Vines, winds, and bodies churned the mists to chaos as orcs rappelled down, lashed tree islands together, and warded off their pursuers. Mika clung to the trunk of the sky oak while Retga bellowed orders and Sang. Squinting and trilling through the mists, she realized that their enemies were not bothering to chase them down the pit. Instead they circled it, seeming to allow some of Thrall Uthur’s allies through and fighting to fend off others.

Her gaze darted from orc-to-orc, unsure of what she sought until her heart clenched in disappointment at his absence. If Uthur was anywhere near, she couldn’t see or smell or hear him.

Please, let him be alright, she prayed. Silently, of course. Her hand clenched, aching with emptiness as she thought of him. She shut that thought down quickly. The seed burned on, but somehow…it had become pleasant. In an urgent sort of way. Its warmth diffused through her veins and mind, clouding her in a frothy sort of haze.

With their enemies immobile overhead and a dozen of their own guardians gathered on a float of lashed-together trees around her, the sudden sense of security she felt didn’t seem all that displaced. Mika let her hand fall and relaxed somewhat as the voices of Green and Stormsingers alike wove together. Gradually at first, then more swiftly, their makeshift vessel began to drop…the free-floating trees around them brushed to the side by carefully directed winds.

The mists thickened as they went, churning to spirals in the wind but never dispersing. Luminescent airjellies—caught up in the eddies and wakes of their passage—lit the violet murk with their iridescent glow.

“So beautiful,” breathed Mika, realizing only afterward that she’d said it out loud…and not much caring. She felt a few eyes turn her way.

Then a series of clicks sounded from somewhere nearby, and woven over their harsh staccato was an ethereal Song.

Mika froze. Her skin went suddenly, frigidly cold, gaze darting in every direction as her ears twitched from side-to-side. The mists were too dense now to see the sound’s source.

It was a haunting, alien, Song. And yet familiar in a way she felt down to her bones. Her body, her soul remembered it, feared it, even though she herself had never before heard it. It sounded again, and every hair on her head raised on-end. She trilled into the void, over and over…and trembled with fear at what she perceived. Pressed her back to the wood.

Nine beasts circled their plunging archipelago. Nine beasts, each the size of some six orcs or more at least. Beasts with heavy, streamlined bodies, strong flukes, and great pointed fins at their backs. Beasts with dagger-teeth.

Blackmaw, whispered the Other Voice, the voice she trusted. But this time, even that was drenched in fright, and knowing the creatures’ name did her no good.

The heady, gut-clenching scents of fear and anticipation mingled in the mists around her as the orcs’ markings glowed collectively orange. Then, finally, the last of the trees floated off above them. The mists thinned, and the world seemed to open up in all directions. The breath Mika had only just managed to catch went out of her.

Below them and in all directions, the mists condensed again into a sort of sea. Somehow both liquid and air-like at once, it smelled faintly of salt. Its surface was sliced by towering dorsal fins and broken in an unending dance by massive fluke-tailed beasts of differing colors and sizes as they rose in turns to spout surges of mist or air or both from holes atop their heads.

And the blackmaws circled ever closer, the reason for the monicker obvious at once—for though their smooth, shining hides whirled with patterns of both bone-white and ebony, their mouths were entirely inky. From tooth to spit, from tongue to cheek.

The orcs whooped and howled and shouted words she didn’t understand. But they didn’t raise their weapons. Half the Stormsingers present changed their Song, and a wall of wind formed itself between the lashed islands and their hunters. In the far distance, thunder sounded. Forcing herself to peer past the denizens of the mists, Mika’s eyes traveled between the black spires which enclosed the strange sea and disappeared into the fog above. Each one broke and tapered off at the base into a series of tree-crowned islands. Mika’s eyes went wide as they caught on one such island, standing tall and far apart from those behind it.

There.

The palace.

It was made of dark stone, its asymmetrical curves and sharp edges rising from the island’s heart and over the tops of its trees as though grown there. It was huge, too tall to count the stories as they surged toward it. It glimmered in the shifting glow of mists and storm crystal, until they came close enough that she realized it was studded in the stuff, great clusters of gemshard adorning its every arch and peak and sprouting at random from its walls. The intricate and moss-coated faces of a thousand different constructs looked out from its ramparts, rooftops, and courtyards. Dormant. Waiting. But too far away yet to Sing to.

And the windows…they were all aglow with light.

Her eyes watered with emotion at the sight of it…emotions that didn’t make sense. Nostalgia, longing, loss.

They had crossed two thirds of the way to the castle when the wall of winds began to weaken. They had too few Stormsingers, and they’d begun to tire. At once the blackmaws tested the weakened resistance, forcing their heads through and dipping back again. Some of the orcs prickled, others looked uncertain. Finally they unslung their rifles, but still seemed reluctant to use them. The Greensingers worked to fend the beasts off instead, bending branches and lashing out with vines to block and dissuade them.

Off toward the center of the the lake, from the way they’d come, another set of lashed-together trees dropped into view. Some of the blackmaws turned and surged away. The others closed in, their pectoral fins cutting through the faltering wall as they circled. Then one of them—a beast which dwarfed the others—dove forward, snapping branches and vines with equal ease.

