Chapter 25: On Temporal Mist Migration

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.”

Tavik, still settling into his chair, looked up with the steady patience of an older brother well versed in Bran’s enthusiasms. “Alright, Bran. Slow down.”

Bran found the passage, words tumbling out in a rush. “It says: ‘The Temporal Mist rises thrice yearly through the Eldertree’s deepest groves, drawn by the pulse of living magic. It is no mere vapour but a sentient force, ancient as the roots themselves, wandering in search of those who carry youth within their veins. Upon contact, the mist extracts two years from the span of mortal time, aging flesh and bone in the space of a breath. The afflicted feel no passage of hours, only the sudden weight of years settling upon them like frost. Once sated, having consumed its measure from sufficient vessels, the mist retreats into dormancy until the season turns again.’”

Tavik’s brow furrowed, but his voice remained calm. “That’s troubling, I grant you, but what does it have to do with us? We’re safe.”

“Tav, you don’t understand!” Bran’s voice rose in desperation. His eyes were intense, as if urging his brother to understand. “There’s a chart, Tavik, a list of exact dates and times. Just look!” He jabbed his finger at a table of calculations, rows of careful notations. “The spring migration is happening now. Right now. During the exact window we left the forest floor and when we’re meant to return.”

Tavik leaned forward, studying the numbers, his expression shifting from patience to concern. “You’re certain? These calculations, they could be estimates, approximations...”

“They’re precise!” Bran’s words came faster now, stumbling over themselves in his haste. “Rootbinder tracked them for decades. The mist follows patterns, Tav. Predictable patterns. And according to this...” His voice dropped to a whisper, horror bleeding through. “Oren and Nix will be returning to the forest floor exactly when the mist is at its peak.”

Silence settled between them, heavy as stone. Tavik got to his feet and his hand moved to Bran’s shoulder, grip firm and grounding. “Let’s think this through. Teo promised time moves differently here, remember. Perhaps the mist will pass after they descend, later, when we meet up with them tomorrow.”

“Or perhaps they’re about to walk straight into it!” Bran twisted away from Tavik’s touch, the movement jerky, uncontrolled. He was pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, the book clutched to his chest. “They don’t know about the mist. How could they? I only just learned of it now! We have to warn them, Tavik. We have to!”

Tavik placed himself in Bran’s path, hands raised in a gesture meant to calm. “Alright. Alright, I hear you. But how do we warn them? We’re here, they’re in the canopy. Even if we left now...”

“The tether!” Bran’s eyes blazed with desperate hope, the wild look of someone grasping at any possibility. “You can send a warning to Nix through the tether. You’ve done it before, when you were healing him, sending comfort. You can do it again!”

Tavik’s expression shifted, uncertainty flickering across his features. “Bran, that’s different. I only ever sent feelings, warmth, reassurance. Simple things. The tether...” He paused, searching for words. “It’s more like listening than speaking. I receive what Nix feels; I don’t push my own thoughts through it.”

“But you could try!” Bran’s voice louder on the words, frantic. “Please, Tavik. If you don’t try and something happens to them...” He couldn’t finish the thought, couldn’t voice the fear that clawed at his throat.

Tavik studied his brother’s face, saw the genuine fear there, the helplessness. He drew a slow breath, decision settling into his bones. “Fine. Sit with me. If I’m to attempt this, I need you calm. Your panic won’t help either of us.”

Bran sank onto the chair beside Tavik, the book still pressed against his ribs like a shield. He forced his breathing to slow, watching as Tavik closed his eyes, his face settling into concentration.

“I’m going to try,” Tavik murmured, more to himself than Bran. “But I can’t promise it will work.”

He reached inward, searching for that thread that connected him to Nix, that gossamer line he’d grown so accustomed to feeling these past weeks. There it was, steady and present, a pulse like a distant heartbeat. Usually it carried sensation toward him, Nix’s pain, Nix’s emotions, flowing one direction like water down a streambed.

Now Tavik tried to push against that current.

