CHAPTER 73: BLACK-GLASS RAVINE

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They followed a descending game trail southeast, golden leaves crunching underfoot like delicate parchment. The trees thinned as they moved farther from camp, their gnarled trunks bending outward from ancient shifts in the land. Shafts of late morning light speared through the canopy, casting warm amber hues over the path, while small winged insects buzzed lazily in the hush. Emberwood forest’s outer ring smelled of warm resin and iron; it was the scent of old sap, scorched bark, and buried heat. Fissures in the earth cracked across their path like claw marks, and in several places, the soil radiated a low glow with magma veins skimming close beneath, pulsing dim orange between stone ribs.

Fenna kept Emberling bundled tightly, the sling snug across her chest. She moved with careful steps, adjusting her pace to avoid jostling the chick too harshly. As they walked, she began to hum a low, airy note which threaded from her memory, shaped from the tune she’d used during resonance training the day before. The melody wasn’t complex, but it carried something old in its rhythm, something soothing. Each hum gently pulsed from her chest and through the sling, and the chick answered with drowsy twitters, the sounds were soft and high, like sparks flicking in the air. Emberling’s eyes drooped with every verse, small claws curled against Fenna’s tunic.

Zephyr walked slightly ahead, silent but alert. His eyes scanned for changes in the terrain, one hand occasionally brushing aside low branches or peeling bark from trees to check for moss growth. When streamsong finally reached his ears. Water running swiftly over stone—he raised a hand to halt them. "Hold here," he said, his tone quiet but firm. He lifted his chin. "Sulfur pools to the left. Water’s safe if we fill above the runoff."

The scent hit a moment later—hot stone, sour minerals, and something metallic, like wet coins. Just ahead, a narrow cataract spilled down a basalt cliff into a crystal basin, its surface broken by ripples. Steam danced and fluttered across the pool’s far edge, where faint yellow fumes curled up from sulfur vents like snakes rising from buried eggs.

The rocks around the basin were slick and dark, flecked with red minerals. Zephyr circled upstream, his boots squelching once in a patch of sticky, mineral-rich mud. He tested the footing, then wedged the first keg beneath the coldest section of the fall. The water hit the container with a hiss, startling a few lizards sunning on the cliff above. He shifted his weight to wedge the second keg in next to it, water rushing in with a low gurgle.

Down at the bank, Star crouched beside a jutting rock, his claws digging into the pebbled shore. He lowered his head to the water’s edge and lapped once, tongue flicking against the current. A second later, he pulled back with a snort, a small blast of steam puffing from his nostrils. His upper lip curled in mild offense with Drake’s sensitive palates. The minerals in the runoff likely stung his senses.

Zephyr scratched his cheek with the back of his knuckle. "Dilute later with ember-filter charcoal," he murmured, mostly to himself.

Water task is complete. Now the next task awaits.

He paused for a moment to take in the view. The stream continued uphill into a ridge flanked by black stone ridges, and birds with amber tipped wings flitted across the horizon. They would need to move quickly to reach the moss ravine before midday, especially if they wanted the best patches untouched by morning dew.

The ravine, twenty minutes east to their current location, was a volcanic scar carved deep into the earth, a jagged land of a violent eruption long past. The terrain changed as they approached—soft loam gave way to cracked shale, and brittle bones of old lava jutted like buried blades. Shadows pooled deep between the obsidian walls, and the air shimmered with dry heat rising in ghostly waves.

Stone here had melted and reformed into shards of glossy black, fractured at cruel angles. As sunlight filtered in from above, the walls threw off sharp reflections of every surface glinting like broken mirrors. This place was deadly and beautiful.

Jagged ferns sprouted along the edges, each frond razor-thin and black, like nature’s version of caltrops. Beneath these treacherous plants, nestled in crevices and shaded under brittle overhangs, glowed the pale green treasure they’d come for: Fire-moss. Its texture was thick and spongy, and it exuded a subtle herbal heat—rich with natural ember-salts and trace minerals, highly flammable if dried, but perfect as nest lining and wound salve when fresh.

Zephyr hammered pitons into the rock, careful to avoid loose shale. Every strike echoed through the ravine like a drumbeat from below. He tested the rope’s give, then tossed it down into the shimmering abyss. The climb wasn’t long, but the descent had to be exact.

Fenna followed first, one hand on the rope, the other steadying Emberling, bundled tightly across her chest. Her boots tapped down the slick stone as she eased along the cliff, searching for footholds. Halfway down, the trapped heat intensified, coiling around her like a fevered mist. Emberling felt uncomfortable and chirped twice to let Fenna know.

Fenna murmured reassurance, her voice low and steady. "Almost there, little flame," she whispered. "Just a bit longer." Her breath carried warmth, not just from the air, but from conviction.

When her boots hit the ravine floor, she wasted no time. The moss clung to the shaded lower walls in thick green patches. She began harvesting, slicing clean mats of it with a thin obsidian knife, each stroke practiced and precise. She rolled them tight into coils and stacked them beside a jut of stone.

Above, Star prowled the rim, his silhouette casting long shadows. He walked in measured arcs, tail flicking side to side like a metronome. Every now and then, his head twitched and ears tuning in, nostrils flaring. He didn’t like this place. Too many reflections. Too much glass. It had a muffled sound and a bent scent.