11. Aria
Aria
I’m still breathing hard when Roan lunges again. Her strikes are fast, sharp as lightning. My arms ache from blocking, but something in me refuses to stop.
The ground is uneven beneath my bare feet, littered with fallen leaves and damp moss. I remember her words— don’t retreat, move sideways —and shift just before her next strike.
“Better,” Roan grunts, sweeping low with her sword.
I sidestep the blade and dart toward her side. The dagger in my hand feels natural now, more extension than object. My instincts buzz with anticipation.
She pivots with me, sword raised. My heart slams against my ribs.
She’s testing me. I can see it in her eyes: a spark of amusement mixed with calculation.
“Cheat,” I whisper to myself.
I pretend to stumble, letting my shoulder drop. Her gaze flickers toward the opening—and I strike. The hilt of my dagger jabs into her ribs. She grunts and staggers back.
“Nice,” she says, breathless. “Mean little trick.”
“Learned from the best,” I tease.
Roan’s grin is sharp. “That you did.”
We circle each other. My legs burn from the effort of dodging, but I can’t stop now. I don’t want to stop. The heat in my veins isn’t just exertion——it’s the ghost of Roan’s body beneath mine, her eyes dark, mouth parted, like I’d knocked the wind from her lungs and something else right along with it.
Part of me wants to see if I can pin her again.
She lunges, sword angled toward my side. I feint right, but she anticipates it, stepping in close, too close.
Our bodies collide.
The dagger slips from my fingers. Her arm snaps around my waist with instinctual force, dragging me flush against her. My breath catches mid-gasp. The world contracts to the point of contact: her chest against mine, her palm splayed low on my hip, the whisper of her breath brushing my cheek.
“Dead again,” she murmurs, voice pitched low.
I don’t know if she means me or her.
We stay there—locked in place. A heartbeat. Maybe two. My pulse stutters, tangled up in hers. She’s warm and solid and too close, and every nerve in my body lights up like a fuse.
“Roan,” I whisper.
Her name tastes like a question.
She lets go of me like she’s been scorched. The heat of her hand still lingers at my waist. Her jaw tightens, eyes unreadable, all the teasing gone from her face like it was a mask she just peeled off.
“That’s enough for today,” she says briskly. “You did well.”
“Roan—”
But she’s already moving, stooping to retrieve her sword. When she straightens, she doesn’t look at me.
“Let’s cool off. It’s almost dusk.”
She turns, walking toward the stream with sure, quick strides like the trees might swallow her whole if she doesn’t keep moving.
I watch her go, heart pounding in the hollow of my throat. Her words say distance —measured and polite. But her shoulders are stiff, her grip tight around the hilt of her blade.
She’s not cooling off.
She’s running.
And gods help me… I want to chase her.
***
Later that night, the fire crackles between us, its orange glow licking at the damp night air. The scent of burning pine mingles with the loamy tang of the forest floor.
Across the fire, Roan sits with her legs stretched out, back against a fallen stone pillar. Her knife glints as she runs it along the whetstone, the scrape breaking the fragile quiet. Her eyes stay locked on the steel.
She’s been like this for the last hour—silent, coiled like a bowstring. The tension in her jaw, the furrow between her brows...it’s different tonight. Not the wary alertness she always carries, but something deeper. Heavier.
“You always do that when you can’t sleep?” I ask softly.
The blade pauses mid-stroke. Roan’s mouth twitches into something like a smile. “What?”
“Sharpen your weapons.”
“It’s just a habit.” She shrugs, dragging the knife across the stone again. The sound feels louder now, too sharp in the thick stillness.
I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. “Something you learned, or something you can’t let go of?”
The question hangs in the air. The knife slows, then stops. Roan stares at the blade for a long moment, then exhales through her nose.
“Both,” she says.
The fire crackles louder as if leaning into the space between us. Roan’s gaze drifts to the scar on her left forearm. I’ve seen that scar before but never asked about it.
But tonight... tonight feels different.
There’s something in the way her shoulders are set, the way her jaw tenses just slightly, that makes my chest tighten.
