Lara's breathing grew shallow, each gasp a desperate plea for air. Raikha ran like a frantic animal, his muscles screaming, driven by an instinct to save her.
The Glades' gnarled roots clawed at his heels, branches whipped at them like accusing fingers, and Lara's seemingly fragile body grew heavier with every frantic heartbeat, a leaden burden of fear pulling him down. Her skin was clammy, her jaw was loose, and her face was pale in the darkness.
The fire turned to ice and the poison consumed her life force.
"No," Raikha whispered. "Not like this. I can't let her go. Not after everything."
As he pushed deeper into Halimun, the ancient forest, impossibly old, vast, and uncaring, closed in around him. He felt its knowing, silent gaze upon him, but he wasn't seeking escape. Instead, he desperately searched for a flicker of hope he could barely name – the sacred hollow deep within the Glades where Gantari once said the Langkasuri healers gathered. He prayed, breath by breath, that it was still alive, that its ancient magic had not been reduced to dust.
Raikha's breath rasped and burned in his lungs as he climbed a mossy ridge. He stumbled, nearly fell, and exploded into a small clearing. Centuries of green had covered its surfaces, and it was ringed with totems of old stone, choked by vines that had grown into their very nature. It was this. It had to be this.
With his own limbs shaking from fatigue, he knelt down and laid Lara gently in a bed of damp, lush ferns. In a heartbreakingly delicate motion, her head rolled feebly to the side. The dart's dark fletching, a stark, horrifying representation of their predicament, still trembled in her arm.
His voice cracked with a mixture of fear and fierce resolve as he begged, "Stay with me."
He cupped her face in his palm, feeling the unusual coldness of her skin. "I can fix this. I have to. You're too stubborn to give up now, Lara. You dare not."
He began with what he remembered, the fragments of old wisdom and the whispered healings of Gantari. He concentrated only on Lara's shallow breathing, ignoring the frantic pounding of his heart.
The Feverroot comes first.
Gantari once described a twisted, gnarled herb that grew only in the deepest shade of the elder trees and had an almost glowing orange glow.
Desperate, Raikha's eyes flitted until he noticed a patch next to a fallen, rotting trunk, its wood covered in fungus. With trembling fingers, he quickly ground it into a rough paste after tearing a handful free, the fibrous roots bucking his desperate grasp.
In the hopes that the skin would absorb its properties, he applied the strong, earthy poultice to Lara's wrists and neck. Then, bracing himself, he chewed the remainder, the bitterness exploding on his tongue, and spat the pulpy mixture into a wide leaf, pushing it past her lifeless, pale lips.
The minutes stretched on forever. He held his breath, waiting. Her eyelids fluttered, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement. A tiny, luminous spark of hope ignited in his chest. It's working. It has to work.
Then the shivering returned, worse than before. Her slender limbs began to jerk uncontrollably, a violent tremor shaking her whole body. A thin trickle of crimson blood poured from her nose, stark against her pale skin.
"No—no, no," Raikha whispered in a panic, tearing open his satchel and flinging its contents over the ferns. "What did I miss? What's wrong?"
Next, the Moonleaf Poultice.
Gantari had claimed these pale, translucent, almost glowing leaves could draw poison right through the skin. He found desperate stones nearby and crushed them, the soft flesh yielding as he worked.
Then he covered the angry swelling on her arms with the cool, wet paste. He prayed aloud, a ragged, frantic plea to whatever ancient spirits or indifferent gods still listened in these forgotten woods. For a brief, priceless moment, the ominous dark veins along her throat seemed to retreat, the sickly purple fading.
Then they returned, thicker, angrier, pulsing beneath her skin, like ink returning to parchment. She gasped for air, making a choked sound that ripped at Raikha's soul, and her back arched in a sudden, convulsive spasm.
His voice was raw as he begged, "Lara, stay with me!" "Just wait—damn it! You dare not abandon me."
A chilly breeze blew across the clearing as the wind changed. His desperation was mocked by the dancing shadows that twisted and lengthened.
Raikha had no choice but to reach into the very bottom of his satchel and retrieve a small, forgotten bundle: an old, forgotten offering stick tied with a faded red thread and made of dried ash bark.
"If you believe in nothing else," Gantari had added, a knowing gleam in her eye, even as she scoffed at such rituals as mere old wives' tales, "believe that intention echoes."
With trembling hands and eyes stinging from the acrid smoke, he lit the stick and mumbled the fragmented, half-remembered chant he'd once overheard—a tune of fervent hope.
"Spirits of silence and shadow, of fern and root... I beg you to listen. Accept this offering, return her breath, return her light."
Smoke curled into the air and twisted into grotesque shapes before it disappeared. Lara's eyes opened, but not with recognition or focus. They looked past him, wide-eyed and distracted, into some distant, unseen horror. A tear trickled through the dirt on her cheek.
Her whimper, barely audible, sounded like the lost cry of a child. "Please, Raikha. Help me. I don't wish to die."
His heart seized in his chest as he froze. The words were like a physical blow to the body.
"I'm tired," she whispered, her voice fading like a dying ember. It's cold. I'd like to get over this feeling. Help.
Raikha looked down at the bloody hands, the failed drugs, and the dying smoke curling from the forgotten offering stick. He was crushed under the weight of his powerlessness. A delicate cord of control snapped inside him.
With raw and desperate words ripped from his chest, he yelled, "You don't get to leave me!" "Not after our ordeal! Not now, Lara—not after the Kalderans, the fire, the vines! Never!"
