energy on expanding his abilities, trying to communicate more effectively with the spirits, learning what he could about their deaths. For some, that was all they could remember. Others could provide minimal information about their lives. But for almost every spirit he encountered, when he tried to ask if they knew why they had been deserted in such a way, the spirits either grew quiet, disappeared, or could not remember.

“What are you doing up there?”

Cruze bolted upright, nearly toppling out of the tree entirely. But a strong breeze moved through the canopy at that moment, providing just enough of a reprieve for him to spread his legs and throw out his arms, rebalancing himself on the twisted limbs where he was perched.

He looked down to see Kess on the jungle floor, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to…”

“Distract me to death?”

She shook her head. “Definitely not.”

He shrugged. “I should have been paying closer attention.” Or one of the spirits should have warned him of her approach. He sent that thought out wide, and felt a few answering nudges of apology.

“I was … hoping we could talk,” Kess said, fretting nervously with the frayed end of her shirt. All of their clothes were little better than rags now. They had taken to ripping them up and remaking them into smaller, more wearable pieces as they all lost weight.

“Yes,” Cruze replied. “There are some things I would like to talk about too.”

He had been thinking more about the possibility of her being a witch, and the strange experience he himself had had since coming to the jungle.

He made his way down the tree quickly, used to the descent by now. When he was standing face-to-face with her, she seemed hesitant to ask whatever she had come for, so he took the opportunity to ask his own questions instead.

“Do you believe in the supernatural?” he asked.

“Do you mean magic? Of course I believe in storm magic.”

“No,” he snapped, his teeth grinding at the thought of such magic, and those he knew who wielded it. “Not storm magic. Other kinds.” Stormlings were all-powerful in this world; they made the decisions, created the laws, commanded the soldiers. They had everything when Cruze had nothing.