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I stumbled backward, my boots catching on a tree root as I burst back out into the open glade.
I fell onto my knees in the cold moss, panting heavily, clutching my chest as the cold mountain air rushed back into my lungs. I looked down at my right hand—clutched tightly in my palm was the smooth obsidian stone, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic heartbeat that mirrored my own.
I looked up frantically, expecting to see the driftwood hut, but there was nothing behind me except the petrified trees and the glowing violet moss. The hut was gone, as if it had been a mere illusion woven from the fog.
Malaki pushed himself off the tree trunk he had been leaning against, stepping over the melted snow boundary toward me. He didn't ask what had happened inside. His dark eyes flickered down to the stone in my hand, then up to my flushed face.
"You survived," Malaki said plainly, his tone devoid of surprise.
