Valerian Ashcroft's Arc

Chapter 5 of 11

Valerian pressed his bleeding palm against the Great Cedar's trunk and watched the bark drink it in. The wood darkened where his blood touched, lines spreading outward like veins until they connected with the carved word NORTH. Around him, the nightshade plants pulsed brighter than they had the night before, their glow visible even in daylight. The wolf fang burned hot against his chest—not the faint warmth from yesterday, but real heat that made him gasp. The air cracked open beside the cedar with a sound like breaking ice. Through the gap, he saw copper hair. Just a flash, just enough to know she'd crossed here, that this tree marked her path between worlds. The boundary sealed shut again, but he'd seen it. Proof. Progress. The pattern was working. He needed to mark this success before the memory faded. Valerian walked north through the trees until he found what he was looking for—a massive stone structure carved into the shape of a king bent forward in defeat. The Monument to the Desperate King stood taller than the cedar, its surface showing a man in robes that looked like waves frozen in rock. He climbed onto the base and pulled out his knife. The third search zone checked. He carved three lines into the monument's foundation, each one representing a region he'd searched and proven empty. This northern section of Needlefall was different. Blood accepted by the cedar. Copper hair glimpsed through cracking boundaries. The wolf fang burning instead of cold. He added a star beside the third line. Success looked different from failure, and he needed to see that difference carved in stone. The walk back to the cedar took him past another structure he'd noticed days before—a circle of standing stones different from the rune markers. The Weeping Henge of Sorrow rose from the forest floor, each stone taller than a man and covered in patterns that caught the light wrong. Water ran down their faces like tears, pooling at their bases even though no rain had fallen. Valerian approached the nearest stone and traced the patterns with his fingertips. Family marks. Clan symbols from the Northern territories where Morrigan's people came from. He recognized three of them from the songs she'd taught him. This place held records—not in books or scrolls, but carved into rock that wept and remembered. He spent an hour walking the circle, matching symbols to memories, finding her clan's mark on the eastern stone. The patterns told stories of travels and battles, marriages and deaths. Somewhere in these carvings was proof of where she'd gone and why. The boundaries had shown him her path between worlds. The henge showed him her history before the crossing. He had both now—past and passage. The wolf fang cooled against his chest as he left the circle, but the heat had been real. Tomorrow he'd bring more blood, more questions, and force the boundaries to stay open long enough to follow. The afternoon light filtered through branches as Valerian made his way to the edge of a small pond he'd passed twice before. A willow tree grew at the water's edge, its branches hanging down like curtains that touched the surface. He pushed through the cascading limbs and sat where the roots met the shore. The water reflected his face back at him—darker under the eyes than six months ago, thinner, but still sharp. Still focused. He pulled the letter from inside his coat and held it over the pond. His reflection showed him holding the one thing he couldn't open yet, not while progress burned this bright in his chest. The cedar had shown him her crossing. The monument marked his success. The henge gave him her history. And this willow, with its branches trailing in the water like her copper hair used to trail across his shoulder when she slept—this tree reminded him why he kept searching. He tucked the letter away and stood. Twenty-three men dead, six months searching, and finally something more than blood and failure. The boundaries would crack open again. He'd make sure of it.