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“We are being watched,” he murmurs during one such pause.
I strain my senses but detect nothing beyond the constant drip of moisture from leaves and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush. “By what?”
“The forest itself,” Theron answers. “And whatever has claimed this territory since my last visit.”
“How much farther?” I whisper, and even that sounds too loud in this muffled place.
Thalindor pauses, scanning the twisted trunks ahead. “The border markers should appear soon. They are stone pillars carved with the sigil of the Dark King.”
I nod and continue forward, careful to place my feet within Theron’s boot prints.
Magic here feels different. Silver power rings clear as crystal, each note distinct and pure. Here, it throbs like a fevered heartbeat. The air itself is saturated with excess, with magic used without restraint. It reminds me of a den of incubi and succubi, where reality thins from constant abuse.
Theron slows to walk beside me, his silver robes catching on thorns that reach out just for him. “Dark fae embrace what others reject. They harness powers we sealed away centuries ago.”
“Do you mean Underhill?” I ask, remembering the doorway the Ruler of the Wild Wood showed me.
Theron’s head turns, and he studies me for a long moment. “Yes.”
I duck beneath a low-hanging branch dripping with purple sap. “Why was it sealed away?”
Oryndel had told me a story, but I’d like to hear it from someone else to know it’s true.
“Because some magics demand too high a price.” Theron scans the canopy above. “We chose preservation. The Dark Sithe was the only one to stand in opposition.”
“Because they reveled in the possibility of death?”
Theron’s head dips. “Just so.”
A thorn catches my sleeve, tearing through to scratch my arm beneath. I flinch back from the immediate sting before numbness spreads from the point of contact.
My magic rises to counter it, healing the scratch and pushing back whatever toxin the plant released.
“Their plants are venomous,” I hiss, rubbing sensation back into my arm.
“Everything here serves multiple purposes. Beauty. Defense.” He tilts his head toward my feet. “Surveillance.”
A purple light draws my attention to the ground, which glows beneath my boot where I stepped outside the path Thalindor set.
The moonstone grows colder the deeper we move into Dark Sithe territory. What started as a cool pulse has turned to ice, sending shivers through me despite the humid air. The pull remains constant, tugging me forward, but it feels wrong in a way I can’t articulate.
“Your sithean stone troubles you,” Theron observes.
“It’s cold,” I admit.
His brows draw together. “The bond strains across distance, but this reaction suggests interference.”
“What kind of interference?”
“Dark fae specialize in manipulating space.” He gestures to the space around us. “Distance. Pathways. Energy. Another reason it’s foolish to sneak into the Dark Spire through their mirrors.”
I remember Caelan’s warning about being turned inside out and shiver again, this time not from the cold.
A presence brushes my senses, and I search the surrounding forest. The sensation reminds me of the glasscrawler’s touch in the abandoned theme park, that peculiar scrape across my senses like fingernails on a chalkboard.
There are no mirrors here, but my hand falls to my knife, fingers curling around the hilt.
“We approach the border.” Thalindor points ahead to where two stone pillars rise from the forest floor, their surfaces carved with symbols that become living, writhing things when viewed head-on.
