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Did someone leave this for me? But why make it so hard to find? Perhaps I wasn’t meant to find it yet. But why? And ... when?

Someone was here.

I set the artifact down and stare at my door. Sorry, Salki, I won’t be visiting you. I’m heading back to the blacksmith.

Only this time, I’m asking him for a lock.

I need answers. I need to understand what’s happening to me.

I want to know where Heartwood is going.

He’s kept his distance the last seven cycles—all of which passed without any more lapses, two of which I spent starting a new well—but I’ve been watching. His energy started waning a couple of cycles ago, so I’ve been pulling long shifts, even working a full sun, which Moseus doesn’t mind. Just means I’m fixing the tower faster.

I can tell when Heartwood plans to leave. He wears those leathers of his and carries a satchel. His cloak as well. When the mist settles, he leaves.

This time, I follow.

I’m fortunate that Moseus isn’t present to witness. I give Heartwood enough of a lead that he won’t hear the heavy tower door open, then I head northwest, the direction I’ve seen him go before. Away from the tower, away from the town. Everything quiets in the mist, so I walk on the balls of my feet, trying to mask my presence.

I find his shadow ahead of me. Wait for him to reroute to Emgarden. Maybe to slip into the forge and steal another knife. Yet Heartwood’s path stays true, never circling back.

So much for that theory.

I’ve ventured all over this area looking for artifacts, though I’ve spent most of my time south of Emgarden, where I’ve had the most luck uncovering them, so this terrain eventually becomes unfamiliar. After nearly an hour, I pause at a copse of wickwood trees to gain my bearing. The moment I touch one, though, it crumbles to ash. Not just the branch beneath my fingers, but the entire plant, leaving only a few decimeters of narrow trunk standing. Pulling away, I rub fine umber dust between my fingers. Gently poke the next tree, only to have a sprig of it crumble the same way. I’ve never seen anything fall apart like this, especially not these hardy trees. Pressing my lips together, I don’t test it more. I can’t risk the sound of disintegrating trees giving me away, though the sight of piles of wickwood—crooked, thirsty things, but still a valuable resource—unsettles me. Perhaps I should turn back.

The veil of fog makes the journey all the more disconcerting, pierced only by the faint glow of the occasional emily. Doubling down, I leave the ashen corpse of the tree and hurry forward. I lose Heartwood twice as high mist rolls in, but the moisture helps to mark his footprints in the ground, and for a time, I follow those instead.

The mist lightens up. It’s a mercy of the gods that I’m staring at the ground. If I hadn’t been, I might have fallen.

There’s a canyon here.

Not a large one. I can’t determine how deep, but it’s not wide, and it’s shielded by rock formations. No more footprints. Did Heartwood climb down this?

I backtrack, squinting through the mist, but I can’t fathom where else he might have gone. Taking a risk, I pull out the small lantern from the tower. Light it, which makes me a beacon in the fog. But it helps me see a little better.

There’s a path. Uneven steps in the stone, some natural, some not.

A patient person would mark this, head back, and come again in the sun. Unfortunately, patience has never been my forte, so down I go.

But I’m not stupid. I move slowly, keeping one hand on the carmine rock wall. My luck holds; it’s not terribly deep. Maybe seven meters.

I blow out the lantern. Down here, the mist lightens, and I can see better without the light. Following the narrow path, I realize I’ve entered a slot canyon. How it was formed, I don’t know. But the ground proves level, so I walk until I reach a fork. Search for footprints, but there’s only stone.

Something in my gut tells me to go right. A shiver courses down my spine.

I’m not stupid. I mark the wall with charcoal and move forward.

The path dips lower, perhaps ten meters below the surface, then up again. Another fork, but an easy one—the right path ends after ten paces. The left dips toward an arch. I duck down to fit under it.

The mist starts to lift. Have I been wandering so long? And there’s no sign of Heartwood. But—

I nearly drop my lamp.Serpent save me.

It’s ... beautiful.

The stone walls open up to a small gorge surrounded by red rock. Brimming with plants. Not wickwood, or kettleleaf weeds, or even emilies, but green, vibrantlife.

There are flowers, a deep pink, as vivid as the amaranthine wall. Succulent trees sprout up along a winding path. White-centered desert roses nest in carefully tended soil, alongside yellow-budding brush I have no name for. Round cacti pop up in patches, and a verdant vine curtains up one of the walls, reaching for the dispelling fog.