8. Roan
Roan
The sun creeps higher than I’d like, warming the back of my neck as I lead Aria deeper into the woods. We’ve been walking for hours, leaving the crumbled bones of the ruins far behind us.
Aria trails close behind. I can hear her breath catching now and then, can feel the slight drag in her pace. She’s trying to keep up, I’ll give her that—but Elden Hollow is still too far, and at this rate, we won’t reach it today. Probably not even tomorrow.
The terrain isn’t doing us any favors. The trees here twist like old pain, thick roots buckling up from the forest floor, waiting to trip the unprepared.
The deeper we go, the more the forest seems to swallow the light—only fractured slants of gold make it through the canopy overhead, like sun filtered through a broken window.
Good. Less chance of being spotted from a distance. Less chance of scent or sound carrying too far. Not perfect, but better.
Still—sleeping out here? With a clan hunting her? I hate it.
Every step deeper into the woods adds a twist of unease to my gut. I’d rather keep moving, press on through the night. But she’s slowing down, and pushing her further could do more harm than good. The thought of her collapsing out here, or worse, bleeding again… No. We’ll need to hunker down before dusk.
Even if it means sleeping with one eye open and my sword under my hand.
I glance over my shoulder.
She’s moving better now—the blood I brought her must have helped—but she still holds herself like every step could bring fresh pain.
“You holding up?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Yes,” she replies, breath just a little shaky. “I’m simply…not used to so much walking.”
I grunt softly under my breath.
City vampire . Or the manor-born type. The kind who lived soft behind stone walls, surrounded by silk and servants. I’ve heard enough stories from mercs who crossed their paths—clans lounging in grand estates, sipping from chalices, always warring over territory and pride. Petty and powerful.
Aria doesn’t fit the image exactly. But there’s a polish to her, a delicateness that speaks of something once-shielded. Something that wasn’t built for life on the run.
Eventually, I spot a shallow depression tucked into a ring of oaks, hemmed in by thick underbrush on all sides. A natural hollow—low enough to avoid the worst wind, dense enough to hide us unless someone’s right on top of us. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.
I nod toward it and push through the thorns first, letting my cloak catch the brambles so they don’t tear at her. The clearing is small and cool, the ground blanketed in last year’s leaves. It smells of damp earth and moss, like the woods here are half-asleep, waiting for nightfall.
“Here,” I say, turning a slow circle, listening. Nothing but birdsong and the rustle of trees. “We’ll make camp for the night.”
Aria steps in behind me, eyes flicking around the little hollow. She looks wary, uncertain. Her foot sinks into a patch of moss and she frowns, tugging herself free. “You do this a lot?”
I drop my pack beside the biggest tree trunk and stretch my arms out with a quiet groan. “Often enough. Mercenary life doesn’t exactly come with fine lodgings or featherbeds.” I shoot her a crooked grin. “This is luxury, trust me.”
She arches a brow but says nothing.
“Come on,” I continue. “We’ll clear a bit of space.”
We start clearing space, brushing aside twigs and dead leaves. I go to gather fallen branches for kindling, and she tries to help, but it’s clear she’s not used to this. She cringes when something squishes under her bare foot, and when she bends to snap a dry limb in half, it slips from her grip and smacks her shin with a soft thud.
I bite back a smile, shaking my head. “Stick to the dry stuff,” I murmur. “Snaps easier.”
She mutters something under her breath I don’t catch, probably cursing the woods or me. Still, she doesn’t give up. Her fingers tremble when she crouches to gather twigs, but she keeps going, teeth gritted.
There’s grit in her, even if she doesn’t quite know how to use it yet.
“Easy there, city mouse,” I tease, catching a branch before it slips from her grasp.
She straightens with a sharp exhale, brushing a leaf from her cloak with the kind of irritation that’s half pride, half embarrassment. Her eyes flash, bright and sharp. “I’m not a mouse.”
“No?” I let the grin tug at one corner of my mouth, easy and unhurried as I toss the branch onto our growing pile. “Feels like it suits you. Skittish, quiet… but stubborn as hell. Trying real hard not to look out of your depth.”
Her cheeks flush a soft, dusky pink, and she levels a glare at me—more huff than bite. “Oh, so that’s how it is.”
