Valerian Ashcroft's Arc

Chapter 3 of 11

Valerian returned to the rune stones at dawn, knife already drawn across his palm. Blood dripped onto the tallest marker, following the grooves of symbols he'd memorized days before. The boundaries needed sacrifice—he'd learned that much from his scars. The runes pulsed brighter with each drop, shifting from blue-green to silver. He pressed his bleeding hand flat against the stone and felt the air crack open beside him. Cold wind rushed through, carrying smells he didn't recognize—salt and smoke and something sweeter. His instincts screamed that this was it, the thin place where Morrigan had crossed. The wolf fang warmed against his chest for the first time in six months. He stepped toward the opening, but the light flickered and died. His hand throbbed. Not enough blood, or the wrong question, or the wrong time of day. He wrapped his palm with a strip of cloth and studied the stones again. Forty-three runes in sets of seven. He'd figure out their pattern. He'd bleed himself dry if that's what it took. The boundaries had shown him a crack between worlds. Next time, he'd force them to open wide enough to follow her through. The forest offered nothing else that morning, so Valerian walked toward the edge of Needlefall where the trees thinned. He needed information—real knowledge about crossing boundaries, not just trial and blood. A tavern sat where the forest met the road, its wooden walls carved with dragons and strange symbols. Stained glass windows glowed warm against the grey day. The Enchanted Dragon's Rest, according to the sign hanging crooked above the door. He pushed inside and let the heat wash over him. Three travelers sat near the fire, their packs stained with mud and distance. A woman at the bar studied a map. These people moved between places. They might know about thin boundaries, about copper-haired barbarians, about the cost of crossing between worlds. Valerian sat at a corner table where he could watch the door and pulled out his coin purse. Six silver left, maybe seven. Enough to buy drinks and loosen tongues. He'd spent six months bleeding on stones and singing lullabies to ghosts. Tonight he'd try a different kind of sacrifice—patience, questions, and whatever stories these wanderers would sell him. The wolf fang rested cool against his chest again, but it had warmed once. That meant something. That meant Morrigan was close enough to matter. He ordered ale and listened. The travelers spoke of roads and weather, bandits near the southern pass, strange lights seen in the forest at night. Valerian waited until the second round before he asked about copper-haired women or warriors passing through. The woman at the bar shook her head. One traveler mentioned boundary crossings but went quiet when pressed. Valerian pulled out a piece of aged parchment he'd prepared and placed it on the table. His own handwriting covered the page—description of Morrigan, the night she vanished, the blood at Thornwood. He'd made copies to post in places like this. The elegant script and wax seal made it look official, important. The travelers leaned closer to read. One asked about a reward. Valerian said he'd pay for real information, nothing more. The man nodded and promised to ask around at the next town. It wasn't much, but it was more than bleeding alone in the forest. The boundaries would open again when he understood their pattern. Until then, he'd search this world for anyone who'd seen her cross into the next. The tavern's warmth settled into his bones as he finished his drink. Tomorrow he'd return to the stones with fresh blood and better questions. Morning came with frost on the windows. Valerian left the tavern and walked east, following a dirt path that ran beside two creeks. The water rushed loud and cold, white foam churning over rocks. Half a mile down, the creeks bent toward each other and merged into a single river. He stopped where they met and watched the currents twist together. Two separate flows becoming one. His chest tightened. Morrigan used to say they were like that—different paths that crossed and stayed crossed. He'd believed her then. The wolf fang hung cold against his skin, but it had warmed once at the stones. She was somewhere in this world or the next, and the boundaries would crack open again. The merged water rushed past his boots, loud and sure. He had the tavern for information, the stones for crossing, and this place to remind him why it mattered. Two paths becoming one again. He'd find her, open the letter with her beside him, and let the rest burn. The creeks didn't fight their joining. Neither would he.