I hesitate, then push to my feet, gathering my cloak around me as I cross the short distance between us. The ground is cool beneath me as I settle beside her, close enough that I can see the faint crease in her brow.
“Is this…about earlier?” I ask lightly, nudging my knee against hers. “Am I really that terrible of a student?”
Roan huffs a quiet laugh, dragging the knife along the stone again. “Let’s just say, you’ve got potential. Even if you fight like someone who’s never had to actually win before.”
I scoff, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I had you pinned.”
She pauses mid-motion—just for a beat—then clears her throat, not quite meeting my eyes. “Once . I let you have that one.”
“Oh, let me, did you?” I arch a brow.
Roan glances up at me—and for a second, I think she’s going to say something sharp, something clever like she usually does. Her mouth even quirks like she’s about to smirk, about to fire back with some teasing jab that’ll make me roll my eyes and pretend it doesn’t make my chest flutter.
But the words never come.
Roan doesn’t answer, just keeps working, the scrape of metal filling the quiet between us. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s weighty , like there’s something she’s holding back. I wait, letting the silence stretch, feeling the shift in the air around us.
Then, finally, she exhales, setting the knife down beside her. Her fingers tap against the hilt, once, twice, before stilling.
After another long silence, she says, “I had a partner once. Name was Garrick.”
The words slip out low and unceremonious, like they’ve been waiting in her chest for a long time and finally pushed past her guard.
A story.
It’s the last thing I expect from her now—especially after the shift in her mood, after the way she shut the door between us earlier. But then again… this is our routine, isn’t it? Stories in the quiet. The slow trading of truths like worn coins passed across a firelit table.
So I stay quiet. I don’t move, don’t speak. Just wait.
Her voice is steady but lower than usual, rough around the edges. “We worked together for a couple of years. Simple jobs, mostly—bandit patrols, escort missions, the occasional bounty.”
The idea of Roan working with someone else, fighting alongside someone she trusted, unsettles me in a way I don’t expect. Not with jealousy, exactly. But with a soft ache.
Because Roan doesn’t talk about people. Not like this.
I say nothing, careful not to break the fragile thread of her story.
“He was a good fighter. A good person too. Too good, maybe.” Her lips press into a tight line. “Garrick believed the best in people. Thought he could read anyone. I told him once that trust was a luxury we couldn’t afford.” Her jaw flexes. “He laughed. Said I was too cynical.”
The firelight dances across her face, highlighting the scar along her cheekbone. I resist the urge to move closer. “What happened?” I ask softly.
Roan’s eyes shift to mine. For a moment, I think she won’t answer.
Then she looks back to the fire. “We took a contract protecting a merchant caravan through Dawnreach Pass. Dangerous route. Lots of ambushes.” Her fingers curl over her knee. “The man who hired us was named Thaden Vire. Big smile, smooth voice. Promised us double the going rate if we made it through with all the goods and merchant intact.”
Her mouth twists into something bitter. “Garrick was excited about the coin. I was suspicious from the start. The man smiled too much. Like a gambler who already knew how the dice would fall.”
The air between us cools. The warmth of the fire feels false against the chill tightening in my chest. “What happened?” I ask again, though I’m not sure I want to know.
Roan’s gaze drops to her hands. “Two days into the journey, we hit the pass. Narrow cliffs, only one way through. Perfect spot for an ambush. I kept telling Garrick we should turn back, or at least scout ahead.” Her voice cracks slightly. “But Vire convinced him to press on. Said his scouts had checked the path. Said it was clear.”
Her hands clench into fists on her knees.
“And it wasn’t,” I whisper.
“No.” Her eyes lift, sharp and cold. “We walked into a trap. Bandits came down from the cliffs, arrows raining on us from both sides. Horses panicked. The caravan splintered. Garrick and I fought back-to-back, cutting through them as best we could.”
I can see it in my mind—Roan, sword flashing, surrounded by chaos. And beside her, someone I’ll never know.
“We were holding our own,” she continues. “Until Garrick went down. I heard him hit the ground. Turned in time to see them dragging him toward the tree line.”
Her throat works as she swallows.
