The badlands tried to kill them in a dozen different ways after they fled Kora. They navigated fields of razor-sharp shale that cut through their worn boots, skirted deep fissures that breathed out toxic vapors, and fought off a pack of gaunt, six-legged canine creatures whose eyes glowed with a sickly yellow light. It was Roty, with his intimate knowledge of the land, who found them a path through the treacherous terrain, leading them to a narrow canyon where the air was still and the rocks were stained with strange, phosphorescent lichen. They collapsed there, too exhausted to even post a proper watch, their escape from Kora feeling less like a victory and more like a temporary stay of execution.
Retour slept fitfully, the Codex a hard, accusing lump against his side. His dreams were not of the mist, but of his father's face in the throne room, not in agony, but with a look of profound, weary responsibility. The crown is not worth this. The words echoed, but their meaning had shifted. It was no longer just a warning about the mist's cost, but a lesson in the weight of rule itself.
Dawn came, revealing the canyon in full. The walls were not natural stone, but seemed to be made of billions of fused, black crystals that hummed with a low, sub-audible frequency. The air tasted of static and dried herbs.
"The Shatterspine," Ciski said, her voice hushed. "We're close. The Broken Valley is just on the other side. This is their territory."
"Their?" Dean asked, his hand resting on his cudgel, his eyes scanning the unnaturally smooth walls.
"The twins," Ciski said. "Ilie and Ila. They… know things. Things that were forgotten before the fall. If anyone can help you understand the curse, it's them."
Roty spat on the ground. "They're witches. They trade in whispers and bones. This is a mistake."
"It's our only chance," Retour said, his voice firm. The clarity he'd found in the gully had not left him. He needed knowledge, not just power. He needed to understand the chain that bound him to the throne.
They passed through the canyon single-file, the humming of the crystal walls setting their teeth on edge. As they emerged on the other side, the world changed again. The Broken Valley was a vast, circular depression where the very laws of nature seemed frayed. Trees grew in spirals, their bark silver-white. Streams of water ran uphill, pooling in basins of floating rock. The air was thick and sweet, smelling of honeysuckle and decay.
In the center of the valley stood a grove of those spiral trees, and beneath them, a cottage built not of wood or stone, but of woven, living thorn, its walls pulsing with a soft, violet light.
They were met at the edge of the grove by two women. They were identical in every way, from their long, silver hair that seemed to move in a non-existent breeze, to their eyes the color of amethyst, to the small, intricate tattoos of thorny vines that curled up their necks. They wore simple dresses of grey linen, yet they carried an aura of immense, ancient power. One held a spinning spindle, a thread of shimmering, impossible light flowing from it. The other was tending to a plant whose flowers opened and closed like tiny, breathing mouths.
The one with the spindle looked up, her gaze passing over Dean, Ciski, and Roty before settling on Ile and then, finally, on Retour. A small, knowing smile touched her lips.
"The scholar who seeks to quantify the world," she said, her voice like the chiming of crystal bells. "And the prince who carries the world's end in his blood. We have been waiting for you. I am Ilie."
The other woman looked up from her plant, her expression sharper, more severe. "And I am Ila. You have stirred the hornet's nest, little king. Kora's rage is a beacon we can all feel." Her eyes narrowed at the Codex on Retour's hip. "And you brought the heart of the problem with you. Foolish, or brave. The line is thin."
"We need your help," Retour said, stepping forward. He felt the mist within him stir, not in anger, but in recognition, as if greeting an old, familiar force.
Ilie's smile widened. "The curse recognizes its cradle. Come. The Valley welcomes you." She turned and led the way toward the thorn cottage.
Ila remained, her critical gaze sweeping over the rest of them. "The loyal soldier, clinging to a ghost. The hopeful rebel, seeing a banner in a storm. The cynical survivor, dragged along by blood." She shook her head. "A tired story. But the ending is not yet written." She then followed her sister.
Inside, the cottage was larger than it seemed, the space distorted. The walls were alive, shifting subtly, and the air was filled with the scent of a hundred different herbs hanging from the ceiling. Ilie gestured for them to sit on cushions of moss.
"You seek to understand the mist," Ilie began, not as a question.
"I seek to control it," Retour corrected. "Before it controls me."
Ila laughed, a sharp, dry sound. "Control it? You might as well try to control the turning of the earth. You do not control the mist, Prince. You negotiate with it. It is a living thing, born of the land's pain and the crown's ambition. It is tied to the throne of Asterfell itself."
Ilie nodded, her spindle never stopping. "The first king, your ancestor many times removed, made a pact. He bound the land's ley lines to his bloodline, to the crown itself, to ensure his line would never fall. He drew power from the very heart of Asterfell. But a land has a soul, and a soul can be wounded. The wars, the suffering… it festered. The power soured. The mist is that festering wound given form. It is the kingdom's pain."
Retour felt the truth of her words in his bones. It wasn't just a family curse; it was a national one. "My father…"
"Your father was a good man," Ila said, her voice losing its edge for a moment. "He felt the corruption growing. He tried to sever the pact. But the bond was too deep. When he attempted to break it, the wound tore open. The mist erupted from him. He did not summon it. He was the conduit. His final act was not to unleash it, but to contain the eruption within his own body, to seal the majority of it away, sacrificing himself to save the kingdom from the full, unchecked tide."
The revelation struck Retour with the force of a physical blow. His father wasn't a failed user of the power; he was its martyr.
Ilie looked at him, her amethyst eyes deep and sorrowful. "The seal was never meant to be permanent. It was a desperate act. And now, the power has found a new vessel. You."
"So I am just a container?" Retour asked, the hollowness returning.
"No," Ila said sharply. "You are the heir. The pact is still active. The throne is still the focal point. This is the choice you face, Prince Retour Monarc. If you claim the crown, you complete the circuit. You will either stabilize the power, becoming the true master of the ley lines and healing the land… or the strain will be too much, and you will unleash the fully realized mist, becoming the Red King of prophecy and bathing the entire kingdom in a storm of blood until nothing remains."
The choice was no longer about control. It was about redemption or annihilation. The crown was not a prize. It was the final, terrible trigger.