Lyrian Ashenbark's Arc

Chapter 5 of 5

The channel narrowed as Lyrian rowed deeper into the reeds. A slow heat bloomed under her sleeves. Her tattoos warmed like hands cupped around her arms. The pendant at her throat warmed too, its murky water steaming brighter against the glass. She had not felt the marks move like this before. They were not afraid. They were pulling. She stopped rowing and let the boat drift. The warmth tugged her gaze to the right, where the channel split in two. A red flag stood planted in the reeds at the eastern fork, fluttering on a thin stem. Berry dye bled down the cloth. The watcher had marked the path for her. Lyrian pulled the oars and followed the flag. A mud-caked heron lifted from the water and beat north ahead of the bow, as if leading her on. The pendant grew hot against her collarbone. The lines on her wrists glowed faintly under her skin, brighter with every stroke. Then she saw it. A small wooden shrine leaned on a patch of solid ground, its bone altar pale in the green light. Her tattoos flared so hard she gasped and dropped one oar. The marks were not just warm now. They were singing toward the shrine, every line straining her skin like rope pulled tight. She beached the boat and stepped onto the mud. The flute pressed cold against her ribs while her arms burned. Whoever the watcher was, they had wanted her here. Lyrian walked toward the altar with her sleeves rolled back, and for the first time the tattoos did not feel like a question. They felt like an answer waiting to be claimed.