57

  The haribon spiraled downward through the clouds, its wings carving pale arcs of wind as it descended toward the Old Diospyrus Castle—its feathers glimmering with golden filaments of magic. The ruined stronghold emerged through the fog like a broken crown jutting from the mountain’s spine, its stones wrapped in moss and shadows.

  With a soft quake of feathers, the haribon landed on the cracked castle courtyard. Lir, Finn, Katherine, and Maxi slid down from its back, boots hitting the damp stone. Wind swept through the Halkyon Range around them—thin, cold, and carrying the distant roar of waterfalls plunging from the tall cliffs.

  The Old Diospyrus—also called the Druid Castle—rested near the precipice, embraced by mountains whose slopes were veined with silver streams cascading into the rocky depths below. To their right stretched the bridge that connected two mountains: a long and ancient span of stone leading to the mid-bridge tower, a circular structure that rose like a broken fang halfway up the mountainside.

  The courtyard’s heart bore a statue—massive, enthroned, and lost to time. A knight sat with legs apart, a greatsword resting upon one shoulder, while his other arm draped downward. Perched on his armored shoulder was a small four-legged winged dragon. Moss crept over the ridges of his helm; vines wrapped around the tree-sigil etched on the knight’s chest plate. Ferns sprouted where the stone cloak spilled over the boulder base. Nature had taken the monument, but reverence lingered.

  Finn’s eyes roamed across it all with a quiet awe.

  Lir stepped close. “Finn… try to close your eyes and feel the environment.”

  Maxi and Katherine turned toward him immediately, curious.

  Finn frowned. “Now? Here?”

  “Yes,” Lir said. “Here.”

  He hesitated, then obeyed. At first—nothing.

  “Focus,” Lir said, and flicked his ear.

  Maxi snorted. Lir’s stare turned to a sharp Shsssshh! Maxi stiffened.

  Finn breathed in. Again.

  This time cold slid over his skin—chilling but awakening, like the first touch of dawn wind on still water. The world sharpened around him. He felt the sky above him, vast and breathing. He sensed the soil beneath his boots, the subtle tremor of water coursing through the mountain’s veins. He smelled the fish in the river far below. Sound slowed: the flutter of a bee near a wilted flower, the groan of an ancient branch resisting the wind.

  Then Lir’s hand tapped his shoulder.

  Finn jolted, gasping as color and noise rushed back.

  “How was it?” she asked quietly.

  Finn didn’t know what to say. It felt impossible—absurd—but real.

  “So you’re really starting to manifest,” Lir murmured, almost to herself. “Good.”

  Maxi immediately squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imitate him.

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  Nothing.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  “You are embarrassing, dude,” Mundi said inside his mind. Maxi grimaced.

  At the far end of the courtyard, the broken circular tower loomed—its missing wall dangling by thick vines that held the remaining structure aloft as though nature refused to let it collapse.

  They entered the tower, descending the spiraling staircase. When a loose stone clattered over the edge, it fell for a long time before its faint clink finally echoed back up the shaft.

  Someone watched them from the treeline above—silent, unmoving.

  Lir plucked an old torch from the wall and lit it with a snap of her fingers. The flame bloomed into warm gold. Maxi lit another and followed. Finn and Katherine stayed close behind, Finn’s hand holding hers almost unconsciously.

  They walked down for what felt like hours, steps echoing endlessly. The air shifted the deeper they went—thicker, older… waiting.

  The stairs ended in a vast chamber. Moist air clung to the stone. Pillars supported the curved ceiling, each wrapped partly in ancestral vines that had pushed their way through the ages. Hallways branched outward like dark arteries.

  “Aunt Lir… you’ve been here before?” Maxi whispered.

  “It is my first time also,” Lir whispered back.

  “What!? For real? Sheeeesh—”

  “Is it safe here?” Maxi continued, voice cracking.

  “If you’re scared,” Lir whispered, “you can go up and wait for us there.”

  Maxi immediately clutched the Karit.

  Lir froze. “How in the world do you have that?”

  “It’s a long story,” Maxi muttered.

  They proceeded. Lir lit every torch they passed, and light unfurled down the halls like a slow sunrise. They took staircases up and down, wound through narrow corridors, and passed doors guarded by statues—knights in stone armor marking tombs of kings, robed ladies marking the resting places of queens.

  At last they reached a bridge.

  It stretched into the dark like the spine of an ancient creature. On the far end stood two towering knight statues, swords pointed downward, robes flowing to their feet. Between them lay a high-arched passageway framed in shadows.

  Lir stepped first. Maxi, then Katherine and Finn.

  Below the bridge: mist. Endless, heavy mist, hiding whatever depths waited beneath.

  Some stones had cracked, overtaken by roots gripping them like skeletal fingers. Katherine glanced at Finn—she could feel his tension, but also trust. She needed it. The silence around them felt wrong, like the mountain held its breath.

  Then it happened.

  Katherine stepped on a stone that dipped suddenly. Her foot slipped—and the world tilted.

  Before she could scream, Finn was already there, catching her waist and pulling her back. They fell together, Finn above her, breath mixing, faces inches apart.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  “I’m okay,” she breathed, though her heart punched against her ribs for two reasons now: fear—and Finn.

  They rose, brushing dust from their clothes, and continued.

  At the end of the bridge, a massive stone hall opened before them. Pillars lined both sides, each with doors in its shadows. And at the far end, dominating the chamber like a celestial map turned to stone, was a circular design—layer after layer of constellations and druidic glyphs carved into the wall. Time had overgrown it with moss and vines.

  At its base was a door.

  A door shaped like the head of a dragon—stone scales gleaming faintly as though reflecting unseen firelight. Its eyes seemed almost alive.

  Lir stepped aside. “From here… only you can go inside, Finn.”

  Finn’s pulse quickened. “What do I do?”

  “You will know,” Lir said softly. “I believe it already speaks with you.”

  Finn approached the dragon door. As his hand touched the stone muzzle, the door shuddered and unfolded open—not outward, but like scales parting.

  Inside was darkness—alive with movement.

  A forest of vines dangled from the ceiling and snaked along the walls, twitching as if sniffing him. When he stepped forward, the vines hissed and recoiled, gathering like predators preparing to strike.

  Finn froze.

  Then something—deep and ancient—stirred in him.

  The air rippled.

  The vines lunged—

  —but halted mid-air, quivering inches from his skin.

  They recognized him.

  Slowly, like subjects bowing to a king, the vines peeled away from the floor and walls, clearing the passage in a dramatic sweep. Dust swirled. Light pulsed from runes beneath the vines, awakening for the first time in centuries.

  Behind Finn, Katherine gasped. Maxi whispered, “Holy sh—”

  The path opened completely, revealing a tunnel disappearing into a soft green glow.

  The castle breathed again.

  And Finn stepped forward.