I shrug, the corner of my mouth still curved up. “You’re right—maybe that’s unfair. Would you prefer ‘city cat’? ‘Pretty bird’? You’ve got that wide-eyed look about you.”
She huffs, turning away from me, but I don’t miss the small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Are you always this ridiculous?”
“Comes with the job,” I say. “Lighten up. We’ll be safer if we can laugh off the worst of it.” Or at least pretend to.
We scrounge enough wood for a decent fire ring, though I’ll keep it small. No smoke if I can help it. I dig a shallow pit, stacking stones around the edges for a makeshift hearth. Aria watches carefully, like she’s taking mental notes.
Once that’s done, I unroll a thin bedroll from my pack and toss it down in the driest spot I can find. “It’s not much, but it beats sleeping on damp leaves,” I say, straightening up and dusting off my hands. "Take it," I say, nudging it toward her with the toe of my boot. "You need the rest more than I do."
Aria shakes her head. “No, I couldn’t possibly… You should take it.”
My brow furrows as I tuck my hand behind my neck, massaging the tension there. “Nah. Trust me, I’ve slept on worse—tree roots, mud, a busted dock once, during a storm. You, though?” I glance at her shoulder. The bandage’s frayed edge is faintly stained. “You could use the cushion.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I catch her look. She’s torn between manners and misery. I cock an eyebrow, daring her to fight me on it.
Finally, she sighs and settles onto the bedroll with a wince. “All right,” she mutters.
“See?” I lean back on my heels. “You can be agreeable when you try.”
She rolls her eyes, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, but her body eases a little as she sinks into the fabric. I resist the urge to hover. Instead, I busy myself with rearranging my supplies, making sure everything is within reach if we need to move fast.
The canopy overhead rustles with the breeze, scattering flecks of sunlight. Aria tilts her head back, closing her eyes for a moment, and her posture loosens just a hair.
I lower myself onto a patch of dry moss and start working through my pack. Jerky, stale bread, one half-emptied tin of some questionable stew I’ve been avoiding. I chew a strip of meat slowly, jaw aching with each bite. My eyes drift back to her, just once. She hasn’t fed since earlier, and that rabbit I caught won’t keep her full for long. Not at the rate she’s burning through whatever energy it gave her.
Somewhere nearby, water trickles over stone—a stream, maybe. Good. That means I can wash up, clean the blade, and get a fresh drink before I go looking for another meal.
“Gonna need to get another rabbit,” I say, more to myself than her. My voice comes out rougher than I expect. “Shouldn’t be too hard, tracks looked fresh coming in.”
Aria blinks at me, then tilts her head. “You don’t have to—”
I cut her off with a sharp look. “I’m not letting you starve, Mouse.”
She huffs, wrapping her arms around her knees. “I wouldn’t starve.”
I snort. “You’d be miserable, though.”
That earns me a quiet glare, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she picks at the loose thread on her sleeve, thoughtful.
Silence settles between us, not uncomfortable, but heavy in its own way. I chew the last of my jerky, lean back against a moss-covered log, and let my eyes close for a beat. I can feel her watching me, just like I’ve been watching her. Not with suspicion anymore. Something gentler. Something stranger.
I could get used to this.
After a stretch of silence that hums low and warm between us, Aria speaks.
“You’re a lot nicer than you pretend to be, you know.”
I let out a bark of laughter, a bit too loud in the hush. “Nicer, huh? Don’t spread that around—I’ll lose my fearsome reputation.”
Aria actually smiles then, the tension on her face easing. It softens her, makes her look younger—though I know better than to trust appearances when it comes to vampires. They’re said to age differently, gracefully. Time barely touches them, smoothing away the years where it would carve lines into the rest of us.
Still, I wonder. Just how old is she? How long has she spent under her clan’s rule? The thought lodges deep. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Before I can ask—before I can start peeling back things that probably aren’t mine to touch—Aria tilts her head and murmurs, “I don’t think anyone’s buying it.”
I blink. “Buying what?”
She huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Your fearsome reputation.”
I snort. “Is that so?”
