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T he leaves of the Sacred Oak shuffled in the autumn wind that blew over Vahly and Kyril.

The others stayed back as the voices of Vahly’s ancestors whispered in the scratch of branches rubbing together and the clatter of acorn bunches thick in the boughs high above this holy ground.

Vahly stopped, a hand on Kyril’s side, the sudden urge to remove her boots overwhelming.

She unlaced them, slid her stockings free, then walked with Kyril across the cool grass and rough roots that warmed at the touch of toe and heel.

At the trunk of the tree, Vahly set her forehead, her Blackwater mark, against the deeply ridged grain.

The earth’s heartbeat drummed in her palms, and she felt the strength of Kyril feeding her, his warmth helping her reach into the Sacred Oak with her magic.

She felt as though her feet were the tree’s roots.

Her toes stretching through the dirt, rock, and earthblood far below.

Nothing could move her. She could stand here for eternity and live well, quiet and strong.

But the image of Nix’s grin, Arc’s eyes, and Amona’s tears singed her mind, and she slowly pulled back.

In the wood, the outline of a sword glittered like polished gems.

Three hollows appeared around the sword’s shape. Kyril sent an image to Vahly’s mind. She saw the Spirit of the River’s stone, the Mountain Spirit’s pine sprig, and the galtzagorri’s obsidian dagger.

Vahly smiled at him and removed the three items from her pockets. The dagger was warm to the touch, the river stone cool as a stream, and the bit of pine nearly frozen. Not quite sure how to go about this, Vahly set the dagger into the hollow as if the place were meant to be a shelf for the weapon.

The tree creaked as if it were about to lift its roots, but instead, its trunk absorbed the obsidian dagger, and the oaken sword darkened.

Vahly hoped that was a good sign. She placed the stone in the next hollow, and the tree took in the gift as easily as the stream takes rain.

Again, the sword of oak deepened in color, ebony and emerald shadows rising around its edges.

The pine sprig went into the third and final hollow, and when the last gift disappeared into the Sacred Oak, the entire world stilled.

No birds sang or wind blew; it was as if the tree held its breath. The cool ground under Vahly’s bare feet ceased its drumming, matching the silence inside her.

She trembled, a chill creeping into her like a forgotten ghost. This entire quest and her Blackwater mark too were all a grand fool’s game. A bad bet. A wrong card. Dice rolling off the table when she’d gambled it all.

Had she done something wrong? She could imagine that in a moment, the whole circle of holy land would erupt like the volcanoes of old. Fire would rain down. All would be lost.

The oaken sword fell from the tree trunk into her hands.

Her breath caught in her throat as the sword lay across her open palms. The blade, hilt, and pommel—all were made of oak.

The grain on the blade wasn’t simply lines of growth though.

The layers of wood connected here and there, looping and swirling to form a scene.

A gaunt woman in a rippling cloak reached a skeletal hand toward a kneeling supplicant.

The kneeling figure held a shell. Ah. It was a sea kynd.

The gills etched into the neck were so tiny, they were difficult to discern.

An undulating line ran from the feet of the standing woman across the face of the sea kynd, below the eyes.

So this was a sea kynd female reaching from shallow water to hand a shell to a human. Vahly’s brow furrowed.

The image to the right, farther down the oaken blade, showed a hunched and scaled figure—a dragon, surely—walking beside an elf with sharply pointed ears. The elf gestured toward a spot of darker wood. A cave?

A third rendering of the four kynd placed them in a circle with lines drawn to link each of the kynd to the other, every pair having their own connection that crossed the others.

The carvings were warm to the touch like the creatures shown lived and breathed. A breath shuddered out of Vahly.

Arc’s presence announced him before his velvet voice rose. “What does the oaken sword reveal to you, my queen?”

She bit her lip. “The sea can give me food when I need it. The elves can lead dragons to deep caves where earthblood flows. We must all work together to survive.”

Arc was nodding when she turned and stood, still holding the sword with open palms.

“It won’t be easy,” he said. “The land kynd might come together, but we are about to slay scores of sea folk. Aside from General Lilia’s handful of rebels, those under the waters will see us only as enemies.”

“I’ll have to find a way to work with Lilia to get them to cooperate. That is, if we even make it through the last fight.”

She gripped the hilt properly, and heat burst across her Blackwater mark. Magic surged up her legs, racing from the earth and into her body. Power blazed down her arms and into her fingers, filling her heart and drumming, drumming, drumming.

The scent of turned earth, new oak leaves, ripe acorns, wet stone, spicy minerals, and the musk of land beasts engulfed her, the sound of the earth’s heartbeat rising to a crescendo before settling into a quiet, comforting hum in the back of her mind.

She opened her eyes, and the others were staring at her. Power weighed down each of her fingers like rings of gold and banded her head like a diadem heavy with gems. “My magic is fully awake.”

Nix rubbed her hands together. “Now let’s see what you can do.”