The world hadn't changed, but my view of it took a hard turn. Its symphony became a jumble of noise. The healers said my physical and mental wounds were stabilized. That meant the bleeding stopped, but I was still stuck. I watched the colorful, musical world like I was behind glass.
I started wandering our new refuge, a ghost in my own life. The plateau, which the new people called Aerie, had a rough beauty and hard needs. They made the caves bigger and cut terraces into the mountains to grow tough, high-up crops. The wind always blew, carrying the sounds of building and the Chroma wards being made. It was a society rising from the ashes, but I felt like ash, scattered and lost.
My feet often took me to the training area. I'd watch Mara train with Lyra from a distance, a silent guard on the rocks. Those sessions were a painful reminder of my past and a future I couldn't have.
Lyra, still careful of her healing ribs, taught Mara with patience but pushed her hard. She had Mara do the same starting exercises I'd struggled with—controlling her personal field, lightly muting an object. Mara's power was a small flame compared to the fire it was when we were joined, but it was steady. She was the boss of it.
I saw her focus, the tip of her tongue poking out, the way she'd sigh when grass died, and then how she'd set her jaw. It was sad and inspiring. She was learning and moving forward.
Sometimes Lyra would glance my way, but I couldn't read her face. She never waved me over, never spoke to me. She was giving me space, respecting the gap between who I was and who I'd become. It felt less like respect and more like she was saying I didn't matter anymore.
One afternoon, I ended up at the forge Kael had made under a big rock overhang. The air smelled of coal smoke and ozone. The hammer hitting metal made a harsh noise against the Chroma. Kael was there, his big body dark against the crimson forge light, hammering hot metal into a ploughshare. He worked intensely, using his Crimson Chroma to heat the metal from inside.
He didn't look up as I got closer, but he knew I was there. Prince, he grunted.
Kael, I said, my voice weak next to the forge's noise.
He finished his work, dunking the ploughshare into a barrel of water. Steam hissed as he wiped sweat from his face and turned to me. His eyes, usually on his work, showed that he understood.
You look like you lost your best tool, he said kindly.
It was more than that, I said, leaning on a stone pillar, feeling tired.
Is that so? He picked up a piece of iron. This is a tool. It's useless like this. It needs to be heated, hammered, shaped, and cooled. It needs to be broken to become useful. He tossed the iron in his hand. You think you're useless because you can't do what you did. You're sad about losing something raw.
I got what he meant, even though it wasn't worded perfectly. That ore was my power, Kael. It's gone. There's nothing to hammer.
Really? He pointed around the forge at the tools, projects, and fuel. I can't feel the Chroma of this wood to make it burn hotter. I can't sense bad stuff in the metal to clean it. My power is simple. I use my eyes, my hands, and what I've learned. He looked at me. You learned to see the world in one way. That way is gone. But you're not blind. You just have to learn to see again.
He went back to work. The talk was over. He had given his advice; it was up to me to use it.
His words stuck with me as I walked around. Learn to see again. But what did that mean? All I'd ever seen was a colorless world that was a lie. The real world was a reminder of what I'd lost.
Annoyed, I started avoiding Aerie. I looked for quiet places and found a path to a rocky gorge with a frozen river under ice. The Chroma here was faint, just the ice and the stone. It was quiet. It was the closest I could get to peace.
There, touching the rock, I felt something new. It wasn't Chroma, but something older, more basic. It was a memory, a ghost of a feeling.
I put my hand on the cold stone and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the noise in my head. I wasn't trying to feel the Chroma, just listening.
Then, I felt it. Not a song, but a story.
I felt the slow pressure of glaciers that made the gorge. I felt water wearing the stone smooth. I felt life from long ago, a whisper from a fern turned to coal. It was history written in weight, erosion, and time.
It wasn't Chroma. Chroma was music now. This was the memory of the instrument, its scars, its shape.
A thought hit me. If I couldn't hear the music, maybe I could read the sheet music, the world's scars.
