Rolin came to a sudden halt. His boots, worn from years of navigating the filth of The Kennel, remained frozen against the carpet of dry leaves. It felt as if an invisible bolt of lightning had struck him. Selen's words continued to echo in his mind, shattering his calm.
(Fabric of Imagination).
A myth masquerading as magic. A power that didn't just bend reality—it rewrote it. This wasn't a mere display of skill; it was a lethal confession. By revealing it, she had effectively placed her throat beneath his blade.
'Does she trust me that much?' Rolin's mind, a machine fueled by cold calculation and self-interest, began to churn. 'No. Impossible. Trust is a currency that doesn't circulate in a place like Selene's heart. So, what's the price? What is she buying with this revelation?'
A few paces ahead, Likath prowled with an irritating air of nonchalance. The crimson fire-wolf flicked his glowing tail, sniffing the air with a boredom that suggested the world's greatest secrets were nothing more than tedious human chatter. He was hunting for a different kind of entertainment—the kind that ended in bloodshed.
Selen turned, her pale features stark under the rhythmic pulsing of the luminescent trees. She pressed a hand gently against her wounded shoulder, where the jagged punctures from the hyena's fangs still seeped crimson.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice a low, expressionless melody. "Why have you stopped?"
Rolin swallowed hard, adjusting the heavy metal shackles on his wrists to mask the tremor of his thoughts. "Nothing... it's nothing."
He resumed walking, but his gaze remained fixed on her back. He analyzed every shift in her posture. Was she a partner? Or was he merely a pawn in a grander design, a tool she would use until her Fabric of Imagination wove his inevitable end?
Before he could voice the suspicion gnawing at him, a sharp, playful whistle sliced through the forest's oppressive silence.
"Oh, you two drama queens," Likath's voice rang out. "Quit the staring contest and look up!"
Rolin and Selen's eyes met for a fleeting second before they slowly craned their necks toward the canopy. Total silence followed.
Nearly a hundred meters above, the sky had vanished. In its place sat a colossal wooden "ceiling"—a sprawling, obsidian structure of geometric complexity that choked the life out of the giant trunks. The wood wasn't just built; it was woven, covered in pulsating vein-like carvings that throbbed with a sickly rhythm.
"This isn't nature's work," Selen whispered, her hand instinctively drifting to the hilt of the sword Rolin had given her.
A cold shiver raced down Rolin's spine. The black chains on his wrists began to vibrate, the dormant runes sensing something sinister lurking behind that wooden sky.
"Looks like we found a nest. Or a tomb," Likath remarked, his crimson flames intensifying as a predatory grin split his wolfish face. "Any bets on what's waiting for us at the top?"
The air in Heaven's Strings had grown heavy, thick with the scent of ancient timber and a metallic tang that signaled the end of their exploration and the beginning of a desperate hunt.
Rolin looked at his companions with a mixture of disdain and weary resignation. Likath was currently clawing at the smooth bark, his fiery talons sliding fruitlessly and leaving nothing but charred streaks. Selen fared no better; every time she gained a meter, her mangled shoulder buckled, sending her sliding back to the forest floor.
"I am truly traveling with a pack of idiots," Rolin muttered, rubbing his temple. His pragmatism eventually won out—having them stuck at the bottom was a direct threat to his own survival.
"Likath, quit playing and get back inside. Now."
The fire-wolf let out a mocking cackle before dissolving into a streak of crimson embers. The fire surged toward Rolin's chest, sinking into the wolf tattoo which flared briefly before settling into a dull glow.
Rolin then turned his back to Selen, crouching slightly. His voice was dry, stripped of any warmth. "You. Get on. Your injury makes us an easy target. I'm not watching you fall a third time."
Selen hesitated, searching Rolin's golden eyes. She found no pity there, only the cold arithmetic of efficiency. She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. Despite his shorter stature, his frame felt like tempered steel.
He didn't do this out of gallantry. He did it because the enigma of her magic was a mystery he wasn't finished solving. He drew his black chains, lashing her firmly to his torso.
"Hold on tight," he warned, glancing at the oppressive ceiling above. "If you slip, I'm not stopping to catch you."
Drawing upon years of instinct honed while scaling the jagged ruins of The Kennel, Rolin drew his weapons. In his right, the Sable Dagger, a void-black blade that drank the dim light. In his left, the Dagger of Likath, its three twisted blades shimmering like a drill bit.
His ascent was a display of brutal grace. He drove the Dagger of Likath into the dense wood, twisting it so the triple blades bored deep like a screw, while using the Sable Dagger as a stabilizing anchor.
"Listen, Selen," Rolin hissed over the screech of metal on woodr. "Save your strength. We're going to need every thread of that imagination of yours."
«Oho, look at you, my little meat-sack,» Likath's voice echoed in his mind. «Have we become a professional ferry service? My blades weren't forged to be climbing spikes, but I'll admit... the view from here is getting interesting.»
Rolin ignored the wolf. Each meter higher brought a sharper chill and a more pungent scent of rot. As they neared the structure, he noticed something the ground-dwellers couldn't see: the cracks in the ceiling were weeping a viscous, ink-like fluid. It shivered as if responding to a heartbeat.
"Selen," Rolin's voice dropped to a lethal seriousness. "Draw your steel. We're about to break through, and I don't think the landlord likes visitors."