The resistance was immediate, like pressing his palm against a wall. The tether wasn’t built for this, wasn’t meant to carry his thoughts outward. He gritted his teeth, focusing harder, trying to form an image in his mind that could somehow travel that connection.

The mist. Silver and purposeful, curling through trees. Danger. A warning.

He pushed the image toward the tether, willing it to flow through that connection, to reach Nix wherever he was in the canopy above. The effort made his head ache, a pressure building behind his eyes. The tether quivered beneath his attention, uncertain, resisting.

Tavik shifted his approach. Not images, then. Feelings. The tether carried feelings more easily.

He thought of the forest floor, tried to imbue it with wrongness, with threat. Stay away. Danger below. Don’t descend.

The tether pulsed once, a brief flutter like a bird’s wing against his consciousness, and for a heartbeat he thought he’d succeeded. But then the sensation faded, absorbed back into that one-way current, and he couldn’t tell if anything had actually travelled through or if he’d simply exhausted himself pushing against an immovable barrier.

His breathing had grown laboured without him noticing. Sweat beaded at his temples. He tried again, marshalling his focus, but the tether remained stubbornly passive, accepting nothing, sending only the faint echo of Nix’s distant presence.

A third attempt. This time he tried words, simple and stark: Danger. Ground. Avoid.

The tether shuddered, and something... something might have slipped through. A fragment, incomplete and garbled, like shouting into wind and hoping the sound carried. Tavik couldn’t be certain. The connection felt strained, overstretched, and when he pushed once more it simply... resisted. Blank and impenetrable.

He opened his eyes, exhaustion pulling at his features. Bran was leaning forward, hope and desperation warring in his expression.

“Did it work?” Bran whispered. “Did he receive it?”

Tavik shook his head slowly, frustration colouring his voice. “I don’t know. I pushed something through, I think. But whether Nix felt it, whether he understood...” He trailed off, helpless. “The tether’s not meant for this, Bran. It’s a shallow stream, and I was trying to force a river through it.”

The hope in Bran’s eyes shattered. He was on his feet again, the book falling forgotten from his lap, hitting the floor with a dull thump. “That’s not enough! If the message wasn’t clear, if he didn’t understand, they’ll walk straight into the mist!” His voice was rising, cracking, control slipping. “We have to do more, we have to get to them ourselves!”

He bolted for the doorway before Tavik could stop him, his cry echoing through the chamber. “Teo! Teo, we need help! Please!”

Tavik sprang after him, pulse hammering against his ribs, the amber walls blurring past as they ran through the living corridors. Overhead, the bioluminescent vines flickered, their light shifting from warm gold to something cooler, more uncertain. Shadows stretched and twisted, responding to the urgency that poured off Bran in waves.

The corridor widened ahead, roots curving into a vaulted space, and there, as if he’d been waiting, stood Teo.

Tavik’s steps faltered. Too quick. Teo had appeared too quickly, too precisely. There’d been no time to summon him properly, no time for him to travel from wherever he’d been. He was simply... there.

Teo’s expression was calm, unsurprised, his wings folded neatly behind him, catching the amber light in shades of silver and green. Around him, other Talanooks drifted into view, gathering in clusters along the edges of the corridor, their forms flickering between solidity and translucence. Their faces held something Tavik couldn’t name. Not concern. Not confusion. Something closer to... expectation.

Bran stumbled to a halt before Teo, words pouring out in a breathless torrent. “The mist, Teo, the Temporal Mist! Rootbinder’s book, the one on my shelf, it lists when the migrations happen. Our brother and cousin, they’re up in the canopy and they’re going to descend and the mist is on the forest floor right now and they don’t know, they can’t know!” He was gesturing wildly, hands shaking. “We tried to warn them, but it didn’t work and we need to get back, we need to get to them before...”

Teo raised one hand, a gentle gesture, and Bran’s frantic words stumbled to a halt. “Peace, young one,” Teo said, his voice carrying that same unhurried quality it always did. No alarm. No shock. “You have read Rootbinder’s account, then.”

