CHAPTER 57 Wren
CHAPTER 57
Wren
‘I have gazed into the abyss of the most lethal potions, and I fear that the abyss has stared back at me’
– Elwren Embervale’s notes and observations
W HEN W REN LEFT the dungeon, her nose was still filled with the scent of belladonna, her stomach still churning with unease.
But all was forgotten as her eyes found Torj, waiting for her.
Her breath caught as she drank in those strong brows and square, chiselled jaw, and that stray lock of silver that tumbled over his forehead. His eyes met hers, piercing, the colour of a violent sea.
She wanted to tell him that what they’d shared hadn’t been enough for her. That after all these years of turmoil, she wasn’t sure she could stand another moment pretending she didn’t want him, pretending he hadn’t crowded her mind for half a decade.
Something must have shown on her face, because Torj gave her a questioning look.
‘I don’t want to go back to my rooms,’ she told him instead, her hand brushing the secateurs secured to her belt. She turned on her heel towards the doors.
‘Where are we going then, Embervale?’ the Warsword asked.
‘To the gardens.’
The gardens were well beyond the academy buildings, where they drank in the full force of the sun’s rays, far enough away that the towers and spires cast no shadows. Bordered by a handful of greenhouses on the perimeter, with wrought iron gates adorned with ivy vines marking the entrance, the lands beyond unfolded like a tapestry of colour and scent.
Wren breathed in deeply, appreciatively, as she led Torj through the entrance, picking up a basket on the way. They were greeted by an endless sea of sprawling garden beds, a verdant expanse of vibrant blooms and richly aromatic herbs. To her left, towering sunflowers stood tall, their golden faces turned towards the sun, while to her right, clusters of purple coneflowers swayed gently in the breeze, their quaint petals a testament to the artistry of nature and alchemy alike.
Wren sighed contentedly, drinking in the sight. ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured.
She heard Torj’s intake of breath beside her. ‘Yes.’
But when she glanced at him, he wasn’t looking at the flowers. He was looking at her.
Along the winding pathways, borders of fragrant rosemary and delicate lemon balm delineated the garden’s various sections, their aromatic foliage mingling with the sweet perfume of lavender and jasmine. The lavender was something else. Great bushes of the bright purple heads reached up to Wren’s chest, dancing in the crisp breeze that rippled through the gardens. Wren ran her fingertips across it, mindful not to disturb the bees flitting about the blooms. She could feel Torj’s eyes on her, but she ignored the attention, wanting – needing – to ground herself in the nature around her.
Patches of scarlet beebalm and crimson hibiscus punctuated the landscape, drawing the eye with their fiery allure, and in the centre of the garden, a tranquil pond reflected the sky above, its surface adorned with lily pads and water irises in hues of emerald and sapphire. With the handle of her basket resting in the crook of her elbow, Wren navigated the garden’s winding paths and breathed deep, feeling a sense of reverence for the natural world, each one of the blooms before her a testament to the boundless magic that lay at their feet.
‘These are pretty,’ Torj ventured, reaching down to cup a cluster of dainty white blooms in his large palm.
‘It’s feverfew,’ Wren told him. ‘Part of the daisy family...We use it to treat fevers and headaches, among other things.’
‘And those?’ He pointed to the rows of calendula officinalis basking in the sun’s rays, the petals a vibrant burnt orange hue.
‘Commonly known as marigold,’ Wren said. ‘Another from the daisy family. We dry the petals to use in ointments for burns and bruises.’
‘I’m surprised we’re not going straight for the poisons today, Embers.’ He said it with a teasing note, but Wren sighed, closing her eyes and tipping her head back to the sky, savouring the warmth of the sun on her face.
‘Perhaps I need a break from pain and death, Warsword.’
Her attention snagged on the fields further in the distance, close to the University of Naarva, where the crops of sun orchids bloomed. She let her eyes linger there for a moment, remembering harvesting the flowers for their use in the war.
To her surprise, the Warsword nodded, scanning the same field before turning to her. ‘Where do we start?’
‘We?’
Torj arched his scarred brow. ‘I’m not just a pretty face, Embers. Put me to work.’
Wren shifted on her feet, the intensity of his gaze heating her blood. ‘Alright then, Warsword. We start with the lavender.’
She led him to the giant bushes and knelt down in the dirt. Torj followed suit, his arm brushing against her shoulder as he lowered himself to the ground beside her. His scent mingled with that of the lavender, and Wren had to stop herself from closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. Instead, she offered him her secateurs.
His fingertips grazed hers as he accepted the tool. ‘You don’t need them?’
‘I’ll use this.’ She showed him her harvesting knife, a small scythe-like instrument she’d borrowed from Dessa. ‘Use your thumb and middle finger,’ she explained, demonstrating. ‘You encircle a small bunch of stems, just above the leaves there...Make a clean cut – you don’t want to bruise or damage anything – and make sure you don’t crush the flowers. We can take about half the height. Just don’t cut into the woody part – it might not recover then.’
Torj watched her closely, listening carefully before gathering the lavender in his callused fingers. ‘Like this?’
Wren bit back a smile. Without thinking, she wrapped her hand around his, an electric current rushing through her as she did. Ignoring the sensation, she positioned his grip around the bunch of stems. ‘There.’
Nodding to himself, Torj used the secateurs to make the cut, while Wren handed him a short length of twine to bind the bundle together.
‘How many cuttings do we need?’
‘About twenty or so.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’
They gathered the cuttings together, Wren stealing glances all the while at the fierce warrior kneeling among the flowers. His movements were considered, gentle, and he often looked to her for guidance and reassurance, as though concerned he’d make a mistake or disappoint her.
A lump formed in Wren’s throat during those stolen glances, as her basket began to fill with their bounty of blooms. Gods, he was beautiful, beautiful beyond reason.
And he had no idea.
When the sun began to dip behind the horizon and the rose-gold glow of dusk drenched the sky, Wren got to her feet, dusting her skirts off at the knees and settling the basket in the crook of her elbow once more. ‘We should head back.’
Torj stood, but lingered for a moment, regret lining his handsome face. ‘You’re probably right.’
‘I thought you’d be all about getting back to the halls before dark.’
‘I should be, but...’ He took a breath and surveyed the gardens. ‘This was...nice.’
The clouds above seemed to ignite in the fading light, a canvas of coral and tangerine, while the towering sunflowers swayed, beckoning them back to the gates.
‘It was,’ Wren said quietly.
Torj’s eyes were on her again, full of warmth and longing. ‘Here.’ He reached out, gently taking the basket from her. ‘Allow me.’
Heat unfurled in Wren’s chest as the warrior hooked the wicker handle over his own arm and started towards the gates. For a moment, all she could do was watch him, his huge frame navigating the winding path, his iron war hammer gleaming across his back, his silver hair shining in the last of the sun’s rays, the basket brimming with flowers swaying at his side.
Wren found herself biting her lip, where she could taste the beginnings of a storm. And as Torj reached the garden gates, she absentmindedly rubbed at her sternum, where, beneath flesh and bone, thunder gathered.