Chapter 30. The Spiral of Thorns

The Spiral wasn’t a room.

It was a decision.

Moonstone steps wound down into the cliff’s heart, each tread inscribed with patient glyphs that had outlived rebellions, kingdoms, and lovers both. The marks were shallow with age, but still sharp enough to catch the faint glow the stone remembered. The air here carried iron’s memory, the faint ghost of salt from the sea far below.

The stone kept its own light, blurring edges and making shadows breathe.

Anchors stood at the first landing, silent and still as carved statues. Mavienne met my eyes, her expression stripped down to something too clean for comfort, and offered her wrist without ceremony.

Between us hung a slip of chain—no crude shackles, no heavy clasp—just a single link of moonsteel, its metal pale as winter breath, catching the Spiral’s glow like a thought trying not to be spoken aloud.

“Pulse,” she said, voice dry as wind over bone. “On three.”

I pressed my wrist to hers. Her skin w