The morning sun slipped through the branches, scattering gold across the damp forest floor. I sat cross-legged at the campfire, staring at the small Spiritwood shard I'd slipped into my waist bag the night before. Its grain shimmered faintly, pulsing with energy like a living heart.
Lyra was sharpening her blades on a stone, the rasp of metal over rock sharp enough to cut the silence. When she finally looked up, her glare could have pinned a dragon.
"One shard," she said flatly. "That was the deal. And yet your bag jingles with more than that."
I forced a laugh. "Technically, it clunks. Resin jars don't jingle."
Her knife thunked into the ground between my boots, quivering. I froze.
"You risked both of us," she hissed, eyes narrowing. "The guardians nearly tore you apart because you can't follow a single instruction."
I held up my hands, trying to appear as harmless as a man covered in soot and still reeking of burnt bark could. "In my defense, if I hadn't grabbed those shards, my bracer wouldn't have worked. You'd be mulch right now."
Her expression didn't soften. But when she glanced at the bracer—its faint blue glow stabilizing around the embedded Spiritwood—I caught the faintest twitch of her lips.
"You're still an idiot," she muttered.
"Genius idiot," I corrected.
She didn't deny it this time.
We packed camp in silence, though the whispers never truly left. As we walked, I Appraised every plant we passed—glowing moss that hummed faintly, roots with alchemical potential, tiny fungi with "explosive spore" warnings. Each ping of information was like a bell of possibility ringing in my head.
Worth it, I thought. Every ounce of risk.
But I didn't say that aloud. Not with Lyra's daggers so close at hand.