Page 44 of Wild Ivy
“The preparations must be precise,” Blackthorn continues, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore the tension in the room. “We need to establish anchor points at specific locations - places where the barriers between life and death are naturally thin. As all this occurred at Thornfield, the surrounding forest will be one of those points. The sacred spring here at MistHallow. Vex, you can handle that. But the rest of you must return immediately to Thornfield.”
Vex nods, having remained mostly silent this entire time.
“How long do we have?” I ask, though I already know the answer won’t be precise.
“Until Life’s desperate actions trigger the collapse,” Blackthorn says grimly. “Could be days, could be hours. The void exists outside normal time, so Ivy’s transformation isn’t bound by our temporal limitations. But Life’s deterioration very much is.”
“Then we need to move now. Morrigan?” I turn to the goddess, expecting her to disappear or give some cryptic response.
Instead, she smiles, and it’s not entirely comforting. “I’ll do what I’ve always done and ensure fate unfolds as it should. But know what’s coming will change everything. The old pantheons, the traditional separations between life and death, even the way magick itself works in the world. Are you prepared for that?”
I think about Ivy, about how she’s never backed down from what needs to be done, no matter the cost. I think about our fated bond, about how it’s already changing, evolving with her. I think about the future. It’s uncertain, unprecedented, but full of possibility.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But I don’t think anyone can be truly prepared for this. We just have to be ready to pivot. Toadapt.” I press my hand over the burn again, feeling its steady heat. “Like she is. Thank you, Professor. You have been a great help.”
He nods and I give Vex the finger, which he returns with that smug laugh of his before I transport us back to Thornfield in a whirl of magick, my spell depositing us at the edge of the ancient forest. The moment our feet touch the ground, I know something’s different. The air itself feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
“Holy shit,” Torin comments, staring at the tree line.
The forest has changed. The ancient trees shimmer with an inner light, their leaves sparkle with colours that shouldn’t exist in nature. Patches of new growth burst forth in odd places. Flowers bloom and die in seconds, only to be reborn again.
“The barriers,” Bram says, his magick audibly singing in response to our surroundings, which takes him by surprise. “They’re already breaking down here.” Silver threads of power leap from his skin, reaching toward the trees like they’re being called home.
I press my hand against the fated mark, which burns hotter than ever. The forest recognises us - or rather, it recognises our connection to what Ivy is becoming. Every tree, every blade of grass, every particle of air seems to vibrate with anticipation.
“We need to find an anchor point,” I say, trying to focus through the overwhelming sensations.
“There,” Bram says, pointing to the clearing ahead where Morrigan was tied to.
“Yes.” There is a distortion in the air, like reality is rippling. “Whatever it is about this place, it’s a hot spot for magick and the ancient kind.”
As we approach, the effects intensify. Life and death dance around us in dizzying cycles. A fallen log sprouts mushrooms that grow and decay in the span of heartbeats. Birds fly throughthe trees, their lifespans playing out in fast-forward until they fall, only to rise again as chicks from their own ashes.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur. Here, in this place where the boundaries blur, the true pattern emerges - not opposing forces, but parts of the same whole.
“And creepy and, oh, let’s not forget dangerous,” Torin adds grimly, watching as a patch of ground cycles through seasons in seconds. “This is the start of it. If this spreads...”
“It won’t,” Bram says with surprising certainty. His magick has formed a barrier around him now, responding to the energy of the place. “That’s what the anchor point is for. To contain it. To give it structure.”
The clearing itself appears to be the epicentre. At its heart, reality seems thinnest, most malleable.
“How do we even begin?” Torin asks, looking overwhelmed for the first time since I’ve known him.
Bram steps to the left, his silver-threaded magick now whipping around him like a storm. “The ritual requires three points of power,” he says, his voice taking on an odd resonance. “Life, death, and the space between. That’s us. Vampire, fated mate, and...” he gestures to himself, his magick sparking. “Whatever I am now.”
We form a triangle around the epicentre, and immediately, I feel it - a pull so intense it nearly brings me to my knees. The fated mark blazes like hellfire against my chest, and through it, I sense something vast and ancient, stirring in response to what we’re doing.
“Bram?” Torin calls out, tension clear in his voice. “The trees...”
The ancient forest has gone eerily still. No more rapid cycling of life and death. Just silence. Waiting.
“Start the ritual,” I grit out, fighting against the increasing pressure of power.
Bram’s magick explodes outward, forming a complex web of silver light between us. His eyes have gone completely black, and when he speaks, it’s in a language I’ve never heard before - older than Celtic, older than the Fae themselves.
The same fucking language from the last fucking ritual.
“Grrr,” I growl, already feeling myself go dizzy.