His voice broke, splintering into sorrow. Then there was a thick, oppressive silence. Now, hot, hazy tears streamed freely down his own dirty face. He knelt next to her.
He muttered, "I'm not strong enough," the realization shattering his spirit. "I couldn't protect my clan. I could do nothing to stop the Kalderans from taking everything. And now I can't even save you, my friend."
Lara's lips trembled slightly, but her breath was shallow and fading.
Raikha lowered his forehead to her hand, his body shaking from suppressed sobs, his breath caught in his throat. "I'm so sorry, Lara. I'm really sorry."
Then,
Rrrriiiithhhh.
A strong vibration hummed against Raikha's chest. He stared, shocked, then fumbled beneath his clothing. It was the talisman Gantari gave him.
The talisman pulsed. Raikha's head snapped up, his eyes wide and alert despite the tears. The small, carved bone talisman around his neck, marked with Gantari's sigils, was trembling.
A low, chanting hum filled the clearing, vibrating beneath the earth. Raikha's eyes widened further as the talisman glowed with a soft, ethereal green light, casting an unearthly glow on Lara's pale face, the damp moss, and delicate ferns.
What is this?
The ancient stones faintly vibrated, leaves turned upward, and the wind stilled. A deep, ancient warmth poured from the talisman into Raikha's hands, and he instinctively placed them gently on Lara's chest, just above her heart.
The poison resisted, a sinister, unyielding force. Beneath his palms, he sensed a cold knot, its malevolent grip.
Then—
it receded.
Bit by bit, agonizingly slow at first, then with increasing speed, the black veins vanished beneath her skin, retreating like a tide. Her breathing slowed, deepening, becoming rhythmic and steady. Her eyes shut—but calmly, peacefully, this time, a natural sleep.
The talisman's green glow dimmed, fading back to dull bone. The forest exhaled, a collective sigh of ancient relief.
Raikha fell back, eyes wide in disbelief, chest heaving, his own heart pounding not with fear, but with overwhelming, impossible relief. You must be kidding me, Sir Gantari.
Lara was breathing—normally.
"Raikha?" Her voice was hoarse, weak, but clear.
His head snapped toward her, eyes filled with such profound relief they threatened to spill fresh tears. His knees nearly buckled. "You're awake!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking between a sob and a laugh.
Lara blinked slowly, her voice dry as desert leaves. "Did we... make it?"
"You're alive," he said, almost giggling in shock. "We're still here. The forest didn't take you."
She paused, attempting to push herself up. Her forehead quirked. Then she gave him a very dry look, glancing down, then back up at him. "Raikha?"
"Yes?"
"What exactly are you touching, boy?"
Raikha scowled in perplexity, then followed her gaze down. His blood ran cold.
His hand. Still gently resting on her chest.
Specifically—on her left boob.
His spirit almost departed from his body. He stumbled backward, flinging both hands up as if surrendering to fate itself. "I—I—I didn't—I wasn't—THAT WAS FOR THE HEALING!" he stammered, bright red. "It was wholly spiritual! On my talisman, I swear!"
Lara narrowed her eyes at him, a mischievous glint returning. "So, emergency boob-grabbing is now part of your sacred art?"
"I was directing the forest's energy!" he blurted, his face fiery red. "I wasn't aiming! I was just trying to keep your heart from giving out!"
"Uh-huh," she murmured, her smile spreading. "So, next time I'm dying, should I expect a full massage? Maybe even a kiss for good measure?"
Raikha's face was incandescent. "Definitely not! Unless asked for, that is! Not that I'd ever—see, I was freaking out and you were dying, and then the talisman glowed, and I—"
She interrupted him with a little laugh, warm but sharp, a sound that brought the Glades to life around them. "Calm down, prince of the jungle. I'm merely making a joke."
Raikha gaped in disbelief. Then, sharp, tired, and giddy with relief, he laughed too, in spite of himself. He wiped his eyes, a lingering tear on his cheek, and muttered, "You little demon."
"I feel guilty." She smiled. "However, thank you for saving me. Grope and all."
He laughed, a genuine, relieved sound, and sagged back next to her, shaking his head. "I'll just let the poison win the next time."
****
Gold-tinged light filtered through the canopy, touching the leaves, and the night gave way to a new dawn without incident. After even a brief nap, Raikha, who had only slept in shifts and was always on guard, felt his heartbeat steady and his mind calm. Lara lay curled up under his spare cloak, her color restored, her lips no longer pale. She moved slightly and whispered something in her sleep—safe, whole, alive.
Raikha stood at the edge of the clearing, her saber in hand, her eyes focused on the tree line. His senses were sharper than ever, but the desperation was gone. This time he felt ready.
Then there was a flicker.
A flash of light. Just beyond the ridge, high in the treetops. He squinted his eyes.
There.
A tiny shadow. A Kalderan scout, lowering a spyglass. Raikha's jaw tightened.
The scout raised one arm—FWWSSHHH.
A fierce crimson flare burst into the sky, forming a blood-red streak across the forest against the still morning air. He glanced back at Lara, who was still asleep and unaware.
Raikha's hand gripped his saber's hilt more tightly. He squared his shoulders. Something steadier had taken root beneath the flickering warmth of fear in his chest.
He had bought them some time. He had stood in the face of death, panic, and poison.
And now?
He would fight on his terms now.
His voice was firm and low as he exhaled slowly, his breath blending with the mist of dawn.
"Let them come."