She just smirks, arching one elegant brow in that way that makes me feel like I’ve already lost some unspoken game. She knows exactly how to get under my skin—worse, I think she likes doing it.
And gods help me, I think I like it too.
The air hums with the lingering warmth of the sun, but there’s a chill creeping in, threading through the trees like a silent warning that night is on its way. My focus lingers on Aria. The smirk on her lips, the way the tension that’s lived in her shoulders since we met has finally eased just a fraction.
It’s a strange thing, seeing her like this—unguarded, even if only for a moment. I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it.
I clear my throat, shifting where I sit. “Come on,” I say, standing and stretching out my sore muscles. “There’s a stream nearby. We should check it out—get some water, maybe find a rabbit while we’re at it.”
She lifts a brow, still seated. “You just want me to stop calling you nice.”
I grin, cracking my neck. “That obvious?”
She sighs and stands, brushing off her cloak with a faint eye-roll. But I catch it—the glint of something soft in her gaze, something quiet and curious.
And she follows.
I lead the way, weaving through the trees as the sky shifts from deep gold to a dusky purple. The fading light catches in the spaces between the branches, scattering streaks of warmth that contrast the growing coolness in the air.
By the time we reach the stream, the sun has nearly vanished beyond the horizon. The water moves slow and steady, reflecting the dying light in shifting ripples that glint against the smooth stones beneath the surface. It’s shallow, clear, the kind of place that feels untouched, hidden away from the rest of the world.
Aria steps forward first, crouching at the edge. She dips her fingers into the water, testing the water, then cups a handful and presses it to her face. Droplets cling to her skin, catching in the loose curls of her hair, shimmering like molten copper in the twilight.
I turn my attention to my own tasks. I unfasten my waterskin, dunking it into the stream, watching as the cool rush fills it to the brim. The water is crisp against my fingers, biting at my skin as I bring some to my arms, rubbing away the sweat and grime from the day.
Movement draws my gaze back to her.
She’s pulling at the makeshift bandage on her shoulder, unwinding the cloth with gentle fingers. My breath catches.
The wound—the one that had been angry and bleeding not a day ago—is gone.
Well, not gone, but close. Her skin is pink and new, still healing, but there’s no tear left. No ripped flesh. No exposed muscle. Just smooth, damp skin and a quiet flex of muscle as she tests the movement in her shoulder. I knew vampires mended fast, but I’ve never seen it before.
She tilts her head slightly, muttering, “Still stiff.”
I swallow, my voice rough when I manage, “You heal fast.”
She glances up, offering a wry smile. “Perks of vampirism, I suppose.”
I should look away. Give her space. But I don’t.
It’s not just the healing that has me staring—it’s something else. The way she moves, so careful, so deliberate, like she isn’t used to tending to herself.
“You didn’t always have to do this, did you?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Her smile falters. Her fingers brush across her shoulder, tracing the edge of new skin like she’s trying to memorize it.
“No,” she says finally, voice quiet. “I didn’t.”
She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t have to. The silence that follows says more than the words could—of a life spent being tended to, controlled, watched. Cared for, maybe, but not kindly. Not freely.
I don’t press.
Instead, I stand, tightening the cap on my waterskin. “Come on,” I say, holding out a hand. “We should head back before it gets too dark.”
She hesitates just long enough that I almost repeat myself—but then her fingers slide into mine.
Cool. Firm.
She lets me pull her up, and for a moment, I don’t let go.
Neither does she.
Then, like a shift in wind, she pulls away—delicate, not rushed. She wipes her palms on her skirts and looks at me, something unreadable in her expression.
Then she smirks. “Lead the way, mercenary.”
I freeze.
Something about it—her voice wrapped around the word, teasing but gentle—sinks deep into my chest, settling there, heavy and warm.
I smirk, turning back toward camp. The quiet stretches between us as we walk, but it’s not the tense, brittle kind we started with.
We’re almost back to the clearing when I catch a rustle in the underbrush. I raise a hand, and Aria stills beside me, instinct sharp as mine now. I edge forward and spot it—another rabbit, nibbling beneath a bramble, its soft ears twitching. Luck or fate, I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter.
I crouch low, eyes on the animal, and motion for her to stay back.
