Parth ran, a glyph on her forehead glowing, a command to the woodland to allow her free passage, the trees bending from her path, roots shifting, ground smoothly accepting her passage. Semari kept pace even without such enchantments, her physical prowess enough to let her just push through, leaping between trees and ducking around obstacles. Breath burnt in Path’s lungs, even as the sun dipped beneath the mountains, woods turning dark. She tried not to think about her lost kin, sealed in a deadling dream, bound forever in a ceaseless falsity of life, forced to parade for the amusement of a wraith, even their sacrifice tainted.

By now, Stathis should be in position, ready to lure the banshee. Easily done for a brief time, harder to stay alive for long. But in life, she had feared the cleansing fire, so did her cowardice afflict her in death, even if she was beyond other mortal concerns. Although a shame that Stathis had been unable to bring the sword of sunlight from Redcastle – such a thing would make this process vastly easier, but humanity always did prefer to hide their most useful tools. Irksome.

They broke from the treeline, Parth whispering a quick prayer of thanks to the forest, for allowing her swift passage. Semari landed next to her, not even winded, already charging forward and leaping up the steep walls. Above them, the mist broiled and twisted, sparked into a chaos by their intrusion. Parth whispered another prayer, this one to her ancestors, those living and those dead. This was beyond her expectations, both good and bad – to resolve the promise of her blood, was beyond what she could price, as was finding such ancient kin still living. But to find a herald of the Destroyers, bound by the souls of her kin, and now potentially to be freed upon the world, was a curse beyond thinking. And now to unleash another beast, potentially even worse.

The mist was swirling into a storm, clouds of the stuff breaking off and drifting into the valley. Semari dodged underneath one, barely evading several tendrils that sprouted out as it passed. As it moved into a tree, the greenery turned stiff and grey, transforming into lifeless stone. Above them, the sky twisted, stars reeling as time’s grasp reasserted itself. From here, even in the darkness, patches of bald earth could be seen amongst the forest, ancient trees gone forever, even beyond ash. 

At the plateau atop the valley, the dragon loomed above them. The mist was already close, twisting and snagging on the creature’s wings and tail. Parth skidded to stop, panting in breath, trying to recover her energy. Semari stopped behind her, apparently undaunted by their run. ‘What we going to do now? Reckon we can go flying on big nasty here?’ She patted the dragon’s leg, the ropes still taut around it.

‘Protection. From the mist.’ Even before she’d recovered her breath, Parth drew her sword and began drawing a pattern into the ground, the storm of mist hissing bare meters away, sensing prey. ‘Find sticks. Sturdy.’

Semari at least was obedient, darting off to find some weapons, as Parth kept going. As she sketched the pattern, she tried to partition her mind, between the living world and the spirit beneath, allowing herself to feel the land, the spirit and shape of the place. Old and ancient, sleeping but warm, even if wounded. Elsewhere, such hearts had withered and died, or grown old, untended and chaotic. An ancient treasure, if the Songstress could be killed. 

As she drew the lines, she reached out towards the heart of the place, coaxing it into life. The lines she was tracing began to glow, green light giving birth to plants, grass growing along the leylines she etched, a rough circle, then she started adding details as Semari returned, having found several large, tough sticks.

‘Oh, so you’ve got cool magic now as well. That’s not fair! Everyone has cool magic other than me. Even Hakara has cool magic, and she’s only been with us for, like, a few days. So, is this, like, get-rid-of-stone-and-talk-to-dragons-magic? That’s pretty neat. Although he might be pissed, what with the rope and all.’

Semari was standing outside the circle, hands pointedly behind her back, carefully examining the grass without touching it. Parth finished the part she was working on, lines bursting into life as she carefully stepped over the plantlife, taking the sticks from Semari.

‘Protect me. From mist, monsters, anything else.’

Semari nodded. ‘Kay. You doing elfy magic stuff? Can I punch the mist?’

‘No!’ Parth held up one of the staffs, running her hand along it, imbuing it with a fragment of energy granted by the land, the wood toughening as she did so. ‘Mist is cursed. Dodge, drive back. Don’t touch.’ She stared at Semari, who nodded again, hopefully taking her seriously. ‘Weapons, not fists.’ Parth repeated the same spell on the other sticks, reinforcing each to be iron-hard, which be able to at least disrupt the mist.

‘Gotcha. Anything else?’ Parth reached out and grabbed Semari’s shoulder, whispering another prayer. Woodland scents wafted through the air, overcoming the clammy mugginess of the mist, the clear scents of grass and trees. Semari’s skin altered, taking on a rough, barklike texture. Semari poked herself. ‘Ooo, cool. I’m a tree!’ She waved her arms, imitating a tree’s branches, although with more energy, suggesting her strikes would hurt a lot more than a tree branch lashing in the wind. Before she returned to her ritual, Parth gently stroked the grass, calling forth berries.

‘For energy.’ Semari started moving to eat one. ‘Be patient. Conserve them.’

‘Fine, OK. So you want me to stay quiet, fight off the mist and any beasties? Cool.’

‘Yes.’ Parth paused. ‘Thank you.’

Semari shrugged, weaving underneath a tendril of mist. ‘No worries. Just make sure a dragon doesn’t eat me. Or a singing-ghost-thingie.’

Parth took up position in the centre of the spell-circle, centred within the protection of growth, as Semari took up a guard position, growling and snarling at the mist, swiping in its general direction. Parth took a deep breath, then closed her eyes, throwing herself fully into the ritual. She let her spirit be pulled from her body, joining the great wellspring of power gathered beneath this place, a vast glowing lake of energy. Even with the Songstress, and the seal breaking, it still bathed her in a warm sensation, soft and healing, even as the forest shook in fear. She could feel cold, colder than the hardest winter, cold as death, as the Songstress fought somewhere. Which was good, as it meant that Stathis and Janaxia must still be alive. 

In the heart, she couldn’t see, only feel, the sensation of green/growth/warmth/life flowing around her, cold/fear/death nearby. She started to whisper/will/shape, her thoughts concrete will in this place, urging the power, stagnant but willing, into movement, trying to urge it to move as she needed it to. The dragon had a power all its own, a banked ember, ready to flare into a lethal wildstorm, even if currently sealed.