I started trying things. I'd find a tree hit by lightning and sit with my hand on it. I wouldn't try to feel its Chroma, but the memory of the strike—the heat, energy, and shock.
At first, it was just my imagination. But as I learned to quiet my mind, the feelings got stronger. They were vague, emotional. Heat here, impact there. I wasn't a Scribe listening to a song. I was an archaeologist dusting off a tablet.
I started mapping them. I used charcoal and hide from hunters to draw what I felt. Circles for the lightning strike, lines for a crack in the rock. It was strange to others, but it was a language to me, a way to say something in the silence.
One evening, I was in the gorge when Mara spoke behind me.
What are you doing?
I jumped, dropping my charcoal. Mara stood there, curious. She held a smooth, gray stone.
I'm not sure, I said, looking at my map. It looked crazy.
She came closer, looking at the drawings. It looks like the rocks feel, she said.
I caught my breath. What do you mean?
She pointed to my drawing of the lightning strike. This feels sharp and loud. Like a stuck shout. She pointed to the glacier lines. This feels slow and heavy. Like a sleeping giant.
She could feel it too. She was feeling the Chroma, but the silence made her aware of the scars. She was hearing the fading song while I was reading the carved words.
It's the land's memory, I said, excited. The things that happened to it. I can't hear the music, but I can read the history.
She thought about it and held out the stone. What about this one?
I took it. It was cool and heavy. I closed my eyes and felt it. Pressure, tumbling, smoothing. Water wearing it down. It was a story of violence becoming peace.
It was broken a long time ago, I whispered. The river carried it and smoothed it for years. It's a story about peace.
Mara's eyes widened. She took the stone back and looked at my maps and my face. She respected me, not like she had for the powerful Scribe, but as a scholar.
You can see the stories, she said, even without the song.
It was the first good thing I'd heard in a while. It was a small thing, but it was hope.
I threw myself into studying. My maps got bigger. I looked for different places—a hot spring, an avalanche. I was mapping scars on the land and on myself.
I was studying cracks near the water when Lyra found me. She watched me, touching the rock.
Kael says you're into rocks, she said, with a hint of humor.
I sat up, wiping my hands. Something like that.
She knelt beside me, serious. The scouts are back. The Ash-Singers are in our old place. They're tearing it apart, looking for something. It's now an enemy base.
The news hit hard. Our home was ruined.
We have another worry, she said quietly. Supplies. This land isn't like the Wildwood. We're low on materials, like metals and crystals for the wards.
I looked at her, then at the rock. I understood. My maps, the scars.
Lyra, I said, with energy. The crystals you need form in places where the earth's Chroma is strong.
She nodded. Yes, near volcanoes or faults. But we don't have a map. Scouting is risky and takes time.
I grabbed my maps. I think I might, I said, pointing to notes near the hot spring. The pressure is strong, the earth's Chroma is trapped. The rock feels crystalline. I pointed to another map of a crack in the gorge. The pressure is big. It feels like forging rock.
Lyra looked at the maps and at me, understanding. She was seeing a resource she hadn't known about.
You can find them, she said. You can feel where they are.
It's not Chroma, I warned. It's the memory of what makes the Chroma. It's a guess.
It's more than we've had in weeks, she said, standing. Get your maps. We're seeing Elias.
In Elias's cave, we laid out my maps. I told him what I did, and he asked questions about the feelings.
When I was done, he said, A map of what could be. He looked at me, and I saw respect in his eyes.
This changes things, he said to Lyra. If he can do this, he can find us resources and weaknesses.
Weaknesses? I asked.
The old place, Lyra said. You know it. You lived and trained there. If you can read the scars, can you find a way in? A forgotten path? A fault?
It was big. They were asking me to be a strategist, to use my brokenness as a weapon.
I looked at my maps, at the lines that showed pain and history. They were the start of a new language, the language of a Prince who had lost his crown but found a new kind of power.
The Scribe was quiet, but the Cartographer was just beginning.