They broke camp at dawn.
Behind them a grove was pewter still, and golden, in perpetual hush as a prayer is. The silver tree was its center, the knot now in the folds of its roots. There was a faint glow from it, like a heartbeat, slow, warm. Birds stirred from the upper branches. Leaves sang good-byes to the wind.
Lucian stood on the perimeter of the grove and looked up to where the path went yet higher.
"We head north from here," Arden said, folding a dog-eared map. "There is a pass over the cliffs narrow and ancient. The Vertical truly begins there."
Serakha came up next to Lucian and grabbed his hand. He glanced down at her and smiled, as he felt the strange, proven weight of joy in his chest. They had been successful at the Fields. They had returned the memory. They had chosen each other.
Now the world beyond waited.
