The sounds of leaves chiming in the wind washed over Riordan and he nearly staggered back as the dark temptation lost its draw on him. Instead, Riordan saw the tree of light overlaid over the skeletal version of itself. He opened his mouth, breathing in the clean air of that breeze, free of the panic and fear and decay of the stagnant death energy. As he focused on the tree, everything around him became increasingly surreal.

When he entered the spell space of the ritual, it felt physical. He stood on what seemed like ground and moved his body around, with all the physical sensations involved. He used his eyes to perceive and his voice to talk. On some level, Riordan understood all of that was unnecessary, merely a filter for his feeble mortal brain to translate the energies of that space. Ripping off even some of that filter was enough to terrify him.

The spirit tangled edges with his soul, transmitting intention back and forth in a high speed wordless conversation. Instead of asking who he was and why he could be trusted, it just ripped that information from him, stripping Riordan’s soul bare before it. The action held no malice or harm, only efficiency as driven by an alien mind.

Riordan had never understood what a spirit really was before this moment. Academically, he’d been told a spirit was the crystallization of magical energy with some concept, embodying it and imbuing it with intention and agency. He’d always figured that meant they were some wise hippie-esque person that was all about whatever they were a spirit of, like a tree spirit was the ultimate tree-hugger or maybe some cute animal-like thing that really loved trees.

The reality was so different. It wasn’t a person or an animal. Maybe the spirit of a person or animal wouldn’t feel so alien, but this was the spirit of a really old tree. It had no understanding of social niceties or privacy or shame because the concept it embodied did not have any of those things. It only understood biology and life in the way of being a plant, slowly unfurling its leaves, digging its roots down, moving its sap. And even then, it was the spirit of the tree. It arose from the old blackgum tree, but it wasn’t the tree itself. If the tree was destroyed, the spirit would be greatly weakened, but not destroyed. It was irreducible energy with independent intention and an imprint of a tree.

Riordan realized how naive he’d been to think he might be able to convince the spirit to help them. In truth, he wouldn’t have had the faintest idea of how to open a dialogue with the tree because it didn’t speak as he did. It would have never occurred to him to communicate on a level of raw energy and intention.

The weak part of Riordan curled in on itself under such relentless scrutiny, trying to cover his shameful flaws like a naked man might cover his privates. The spirit ripped through his feeble attempts to hide, staring through every part of him. The animal side of his human soul snarled and bit at the tree like the honey badger he embodied, trying to defend himself from the spiritual invasion, but it had no impact, mere marks upon thick bark. The strong part of himself held out his pain and his need to help the victims and the spirit itself, the need to stop the death mages even if he had no idea how he was going to do that or if he even could.

All of those conversations happened simultaneously, drinking Riordan in and then breathing him back out with a sense of acceptance and consequence. Riordan held that answer close to him as something precious, a yes to a question Riordan hadn’t even realized he had asked.

The gossamer webs transformed. Each ghost was a tree in its own right with leaves spreading to breathe in and out the magic of the world and roots spreading out to tangle with the roots of their brothers. Each tree, stable and whole on its own, merged to willingly become a forest. In the heart of the forest rose a blackgum tree, its roots sunk deep into the ground, anchoring the structure and providing shelter and safety.

The pack bond snapped into place.

Riordan dropped out of the layer of images and instantaneous commune he’d been hovering in, slamming back into his spiritual body. It felt so much more real and solid after being in that nebulous state that it took a moment to realize that he hadn’t fallen all the way to the physical realm. He still had more work to do.

His efforts had already transformed the space. Most of the ghosts looked clearer and more solid than before, if a bit shell-shocked by what had just happened. The ropes binding them had pulled back to a single bond each and those remaining ropes converged, weaving into a complex bond around the rope that led from the tree spirit to Riordan. The tracking spell raced up and down the intertwined rope as if it was a single entity, pinging out to a different pack member each time and undoubtedly providing confusing data back to the caster.

Riordan had been forced to exclude seven ghosts in the end and they looked as they had before, bleeding and wrapped in ropes and anger, though they remained aware of each other. They seemed unable to approach anyone in the pack now, pushed back by a soft glow that also held back the swampy goop.

Looking down at himself, Riordan realized his rope was still looped around his left wrist but then extended out to anchor itself in the center of his chest. To forge the pack bond, Riordan suspected he’d made himself more vulnerable to the ritual itself, especially after he had to lean on the tree spirit to complete it. Fear crawled through him at the sight of that rope buried deep inside him, but he squashed it, unable to change what had been done.

Nor did he want to change the effect because Riordan felt the pack well now. It was time for the second part of his plan.

He watched the pinging tracking spell, timing its motions before lunging forward to grab it. His fingers sunk into the pulsing ball of energy, the sensation oily and revolting. He felt it oozing between his fingers as he ripped it out of the woven ropes. Free of that interface, the spell was weak and gross, like a tick bloated with blood and flailing its legs helplessly. Riordan could dimly perceive the connection of the spell to its caster.

Holding that connection in his mind much as he held the spell in his hand, Riordan drew power from his well and from the pack well, inhaling it until it felt like his lungs were going to burst. Then he blew it all out, resonating the power as a blast straight down the spell connection to the death mage. A scream tore through the space, more felt than heard, and the tracking spell shattered. It left a greasy residue that threatened to seep into Riordan’s skin. With a flex of will and a small burst of magic from the well, he burned it off of him harmlessly.

