The markets of Verdantyr pulsed with color.
Scarlet fabrics draped from high beams, golden fruits stacked like trophies, emerald leaves shimmered under hanging lamps carved from crystal sap. Women sang as they ground herbs, men shouted prices across the square, and children chased after climbing beasts with baskets tied to their backs. Above, sky-bridges braided the trees together, carrying streams of people like rivers through the canopy.
Everywhere — laughter, life, unity.
Even after three years, Joss still hated it.
He tugged at his sleeve, muttering under his breath. All this noise, all this joy… for what?
The Festival of Dawning Light would begin at sundown. Gratitude to the Sun, they called it. A celebration of his "gift of color" and "the light that binds." Joss's lip curled.
"What binds? These fools think unity makes them strong. Strength isn't found in holding hands." He clenched his fists. "Strength is found in control."
A woman brushing flower-dust across her stall looked at him strangely. Joss turned away, scowling, weaving through the press of bodies until the music dulled behind him.
---
His feet carried him toward silence — toward the edge of Verdantyr where the trees grew black with age. Here, the walls of living wood thickened, twisting like guardians against intrusion. At their heart yawned a scar in the jungle: the Shrouded Hollow.
The air shifted colder.
Rope barriers and wooden posts marked the entrance, the sigil of the Verdant Guard etched across them. "FORBIDDEN." Everyone knew the law. None entered.
Joss whispered, "Even the jungle has secrets."
He stepped closer, brushing his fingers against one of the posts. The wood was damp, sticky with old sap. Shadows breathed between the vines beyond. His chest tightened with a dangerous thrill.
"You shouldn't."
Joss flinched. A frail figure stood before him: an old man with bark-colored skin, his beard thin as moss. His eyes gleamed with something sharper than age.
"The things buried long ago," the man rasped, "should remain buried."
Joss frowned. "What things?"
The man shook his head. "Ash remembers. Roots remember. Leave them be, boy."
Joss shoved past him, though unease prickled under his skin. "I don't need riddles."
The man caught his wrist, surprisingly strong. "Curiosity is a blade, child. Once unsheathed, it cuts both ways."
Joss yanked free, heart thudding. He didn't answer. He just turned and walked fast, trying to shake the old man's words from his ears. Still, they clung to him like cobwebs.
---
He found Amara where he expected — in the herbal gardens below the bridges, her hands buried in soil. She knelt between rows of green-stemmed plants, surrounded by women grinding poultices, binding wounds, whispering prayers for the sick.
"Finally," Joss said.
She looked up, strands of hair brushing her cheeks. "Joss. You look like you've been chased."
"I was looking for you," he muttered. "Lyra won't let me join training with the Verdant Guard. She says it's too dangerous. Can you believe her?"
Amara smiled without looking at him, plucking leaves. "She's right. You're just a child."
Joss scowled. "I'm not. We're nearly the same age!"
She reached up and patted his head, mischief in her eyes. "One year is enough to learn things children wouldn't understand."
He swatted her hand away. "Stop that!"
"You make it too easy," she laughed. She tossed a pinch of soil at him.
It struck his shoulder. He blinked, then grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it back.
"Joss!" An older woman hissed from across the rows. "Respect the garden!"
Both froze, then stifled laughter until the elder turned away.
"If you've nothing better to do," Amara said, handing him a spade, "get your hands dirty."
He groaned, but took it, kneeling beside her. The quiet work steadied him, though his thoughts kept circling back to the Hollow and the old man's words.
When the day's training ended, Amara wiped her brow. "Come on. Let's find the others."
He nodded, though his gaze wandered back toward the jungle wall.
---
Their path wound past the Shrouded Hollow again. The vines swayed though there was no wind.
Joss slowed. The shadows called to him.
Amara caught his sleeve. "Don't even think about it."
He jerked free. "What are you afraid of? It's just old trees and dust."
"Joss!"
But he was already slipping past the rope, heart racing. The air inside pressed cold against his skin, thick with the smell of ash.
"Wait!" Amara hissed, chasing after him.
The Hollow swallowed them.
They passed shards of burned houses jutting from the earth, their edges blackened. Vines strangled the ruins, blossoms creeping over charcoal. Tree roots bulged from the ground like bones, worn and splintered.
Amara whispered, "This… this was a village."
Joss crouched, running his fingers along the ground. A faint scorch-mark glimmered red, old but undeniable. "Fire magic. Someone burned this place long ago."
"Why hasn't anyone told us?" she asked.
"Because secrets are easier than truth," Joss muttered.
A rustle.
Amara gasped, pointing — a shadow shifted between the ruins.
"Run," Joss hissed, grabbing her arm.
They bolted deeper, but the Hollow twisted around them, until suddenly the ruins opened into—
---
An ancient city stretched before them.
Stone towers cracked under centuries of vines. Strange sigils pulsed faintly across walls, humming with an energy Joss felt in his teeth.
At the center stood a Prism Obelisk, taller than the trees, faceted like glass yet carved with runes.
Its light stirred.
A voice boomed, neither male nor female, echoing through their bones:
"The threads of time fray with each breath.
The serpent strains against his bonds, venom dripping into the roots of the world.
His hunger spreads, devouring light.
Only the vessel may stand against him—
Rise, child of the sun, only within the Crowned Temple can your flame awaken.
Or the world shall bow in shadow."
The prism flared.
Amara shielded her eyes. "Joss!"
Light swallowed them whole.
---
They slammed back into Verdantyr. The air stank of smoke. Screams filled the canopy.
The high tree wall blazed, flames crawling upward like red serpents. Black smoke devoured the sky.
Kael, Dagan, and Bram stood frozen in the square, horror on their faces as people ran, crying, carrying children, dropping baskets.
"No…" Amara whispered.
Joss's chest heaved. "Lyra." His eyes darted through the chaos. "Where is she? LYRA!"
He shoved past bodies, searching, panic breaking through his anger.
---
A hiss slithered through the air.
Purple mist seeped along the bridges, curling around fleeing figures, thickening like liquid smoke. The fire bent away from it, as if afraid.
The voice rose, smooth and terrible:
"My son…"
Joss froze. The mist touched his skin like fingers. His breath caught, terror battling something deeper — a pull, a recognition.
"Joss!" Amara shouted, clutching his arm.
He didn't move. The mist coiled tighter, alive, whispering against his ear.
The screams of Verdantyr faded.
Only the voice remained.
"Come to me."
The world tilted.
Darkness closed.
---