Pala Orias sits at the nexus where the five great-canyons merge, or so Lysulli says. Yorl looks thoughtfully around at the canyon wall, then murmurs to Lucien and me, “It stands to reason, then, that these five great-canyons were created when the Old Vetrisians split the Tree of Souls in two.”

“Probably,” Lucien agrees.

“These?” My eyes bug out. “But these canyons are huge!”

“So is the Tree of Souls’ power.” Yorl nods. “Or, so was the Tree of Souls’ power.”

I make a frown. “What’ll happen if we split it again, then? More canyons?”

Yorl and Lucien share a look. It’s a silent answer but a thorough one. No one knows. More destruction, maybe. Maybe the whole place will collapse in on us and kill us.

All hypotheticals that’ll never come to pass, if I have any say in it.

I’m so mentally exhausted that my boots start to drag on the stone. No sleep, no rest, my mind listless and everywhere and droopy. I’m not even sure what’s keeping me awake at this point—Lucien, probably. He leans in and offers me his shoulder, and I take it. His working hand smooths my hair, his murmur of “soon, heart” the only thing forcing my feet one after another.

And then they catch on something.

I stumble forward, Lucien gripping my arm and pulling me back to standing at the last second. A string caught me and snapped—no. Not a string. A vine. A root.

A flower.

It’s not a real flower—it can’t be. It wobbles and wavers like a heatwave, made of what looks like golden mist so faint it could be mistaken for a mirage, a water spray suspended overlong. But its root caught my shoe, so it must be real. Real enough to trip me.

There come more of them the farther we walk—dotting the canyon floor like hesitant golden dreams, bunching together and apart. The strangest bit is that they bob in some invisible wind, and it’s surely invisible because the air down here is deader than I technically am.

“Flowers,” Malachite laugh-marvels, “in the Dark Below. Gran was right.”

“Our grandparents knew all along,” Yorl asserts, then turns to me. “They’d heard the stories. This is as far as I’ve been—Grandfather’s notes advised against getting any closer to the Pala.”

“Yeah, the place is a ruin—it could crumble at any time. But I’ve never—I’ve never seen these flowers in my life.” Lysulli frowns. “And I’ve patrolled here countless times. It’s…it’s usually just a crater.”

“The Tree of Souls is the source of all magic,” Lucien insists. “It disappeared physically, but its fingerprints still remain.”

“You talk like it’s alive.” They huff.

“It could be.” Lucien shrugs.

“Why would these flowers appear now, then?” I ask. “All of a sudden, when we come down here? Isn’t that too coincidental?”