They traveled in silence.
The forest shifted around them — less oppressive now, but stranger. Trees leaned toward Elara as they passed, shedding silver leaves that never touched the ground. The path Morgwyn chose didn't exist on any map. It shimmered, half-real, carved by memory rather than direction.
"Where exactly are we going?" Elara finally asked.
"To an old place," Morgwyn muttered. "Where old debts breathe."
Fenric trotted ahead, ears alert. "He means Thorne."
Morgwyn didn't deny it.
They reached a clearing just before dusk.
It wasn't remarkable — just a circle of pale stones, overgrown with moss and moonflowers that hadn't bloomed in decades.
But Morgwyn's posture changed. She knelt at the edge, pressing her palm to the ground.
"He's here," she whispered. "Asleep or pretending."
Elara stepped forward. "Thorne?"
No reply.
So she knelt, too.
"Last Oracle," she said softly, "you marked me once. Without asking. You stirred something I don't understand. Now I ask you, not as a prophet… but as a person. If you have answers, I need them. Please."
The wind stopped.
Then a voice sighed through the stillness.
"You always had a lovely way with asking."
The stone circle cracked open like an eyelid.
And Thorne Elvastra rose.
He looked young. But not youthful.
His silver hair was intricately braided, looped around his head like a crown. Violet eyes burned beneath a heavy fringe. His skin shimmered faintly, etched in hundreds of tattooed runes — each one glowing subtly as he moved.
And he was barefoot, despite the sharp stones.
"Elara Wynn," he said, stepping forward. "Do you feel the thread tugging yet?"
Elara stared. "You… you were sleeping in the earth?"
"Time rests differently when you belong to none of it." His gaze drifted to Morgwyn. "Hello, beloved."
Morgwyn's jaw tensed. "Don't call me that."
"I'll call you what you were. Not what the world twisted you into."
The air between them crackled.
"Why are you still alive?" Morgwyn asked, cold and quiet.
Thorne tilted his head. "Prophets don't die. We fade. We fragment. Sometimes we remember enough to reform."
"Should've stayed fragmented."
Elara stepped between them. "You two know each other."
Thorne smiled faintly. "Once, we bled side by side. Then she chose wrath. I chose waiting."
"Don't speak like you didn't twist the knife," Morgwyn spat.
Thorne's smile never faltered. "Did I, Morgwyn? Or did I tell you what the stars had already written?"
Elara's head spun.
She turned to Thorne. "You marked me before I ever stepped into the Dreadwood. Why?"
He studied her — not just her eyes, but something beneath, like reading a soul through its bones.
"Because you are a hinge in the story."
"That doesn't mean anything!"
"To you, yet. But it will."
He reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out a mirrored flute, catching moonlight that wasn't there a moment before.
"This reveals glimpses. Not truths. Not lies. Just… possibilities."
"And what do you see in me?"
He lifted the flute to his lips and played a single note.
Elara gasped as images splintered across her vision:
Herself, standing atop a tower, cloaked in radiant magic.
Morgwyn, kneeling in blood, a crown of bone shattered at her feet.
A child — Sari — with golden veins crawling up her neck, eyes crying shadow.
Then it was gone.
Elara staggered. "What—what was that?"
"Three paths. One wound. Choose carefully who you let bleed."
Morgwyn stepped in. "Enough riddles. If you truly care for what remains of this world, help us."
Thorne turned serious. "You want Vel Ashen's truths."
"It's time."
"You'll find no comfort there."
"I'm not looking for comfort."
Thorne nodded, then glanced at Elara. "She must go alone."
"No," Morgwyn said immediately.
"Yes," Thorne insisted. "The dead of Vel Ashen remember you, witch. They will not speak while you breathe."
Fen growled lowly. "That sounds like a trap."
"It's prophecy," Thorne replied. "Which is often worse."
Elara stepped forward. "Then I'll go."
"Elara—" Morgwyn began.
"I need to know why I was drawn here. Why I'm tethered to you. Why magic hurts when I try to touch it."
Morgwyn's expression twisted, but she didn't argue.
Thorne bowed shallowly. "Courage suits you."
He pressed the mirrored flute into her hands.
"When the silence grows teeth, play this. It will remind the shadows they once had hearts."
That night, Thorne stayed by the fire, speaking in half-parables to the wind.
Elara sat near Morgwyn, who carved runes into a small charm of obsidian.
"Wear this in Vel Ashen," she said, fastening it around Elara's neck. "If anything moves toward you too fast, it'll burn."
Elara fingered it gently. "What happened there, Morgwyn?"
The witch didn't answer at first.
Finally, she murmured, "I made a choice. Between mercy and vengeance. I chose wrong."
Elara reached out, touched her hand.
"Then we'll choose better this time."
Morgwyn looked at her. And for the first time, her eyes held something softer than sorrow.
Hope.
As dawn approached, Thorne drew a spiral into the dirt with his toe.
"This will take her there. The city remembers itself if you ask kindly."
Elara stepped into the circle.
Before it activated, she turned. "Will I see you again?"
Thorne smiled — strangely, gently. "When the next wound opens, I'll be there. I always am."
The runes blazed.
And Elara vanished.
END OF CHAPTER 6