“Coincidental indeed,” he muses, staring right at me.

I answer my own question wordlessly; it’s because the Tree of Souls wants me here. It gave me that dream ages ago, of the two tree pendants, and that overwhelming feeling of wrongness. It’s wanted me for at least that long—maybe even before that, Muro said. I try not to let the nerves overtake my thoughts. Lucien can’t know. He can’t. I can only be the poem-song, the mantra.

Finally the prince breaks his crushing gaze on me, and he inhales, exhales. “Gods above—I feel like I could do anything here.”

“What does that mean?” Fione inquires at his side.

“The magic’s unstable, but there’s so much of it. So much more than anywhere else, than even Windonhigh.” He marvels, dark eyes catching the faint golden glow of the flowers. “It’s like—like I’ve only ever stepped in puddles, and now I’m swimming in the sea.”

“So you’ve got full capability, is what you’re saying,” Malachite grunts.

“Which means Varia will, too,” Fione murmurs.

“We’re setting up the perimeter, regardless,” Lysulli interrupts. “I’m splitting the battalions into fourths and stationing them in a phalanx formation surrounding the centerline of the Pala. We’ll back ourselves against the north canyon wall.”

“Depending on the terrain, we can hide some of the archers for an ambush farther up,” Lucien says.

Lysulli looks at him, mildly approving. “Agreed. Clever move.”

“We can follow the centerline to the First Root,” Yorl says. “It should be there, at the axis of north and west.”

We soldier onward, the flowers becoming so thick under our feet, we can’t step without crushing some. They bounce back quickly though, bobbing cheerily and spraying an ethereal, half-real golden pollen of some sort. The canyon finally starts to narrow, but the flowers do the opposite, growing bigger and bigger until they’re waist-tall and thick enough to hide our legs entirely. Fione struggles with her shorter height until Malachite puts her on his shoulders without a word. The light of the collective flowers grows stronger, illuminating our faces with gold from below.

The first time I see Pala Orias, it feels like home.

It’s the valkerax blood promise in me, probably. A sweet, buttery feeling settles on the void in my chest the moment the golden flower-light reveals it—an old, crumbling ruin. Arches, plazas, chipping supports of houses long collapsed. The architecture is entirely different from Pala Amna—far smoother, taller, lots of domes and curves and strange pillars of coiled stone. Not spiraled but coiled tight. Malachite can’t stop looking everywhere, and neither can Yorl, but I look at only one place—ahead.

here at the cradle, the hunger whispers. here at the grave.