Chapter 25: On Temporal Mist Migration

The impact drove the breath from Tavik’s lungs and for a moment he could only kneel there, gasping, the ground solid and real beneath his palms.

(I painted this image using pencil and oil paint brushes on Procreate on my iPad. - Chaiga T. Cheska)

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Tavik looked up, instantly alert, and caught the wild urgency in Bran’s eyes. In that moment, he sensed a shift in the air, the unmistakable feeling that something was about to unravel, setting their reunion with Oren and Nix on an uncertain path.

Bran’s fingers shook around the battered spine as he jumped up and faced Tavik, knuckles white against worn leather. He thrust the book toward Tavik, pages splayed open, his voice strained over the words. “Listen, Tav, just listen!” His breath came too fast, shallow and ragged, the panic of someone who had stumbled into knowledge too large for himself. “Here, Rootbinder writes it plainly. I’ll read it to you.”