“She’s been following your dreams,” Lucien murmurs.

“Yeah.” I nod. “If we get to Pala Orias first, and then I dream, she’ll track it, and skip over Pala Amna to come right for us.”

“She might. Or she might raze Pala Amna on the way down,” Yorl murmurs behind his paw.

“She’d want to keep the bulk of her forces for us, though, right?” Malachite asks, hope creeping back into his voice.

“She could split the horde,” Lucien offers. “Most of it for Pala Amna, the rest for us. We’re just five people. Logically, a handful of valkerax would be enough.”

“But she’s not operating by logic anymore,” I blurt. “She’s being consumed by the Tree.” I see Fione flinch, but I barrel forward. “The Tree’s dominating more and more of her thoughts as time goes on. And all it wants to do is destroy. Except, that moment at the Black Archives where all the valkerax went still—I think I might’ve done that.”

Everyone’s eyes go wide, Malachite’s just narrowing.

“You?” Yorl blinks. “How?”

“I was—” I swallow. “I told it I was sorry. Sorry it had been alone for so long. And it seemed so…shocked. Shocked someone like me would apologize. That anyone would apologize. I think that’s what made it—and all the valkerax—freeze up. It was confused. Or sad. I dunno. But it worked, right?”

“You think you can do it again?” Lucien squeezes my hand.

“Maybe.” I grin grimly at him. “If I can make it sad, I think I can make it mad. And if I make it mad enough, Varia will ignore everyone else and come right for us.”

“If we can go to the ancestor council and get their help, we can mount a defense before Varia gets there,” Malachite says. “Lay a trap for her in Pala Orias.”

“Lure her, and trap her there so that we split the First Root,” Fione says and looks to Lucien. “Can you do that?”

Lucien shrugs. “I won’t know until I’m there, feeling its magic. There’s a good chance the Old Vetrisian witches split it with a combine weave.”

“Translation?” Malachite drawls.

“More than one witch,” Yorl clarifies, “pouring magic into the same spell.”

“It’s what you’re supposed to do for teleports, too.” I look pointedly at Lucien, and he flushes and scowls.

“Regardless.” He assumes a princely tone. “I’ll do what needs to be done.”

“You’re not going to kill yourself doing it,” I snap.

His chuckle is gentle. “Not planning to, heart.”

The nickname melts me like hot honey over cream, but I won’t let it distract me. I hold his gaze stubbornly.

“We can send for help,” Fione says, looking to me. “Nightsinger would help, wouldn’t she?”