"Every path has its puddle."
FREY'S POV
I paced back and forth across the broken stone just beyond the threshold of the mountain's core. The magic here was thick, dense, and coiled like a living thing pressed too long into stone. Every few steps, the wind would rise, carrying whispers that were not voices but felt like echoes of pain.
Tor stood by the edge of the ridge, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the twisting storm above the peak. He had not spoken in the last five minutes, which meant he was holding everything back. Sierra, ever composed, leaned against one of the ruined pillars, her braid catching flecks of ash from the air. She was quiet too, but her fingers tapped against her thigh in rhythm like she was counting the seconds since Rou had vanished into the water.
He should have returned by now, and I stopped, turned, and paced the other way. "Where the hell are they?"
"They'll come," Ma said calmly. Too calmly. Which meant she was just as worried.