She steps past me before I can stop her.
Her movements are smooth, silent—almost beautiful, if I let myself think that way. The rabbit senses something too late. She moves fast and in one clean motion grabs it. The next, she bites it.
There’s no struggle.
No cruelty.
Just necessity.
I turn my back, gaze fixed on the trees, giving her space. It feels like the right thing to do.
Some things aren’t meant to be witnessed. Not out of disgust, but out of respect. I hear her breath hitch softly, then deepen. Feeding. Just survival.
I focus on the wind through the trees, the distant cry of an owl. The press of sword leather at my hip.
She doesn’t take long.
A few heartbeats pass in silence, and then I hear it—soft, barely there.
“…Sorry.”
The word hangs in the still air like a thread. I turn, just a little.
She’s kneeling by the rabbit, fingers stroking its fur with something close to reverence. Not guilt, exactly—just… sorrow. Her lips move with another whisper I can’t hear, then she sets the creature gently down against the roots of the tree, like it’s being laid to rest.
Our eyes meet.
And gods, there’s something in her expression that stops me. Not shame. Not fear. Just… a kind of quiet grief. Like this wasn’t just a meal, but a reminder of everything she’s trying not to be.
I hold her gaze.
No words. Just a nod.
I understand.
Her eyes are clearer. There's color in her cheeks, faint but there. Life—or something close to it—restored. I don’t ask her how it felt. She doesn’t offer. We just keep walking, side by side.
The silence returns, but now it feels like a shared thing. The trees thin as we step into our makeshift clearing, the dying sun casting a faint glow against the mossy ground.
I drop my pack near the log where I sat earlier, the worn leather landing with a soft thud. Every step of the day sits heavy in my bones—too many hours walking, too many moments watching our backs, waiting for the sound of pursuit that, thank the gods, never came.
Still. I don’t let myself relax. Not entirely.
“We’re keeping a more human schedule now,” I say, glancing toward Aria as I unbuckle my sword belt. “Bet that’s a change for you.”
She hums softly in response, almost to herself. “I don’t mind it.” Tilting her head slightly, she gazes at the slivers of deep indigo sky visible between the trees. “The sun feels… different out here. Softer. I think I almost like it.”
Almost .
Something about that word makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t quite understand, so I busy myself with unbuckling my sword belt, setting it within arm’s reach before easing down to sit against a sturdy oak. Aria sits on the bedroll after a moment of hesitation.
“I’ll keep watch,” Aria volunteers, shifting forward, her posture alert, her eyes scanning the treeline. “You’ve been awake longer than I have. You should rest.”
A part of me wants to argue; it’s part of the nature of my job, after all, to stay vigilant. But exhaustion tugs at my limbs, and a dull ache lodges between my shoulder blades. I think about the last time I truly slept—must’ve been at least two nights ago, maybe more.
I arch an eyebrow at her. “You sure? You’re still…recovering.”
Her mouth thins to a determined line. “I feel much better,” she says quietly, “and if you’re so determined to look after me, then maybe I should return the favor.”
I don’t think anyone’s offered to watch my back in years—not like this. Not without coin on the line. There’s no bluff in her tone, no obligation. Just… intention.
I exhale, slow and quiet, and nod. “All right, Mouse,” I murmur, letting the nickname slip out with a grin that’s softer than I mean it to be. “Keep watch. But wake me if anything seems off. Anything.”
She nods, solemn as a vow. “I will.”
I settle myself at the foot of an oak, drawing my cloak around my shoulders. The bedroll is hers to use, and I’m too damn tired to care about comfort. I’ve slept on worse. Rock, snow, the floor of a jail cell once.
I let my eyes fall shut, but not before I glance at her one more time. She’s seated upright, shoulders squared, face calm but alert. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twitching like she’s ready to move, to strike, to run. She looks like she doesn’t trust the quiet. I get that. I don’t either.
But I’m not alone on watch, not lying with one eye open fearing an ambush. There’s a strange comfort in knowing I’ve got someone—some vampire , ironically—looking out for me too.
Just before sleep claims me, I catch a glimpse of Aria turning her head, watching me with those bright eyes. I wonder if she feels the same fragile trust blooming between us.