Chapter 13 Mav
MAV
Isat on the edge of my bed, elbows braced on my knees, trying to shake the images clinging to the inside of my skull.
Not nightmares.
Memories of last night.
The press of her palm against mine on the dance floor. The soft heat of her cheek beneath my thumb as I wiped away that damn smudge of ink.
My thoughts were a minefield. Every step set something off.
She was beautiful, that much had been obvious from the first moment.
But now I was noticing all the smaller things.
The way she tilted her head when she listened.
The way her laugh always seemed to surprise her.
The way she looked at new things as if the world were presenting miracles meant for her alone.
And the way I’d suddenly developed the maddening urge to reach out and touch her again—for no reason at all except that I wanted to.
Which was foolish.
I’d known her for four days. Four. And somehow she’d already slipped beneath my skin, a splinter I couldn’t stop pressing on.
I scrubbed a hand through my hair, stood, grabbed my coat, and stepped out into the hallway before I did something unforgivable—like crossing the room to ask what she dreamed about last night.
Making my way to the back of Branrir’s shop, I greeted the horses. Their breath fogged the cool air as their tails flicked. I busied myself with checking tack and adjusting saddle straps I’d already checked twice; anything to keep my hands and mind occupied.
I kept waiting for the tether to yank me backward when the distance between Quinn and me grew too large. When the pull never came, I realized she’d followed me.
I didn’t hear her footsteps, but I could feel her.
Quinn stood a few paces away. Her hair was half unbraided, eyes still soft with sleep, skin catching the early glow as if she were spun from it. She wore one of her new dresses, soft green with loose sleeves. But it wasn’t the dress that swept every logical thought from my mind.
It was her.
“You—uh…” My throat tightened. “You look…”
She raised a brow.
“…the dress suits you,” I finished lamely, mentally stabbing myself for every stupid word.
“Thank you,” she said with a small smile and an accompanying swish of her skirts.
I moved my attention back to the horses like they’d suddenly asked me to solve some elaborate puzzle. Pulled on another strap that didn’t need fixing.
Saints help me, I used to be adept at courtship. For years, I was seen as something of a cad, leaving broken hearts and dashed dreams in my wake.
But with her? Every damn word was a stone in my mouth. Every glance, a test I wasn’t prepared to pass.
This was going to be a long ride.
Branrir brewed a pot of something bitter and vaguely nut-flavored, and we called it breakfast. There wasn’t much talking—only the rustle of bags being slung over shoulders, the creak of saddle leather, and the taut silence of people readying themselves for a journey none of us fully understood.
Quinn didn’t look nearly as nervous as I felt. Not when we mounted up and turned toward the edge of Pinehelm. Not even when the road ahead grew darker with each minute.
We made it less than an hour out of town before the world changed. The Elderhollow didn’t announce itself with fanfare or warning stones carved in runes. No trumpet’s call, no hint of what waited beyond.
The horses sensed it before we did. Their hooves shifted, ears flattening tight. Mine snorted hard and tossed its head, fighting the bit like it would rather bolt back to town and endure a dozen tailor’s pins than take one step forward.
Couldn’t blame him.
I shared the sentiment.
The air shifted, strange and thick. It crawled beneath the layers of my skin before we reached the tree line, reeking of rot and iron.
One moment, we were on an open trail, the sun warm on our backs.
Next, we were swallowed.
The light all but vanished in one long blink.
The forest surrounded us in walls of black-green, exhaling damp air against our necks.
My stomach had already gone cold. Gripping the reins, my palms dampened. Every instinct I had—the old soldier’s ones, the ones that had kept me alive on the worst days—screamed to turn around.
I swore I’d never come back here.
Not after nearly dying with a cracked skull and three broken ribs while a pack of drunk ruffians stole my last coin and left me for dead.
Not after wandering so lost I’d spent three nights talking to trees as though they might answer, because my voice was my only company.
There were places you avoided if you wanted to survive long in this world. Elderhollow was one of them. It didn’t need monsters to kill you—only time. With its warped paths distorting sound and twisting your sense of direction, it was almost as if it wanted to trap you.
Quinn appeared to be unfazed. She sat tall in the saddle, eyes scanning the dark without fear. I didn’t want to look weak in front of her. Especially not now. I pressed my lips together, nodded when Branrir gave the signal, and fell into line at the rear.