Something in that phrasing made Tavik’s spine stiffen. Not ‘you discovered’ or ‘you learned.’ You have read. As if Teo had deliberately chosen the book for Bran to read, known what it contained, known what it would mean for them. Tavik felt set up and wary.

Bran didn’t seem to notice, too caught in his panic. “Yes! And the timing, Teo, the timing is exact. The mist will catch them if we don’t...”

“You wish to return to the forest floor,” Teo said. Not a question. A statement.

“Yes!” Bran responded immediately. “Please, we need to get back now!”

Teo regarded them both for a long moment, those ancient eyes moving between Bran’s desperate face and Tavik’s wary one. The watching Talanooks said nothing, their silence heavy with knowledge.

Then Teo nodded, once, decisive. “Very well. I will open the way.”

He raised his hand, palm outward, and light began to bend around his fingers. It gathered and spun, threads of radiance weaving themselves into a circular frame, a doorway suspended in air. Through it, Tavik could see the forest floor: dark earth, thick moss, the grey-green shadows of ancient trees.

The portal shimmered, stable and waiting.

Tavik watched Teo’s face, searching for any sign of reluctance, any hesitation. There was none. The portal had formed as easily as breathing, as if Teo had been prepared for this exact request.

“Go,” Teo said simply, gesturing toward the light. “You will find them.”

Bran didn’t wait for further invitation. He seized Tavik’s wrist and lunged forward, pulling them both toward the shimmering doorway. Tavik had a moment to glance back, to see Teo’s expression, serene and knowing, and the gathered Talanooks watching with that same strange expectation.

Then Bran yanked him through, and the world dissolved into light.

The sensation was disorienting, uncomfortable, like being turned inside out. Warmth gave way to cold, the soft glow of the City replaced by something sharper, harsher. Tavik’s stomach lurched as up and down lost meaning, then found it again with jarring suddenness.

They landed hard, knees buckling, hands catching them against mossy earth. 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.

The air hit him next. Cold. Damp. The rich, loamy smell of the forest floor, earth and rotting leaves and growing things. So different from the City of Light’s perfumed warmth that it felt like a slap.

Bran was already scrambling to his feet, head tilted back, searching the canopy. “There!” he gasped, pointing upward. “Tavik, there!”

Tavik pushed himself up, following Bran’s gesture. High above, just visible through gaps in the leaves, the platform was descending. He could make out two figures upon it, Oren’s broad frame unmistakable even from this distance, and Nix’s smaller form beside him.

Relief tried to bloom in Tavik’s chest. They could see them. They were here, they could call out, could warn them properly now.

But then he saw the mist.

It rose from the forest floor like breath made visible, silvered and purposeful. Not drifting the way ordinary fog might, but moving with intent, flowing around tree trunks, curling through underbrush, gathering itself into a coherent mass. It moved like something alive, like something hunting.

And it was flowing directly toward the path of the descending platform.

“No,” Bran whispered beside him, the word barely audible. His hand found Tavik’s arm, fingers digging in. “No, no, no...”

Tavik tried to call out, to shout a warning, but his throat had gone tight. They were too far. The distance up towards them was too great. Even if Oren and Nix heard them, they couldn’t stop the platform’s descent, couldn’t change its course.

The mist gathered itself, rising like water finding its level, reaching upward. The platform continued its steady descent, unaware, inevitable.

Tavik felt the tether suddenly, sharp and clear in a way it hadn’t been when he’d tried to send warning. Nix’s presence flared through it, bright and immediate. Anxiety. Confusion. A sense of wrongness that Nix couldn’t identify.

“He knows something’s wrong,” Tavik breathed. “He can feel it.”

But feeling danger and avoiding it were different things, and the platform had no mechanism to stop, no way to change direction once the descent had begun.

The mist touched the platform’s edge.

Tavik’s hand found Bran’s, gripped it tight. Bran was trembling, or perhaps that was Tavik himself, he couldn’t tell. They stood together in the shadowed forest, watching helplessly as the silvered vapour engulfed the descending platform, swallowing Oren and Nix from view.