The crystal trunks pressed closer the deeper Rhaen went.
They were not trees. Trees did not glow from the inside or catch light like frozen rivers. But they grew in columns all the same, thick and pale and veined with blue, rising from the mossy floor into the dim vault above. Between them, the paths narrowed into crooked corridors of glass and shadow.
Her ribs hurt with every breath.
Rhaen kept the pain on a short leash at the edge of her mind. It was there – a hot, deep ache under the bandage, warning her not to twist too hard or breathe too fast – but she did not let it be the only thing she felt.
She had work to do.
The knife in her hand moved almost without her looking. As she passed each new trunk, she reached out and carved a tiny mark with the tip.
Two short, clean lines: she'd come through here safely once.
One line: passable, but slow.
Three dots: don't be an idiot.