Branrir led, Thistle and Vesper behind him. Quinn next, and then me.
I kept my head down, every nerve on edge, telling myself I was fine. That I was imagining it. The trees weren’t shifting. The sound I kept hearing behind me was of my own invention.
I hate this place.
“Come on, Mav,” Thistle called over her shoulder. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I scoffed. “Ghosts would be preferable to the Elderhollow.”
Quinn gave me a sympathetic grin. “Perhaps Branrir could share a story or some history to pass the time?”
Branrir’s chest puffed with pride. “I’d be delighted! What about a history of the Saints?”
“Sounds like the perfect topic for me to nap through,” Vesper snarked.
“I for one would be very interested,” Quinn encouraged.
I couldn’t help but smile. It was clear she was doing this for my benefit, trying to keep my mind off our surroundings. She was thoughtful in a way most people never cared to be.
“There are twenty-four Saints,” Branrir began.
“Two for each of the twelve elder deities—the old gods and goddesses. Long before the council of five built Avandria, the brothers’ people worshiped those twelve across the sea, on continents and islands they left behind.
” He shifted in his saddle. “Each pair of Saints was said to be mortal once, chosen to bear the god’s virtues in the new world.
They carried the gods’ favor upon their skin, the pattern different depending on which god had blessed them.
Those marks vanished when the old ways fell, or so the temples insist.”
He cleared his throat before continuing.
“The names have changed, of course. The old gods are little more than legends now. If you look closely, you’ll find echoes of them: the way winds and tides whisper to Tempests, in how verdant fields obey the commands of a Hedge, in the way embers of warmth never dim in Hearths. ”
Although I found the subject to be tediously boring, I couldn’t help but be grateful for the distraction. The forest pressed close, but the stories kept the shadows from wrapping their hands around my throat.
“...and that’s why you never bring chocolate cake to a dragon’s mating ceremony,” Branrir concluded.
He’d told stories as we rode for hours, but the light never changed.
Not that there was much to begin with. The canopy above was a tangle of limbs so dense it stitched the heavens shut.
The deeper we went, the more the shadows clung.
Wet. Watchful. Unmoving in a way that was unnatural.
My horse’s ears twitched every few steps, catching sounds I couldn’t place—low, distant calls that didn’t quite sound like birds.
They were wrong. Off by a half note, or in a minor key.
As if someone was trying to hum a lullaby through a mouthful of river stones.
The ground squelched beneath the horses’ hooves, damp enough to hold the imprints of their steps—and yet, the ground never held our trail. No churned earth. No trace at all. As if the forest were closing in behind us, eliminating every sign we’d ever been there.
And then I saw it.
That tree.
It looked like every other at first glance—tall, warped, split halfway up the trunk—but something about it snagged in my memory. The split looked like a mouth, gaping mid-sentence, moss drooling from the corner. I’d seen it before. I was sure of it.
But I didn’t say anything.
Not until we passed it again.
And again.
My pulse began to thrum, low and irritated. I tugged on the reins to slow my horse.
“Look here,” I called to the group, squinting through the gloom. “This is the third time we’ve passed this one.”
Branrir twisted in his saddle. “What are you talking about?”
“That tree.” I pointed with a gloved hand. “The one in a drunken stooper.”
He squinted from behind his enormous spectacles. “They all look the same.”
“Not like this one.”
Thistle gave an exasperated snort. “I know you hate this place, Mav, but don’t conjure phantoms.”
“I’m not conjuring anything,” I insisted, unable to mask my unease. “We’re riding in circles.”
Quinn looked back at me, silent, but the tilt of her head said she was listening.
Her horse sidled closer to mine, narrowing the space between us.
I saw the flicker in her eyes then—uncertainty, small and shadowed.
It made my jaw tighten. I didn’t appreciate being dismissed.
And I didn’t like that she might start doubting me, too.
Without a word, I dismounted. My boots hit the ground with a dull thud, the carpet of moss muting the sound.
I reached for one of my smaller daggers. The blade gleamed as I rammed it into the trunk. The bark split open with a satisfying crunch, wood fibers curling around the hilt.
“Fine,” I declared, returning to my saddle. “Let’s see who’s imagining things.”
Branrir muttered something about dramatics, and Thistle shook her head. We started forward again, leaves brushing our shoulders as we ventured deeper into the never-ending green.
We rode.