The sensation from the attack told Riordan that he hadn’t been able to do serious damage to the death mage. The tracking spell hadn’t been strong enough to channel a real attack along and it had shattered before his blast hit the end. Still, the scream implied that the backlash of the broken spell had been unpleasant, hopefully enough so to keep her off of them while he tried to implement stage three of his loose plan.

Without the tracking spell holding them in place, Riordan could have left the spell space. Indeed, he felt a pull towards his physical body. However, they were all still open for another attack. The entangled bond might confuse the target but not protect them. Plus with whatever strengthened connection to the spirit and ghosts Riordan had as a consequence of the pack bond, he’d probably get hit with backlash even if he wasn’t the main target. That wasn’t a good state to leave things in.

Moving to the flipside of the spell space was almost effortless now. For the moment, Riordan stood alone in the glade, watching the shimmering tree. The grass had spread further from the tree with bits of color gracing the tips of the waving stems. The wind practically sang through the branches now and the twinkling lights lit the area in starlight. The peaceful aura washed over him, tinged now with a pressure of interest or expectation.

Riordan had considered this place a refuge from the killing tree ritual. However, that hadn’t prevented Daniel and Duane from being ripped out of here to the cursed side. A sense of safety did not equal the reality of safety. Not yet.

He surveyed the glade, trying to figure out how to do this. He needed to build a wall around here that kept out trouble and also hid anything inside from being easily found. As he’d learned with the pack bond, imagination and manifestation coupled with intention to create spiritual spell effects. The spider web had been enough to build the spell, but he needed an image that was spiritually compatible with the targets as well.

Since the tree spirit dwelled in this space, Riordan used that as his guideline. More than the ghosts or himself, the tree had things that could not or would not fit with it and others that would slot into place easily. Riordan thought of his journey through the forest, about finding safety in his burrow, in the brush pile, and in the creek. Hell, the forest itself was shelter and camouflage, slowing pursuit and breaking sight lines.

Riordan lifted his hands to focus his efforts before pausing, realizing he was being stupid about this. Whatever else this place might be, it was currently the tree spirit’s glade. He needed to ask for permission and perhaps assistance.

Initiating that spiritual communion took more will than Riordan cared to admit, both because he was groping for something he didn’t know how to find and because of the terror and trauma from the first time. He didn’t want to talk to the damn tree, naked and honest. He also knew it was necessary unless he wanted to be fighting the tree for control of the space. The grass and wind and lights were manifestations from the spirit at Riordan’s best guess, which meant the spirit was already exerting intention here.

Riordan found himself moving forward to lay his hand on the tree of light. He’d never dared to touch it before and the roughness of the bark texture under his fingers surprised him. Somehow, even having seen the flashes of bark before, Riordan thought a tree of light should have felt less tangible, smooth and warm, instead of rough, tough, and so damn alive. As he thought of that sense of life, a spark of curiosity ran through him, coming from the tree, and then it rushed forward to overwhelm his soul with its form of talking.

In the midst of the storm of images and sensations flowing from the tree spirit, Riordan held onto his own image of a dense forest with a creek and thick brambly undergrowth, all encircling a peaceful clearing. He imbued the image with his intention, to prevent external attack and hide everything inside the clearing. The intention wanted to break free from his grasp, racing off to build itself in the space half-finished, but Riordan clung to it, holding it in potential as he tried to project it as a request to be accepted or rejected.

The effort felt like he was trying to sing a song and hold a conversation simultaneously, both necessary but separate and requiring attention he couldn’t quite split. Both his image and his request wavered. Panic rolled through Riordan as he felt it all starting to come apart, slipping through his mental fingers even as he scrambled to shove it all back together, trying to hold on long enough for something to happen.

Before everything came crashing down, the spirit grabbed onto Riordan’s image and held it for him. Riordan literally couldn’t stop thinking about it, a fact that made a constant stream of terror at this lack of self and freedom into an undercurrent to the conversation. The image for the defense changed, shifting from Riordan’s simplistic understanding of nearly identical trees and almost comical thorn bushes into a thriving and vibrant forest, rich with diversity and an ecosystem that fed back into itself. Power flowed from the pack well through Riordan and into the image as the spirit used him as a focus or spell component or something to build the defenses Riordan asked for.

Outside of the communion and casting, Riordan could feel the forest growing out of the void. The sound of flowing water joined the chiming winds as the creek etched itself deep into the not-ground and trees towered, leaning closer. The blackgum spirit rose taller and spread its branches from side to side, nearly blocking out the sky for the whole clearing and merging with the spiritual forest they were growing.

Riordan had heard spell casting described as the structure crafting of magical energies into specific shapes and frequencies to cause specific effects. This was something else. Instead of planning the spell, Riordan merely channeled magic into a living framework, letting it twist and twine organically, well outside of his own intentional control but guided by his desires for this place.

A momentary eternity later, the spirit and spell dropped him. Riordan hit the ground, laying in the soft grass, panting and shaking. The strength came from the pack well, the cost spread out over enough sources to not wipe Riordan out in and of itself. The process had shaken him though. Riordan wasn’t sure he’d ever fully recover from that experience, from being something more and less than a person, from being so close to magic like that. He shoved that thought away as hard as possible and forced his eyes open to survey the manifestation of the working.