Chapter 24. The Bone Choir

The deeper you ventured into Rootwild, the less the forest spoke in rustling leaves or whispering branches and the more it replied in silence and stone. Aeryn had heard the warnings like half-remembered dreams—tales traded by firelight, voices hushed as though afraid of waking something in the dark. Thorne himself had confessed it once, his tone low enough to rattle the ribs. “When the trees go mute and the air folds in on itself like breath too frightened to escape, you’re close to the Choir.” She’d never pressed him for details—some truths demanded the toll of flesh to be fully understood.

Now, stepping through the ring of crooked ash that guarded the ancient grove, she felt those half-stories crystallize around her. Gnarled trunks arched overhead like bony ribs, their knotted bark etched with time. The slope of the land tilted ever so subtly, and the hush here was thicker than moonlight—more a presence than an absence. There were no carved markers, no swirling mist or sudde