Rifleblast tore the air, but it had either missed or been woefully insufficient. There was a horrible shriek of a scream which terminated in a thick burbling, and one of their number was gone. A Stormsinger, though of a temporarily allied thrall, not their own. Another of their company threw back her head and keened. The sound pierced even the ringing in Mika’s ears.

“Save your voice for Singing and your mourning for later,” roared Retga, only just audible through the mayhem. “Now Forward!”

The Greensingers doubled their efforts, but Mika could tell they were draining fast, too. The castle drew ever closer, but not fast enough. Never fast enough. Yet again the radiant warmth at her core overcame the chilling affects of fear, buoying her with a sense of determination. Of certainty.

I just need to get to that castle. I must get to that castle.

Another blackmaw drove through the barrier, and more blasts went off. This time the shooter aimed true and the thing spurted blood from its side, backing away but taking a chunk of one of their own with it—the better part of Durg’s forearm. He let out a brief sort of oof, and then continued to Greensing, bracing himself as he tore a strip of leather from his tunic to wrap just above the wound. Another lunge from another beast, and this time as they veered away, its head collided with a trunk—sending them tilting suddenly sideways.

Mika shrieked, her flesh catching and tearing on the sharp shells of a cluster of tree-mussels as she scrabbled for a better hold of the trunk. The scent of her blood blossomed and billowed around her.

At once, the orcs’ orange markings shifted color. From orange to yellow, from yellow to green, and then to blue. And there they settled. The other tree-raft was gaining on them, but her companions eyes had all turned to her.

Mika swallowed, struggling to rip a piece off her sleeve to cover the cut, to staunch the scent.

But she was too slow. The world had already exploded around her. Three orcs launched themselves her way, and others theirs’. The tree-raft rocked wildly, and suddenly from behind her the scent of forest flowers grew stronger. She whirled just as Retga bore down on her, crimson eyes wild, saliva dripping from her sharpened canines. But at the very last instant, she turned. Her back to Mika, her legs braced, her arms swept out to either side, one of them extended by the length of her rifle. The orcs who’d made it past the others in their bid for blood faltered as their prince growled and snapped at the air.

She spat words in orcin like a cave-viper spits poison. The others flinched back at the acid in her tone. Mika had finally managed to wrap something around her hand, and the smell of her blood began, slowly, to disperse.

Then something black and white and huge dove from behind them, taking one of the distracted orcs by the head and dragging him through the trees, finally leaving the bottom two-thirds of his body behind as the beast dove away.

The island had come to a complete stop. The other was still a ways off, but closing in fast. And so were more of the blackmaws, one of which had a particularly huge dorsal fin. A very oddly shaped dorsal fin. And then Mika caught the scent of sun-on-stone. The thing got closer, a distinct Song rose up over all the others, and the truth became clear.

Uthur, braced upon the back of a blackmaw, hurtled their way, and as his voice enveloped them, the other beasts turned to swim off and up, back to the floating forest.

Aiming his new mount between a pair of trunks, he drove it forward and leapt from its back without slowing. The thing sped onward between the trees and away, following its kin at the behest of Uthur’s Song.

And then, with the others’ eyes all on him, he fell briefly silent. Breathed deep.

When his lips parted again, they unleashed a new melody. The notes danced like light across water, like shimmering gold. The sensation of buoyed determination instilled by her Activation increased ten-fold, and suddenly Mika felt as though she had the energy to turn entire worlds. Looking around her, she could see she wasn’t the only one so touched. As Uthur’s Song carried on, Retga returned to shouting orders. The other Singer’s voices rose once more, hale as though their day had only just begun. As though they’d just finished the world’s greatest feast, but felt light as air regardless.

Uthur, however, looked haggard…and Mika could swear the circles beneath his eyes deepened as she watched.

The island sped forward, held level, its wind-wall even and strong. The other group was still gaining, but Mika overheard Uthur telling Retga it was all their own people. His appearance had aroused in her a thousand questions and even more unholy urges, and again she curled her hands to fists, wincing at the pain that shot up her arm as she squeezed the wound in her right. A tiny trickle of blood welled past the dampened fabric and dripped to the ground.

The orcs all tensed, but Sang on. Their eyes darted to Retga and Mika and back, their nostrils flared. None dared move, except one. When Uthur’s eyes caught on her, they held fast.

“You’re hurt,” he spoke as though affronted.

Striding over the tangled, moss-choked roots, he bent before her and reached out his hand.

“Here,” he said. “Let me help.”

Retga’s Song stopped short, and she looked over her shoulder at them. Her ear twitched.

“Oh,” said Mika, hand twitching upward. “S-sure.”

But Retga had whirled on them, growling a warning, and Mika jerked her hand back as she realized what she was about to do.

I can’t acquire his essence without his permission. Not when I can help it.

Uthur’s pupils narrowed, drawing out the rich gold of his irises.

“What’s going on?” He looked from Mika to his fellow prince with sudden suspicion.

Retga swallowed and took half a step back.