Page 113 of Dark Fate

We're only an hour deep into Lucian's brain boot camp, and I already feel the mental burn. He keeps penetrating them with ease. This stuff is intense and draining. Gaining this skill, this mental muscle Lucian wields gives me a whole new level of respect for him. He's not just a master of witty comebacks and nightclub domains—he's honed a trait that demands every ounce of my will.

The fortress of my mind needs bolstering, something—someone unbreakable. Instinctively, my thoughts turn to Rhyland, my steadfast protector. I close my eyes tighter, and there he is, a tangible presence within the sacred confines of my mental lab. With his strength and assurance, he is beside me amidst my vials and equations. I sense a shift then, a newfound solidity in the barriers of my mind.

Feeling the change, confidence surges within me. "Okay, Luci, give it a shot now," I challenge, ready to test the might of my reinforced defenses.

"Well, I'll be damned...you're a star pupil, Princess. Your walls are solid." Lucian laughs, and I can't help but grin. "Just keep 'em up. Takes practice and some serious brain juice, but I'd say you've got this shield thing on lock." He finishes with a wink.

As our group rides deeper into the territory of Whisperling whispers, I feel a determined surge within me—I’m ready. I’ll protect us all, starting from the labyrinthine corners of my own vulnerable mind.

Danica

52

The coldness of the Whispering Woods bites at me, the frosty air a far cry from the heat emanating from Rhyland's body against mine. I keep Storm steady, navigating the maze of paths, all shrouded in mystery.

Swirls of fog slither through the air, wrapping around us in ethereal wisps while an eerie quiet smothers the woods. Trees loom like watchful guardians, their twisted limbs stretching toward us, ready to either share the forest's ancient tales or catch us in their wooden grasp.

Suddenly, the single-file path decides to throw a party, branching into a spiderweb of 'choose your own adventure' trails. Each one's a gamble, heading who-knows-where. The air gets heavy, holding its breath, waiting for us to move in this game of forest roulette.

"Which way now?" Faedryn’s voice cuts through the foggy haze.

Erik moves forward, his silver eyes scanning the murky surroundings. "Left," he asserts, pointing to a path shrouded in thicker mist.

Axilya shakes her head, her crown of pale flowers and thorns catching droplets of mist. "No, we must take the right fork. It leads to higher ground."

Lucian scoffs. "And what? We'll just fly over this damned fog from there?"

Rhyland's authoritative voice rumbles behind me. "Enough! We can't waste time bickering."

Tension crackles around us like the prelude to a tempest, but deep down, there's a flicker in me—a knowing without words, a compass in the chaos.

"Hang on—" I announce. My companions fall silent, their eyes fixed on me.

I shut my eyes and inhale deeply, holding the quiet of the woods in my lungs before letting it seep out, slow and controlled. Storm remains unflinching and quiet, as if he understands my intent.

Inside, there's a pull—a visceral anchor to the stone, transcending the fog and shadows enveloping us. It tugs at me insistently, the sensation amplifying until it becomes irrefutable. I feel a tingle at my crown, a physical echo of the certainty blossoming within me.

"This way," I declare, my voice laced with an assurance that surprises even me. That intangible tether seems to direct me as surely as a compass needle finds magnetic north. With a soft coaxing of Storm, we venture onto a less-traveled path—a thread in the woods that sings of both promising and perilous fates.

Lucian's voice drips with a know-it-all tone. "Obviously, I was about to choose this very route."

My crown vibrates as though it's coming alive.

"Your crown," Rhyland's voice is hushed and thick with awe, right behind me, "the glyphs are glowing... shifting."

We enter a clearing. Beneath us, Storm's restlessness grows; he shifts his weight, his body wound tight as a bowstring, as though he's picking up vibes we can't. Suddenly, he lets out a piercing whinny, and his hooves hammer a nervous tattoo into the forgiving earth—his unease is contagious as the other horses follow suit.

"Easy, boy..." I try to soothe him, but before I can even start, something zips by—a blur of speed that's anything but natural. Storm's reaction is immediate and explosive; he's up on his hind legs, powerful and magnificent but utterly terrified, pitching wildly beneath us.

My fingers tangle in Storm's mane, desperate for anchorage, but the force defies my grip. Like ragdolls in a typhoon, Storm launches us off his back, proving that gravity's got nothing on a spooked horse in a supernatural forest.

The impact with the ground is brutal, a crushing embrace that knocks the wind from my chest. My silent gasp is for oxygen that seems to have fled the scene. Pain stabs from shoulder to spine—unwelcome and searing.

I can't breathe at first.

Then, finally, air staggers back into my lungs, and each gulp is a sharp-edged blade as the taste of moist soil and the tang of fear mingle in my mouth.

The moment I wrangle control over my breath and will, Rhyland is right there instantly to lift me off the unforgiving earth. That's when it strikes—an unearthly scream that shreds through the silence of the trees. It's not just a sound; it's a pronouncement of dread, making every hair on my skin stand at attention.

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