“I went after him. Cut through five of them before I saw him. ” Her voice turns sharp, brittle. “Vire. Standing on the ridge above us. Watching it all. Never lifted a finger. Just smiled and turned away.”
My pulse races. “He set you up?”
“Yeah. The cargo we were guarding? Empty crates. The merchant? One of Vire’s men. The caravan was bait. Garrick and I were the real prize.” Her lips curl in disgust. “Turns out the crew we’d stopped a few months earlier had put a bounty on our heads. Vire cashed in.”
The fire crackles. I feel its heat against my face, but the rest of me has gone cold. “Did you find Garrick?”
Roan nods slowly. “I got to him right after they slit his throat.” Her voice fractures on the last word, and she looks away.
I suck in a shaky breath. “Gods.”
“I buried him there.” Her eyes shimmer faintly in the firelight. “Used his sword to dig the grave.”
I reach out, hesitating only for a breath before my fingers find her hand. It’s warm, solid beneath mine, rough with callouses. A warrior’s hand. A survivor’s hand. I give it a gentle squeeze, hoping she knows I mean it, that I see her.
Roan goes still. Her fingers twitch beneath mine, just the slightest movement, like she isn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. For a moment, she doesn’t look at me—her gaze fixed on the fire, the glow flickering in her dark eyes. Then, with a slow inhale, she turns her hand over, her calloused palm pressing lightly against mine before she lets go.
Her jaw flexes. “I should’ve seen it coming. I knew Vire was trouble. Garrick trusted me to watch his back.”
“You did,” I say fiercely. “You fought for him.”
“Not fast enough.” She swipes a hand over her face. “After that, I stopped taking partners for a while. Figured it was safer that way.”
The weight of those words sinks in. I’ve wondered why Roan is so guarded, why she always looks over her shoulder. Now I know.
I shift, moving around the fire to sit beside her. I don’t touch her again—just sit there, close enough for warmth to bleed through the inches between us.
“You let me stay,” I murmur.
Roan exhales a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Didn’t have much of a choice. You were half-dead when I found you.”
“Is that really the reason?”
She hesitates, eyes locked on the fire. “You’re different.”
The words settle in my chest like a fragile, precious thing.
“How?”
“I don’t know.” Her fingers graze the scar on her forearm. “You don’t feel like a job. Or a mistake.”
My breath catches. The moment stretches, unspoken possibilities threading through the air.
The fire pops, sending a spark skyward.
Roan shifts, clearing her throat. “Anyway. Garrick was the last real partner I had.”
My heart aches for her—for what she lost, for how she still carries it.
“What about Vire?” I ask.
“I killed him.”
The fire crackles, but the world around us stills. I stare at her, expecting guilt, hesitation— something —but Roan’s face is unreadable, locked behind that familiar steel she wears like armor.
“You—” My throat tightens. “You found him?”
Roan nods once, her eyes dark, distant. “Years ago. He thought I wouldn’t come for him. Thought he’d slip away into some cushy contract under a different name.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “I made sure he knew he was wrong.”
I search her expression, waiting for regret, but there is none. Not even relief.
“How?” I whisper, though I’m not sure I want to know.
Roan exhales through her nose, tilting her head back slightly as if weighing how much to say. “It wasn’t quick.” A pause. “It wasn’t clean.”
A shiver runs through me—not from fear, but from the sheer finality in her voice. She’s done what needed to be done, and she hasn’t looked back.
I swallow, my pulse uneven, then say, “I’ve killed people too.”
Roan’s gaze sharpens, but she doesn’t speak. She just waits.
“Not for revenge,” I murmur, my voice quieter than before. “Not for anything as justified as what Vire did to you. I’ve killed people simply because they existed. Because…it was what was expected of me.”
The fire flickers between us, casting moving shadows over her face. When Roan finally speaks, her voice is softer than I expect.
“Did you want to?”
A breath shudders out of me. I shake my head. “No.”
She watches me, her expression unreadable, and then, slowly, she reaches out. Her fingers brush over the back of my hand—tentative, uncertain. I turn my palm upward and lace my fingers through hers.
For a long time, we sit like that, staring into the flames, quiet but comforted by each other.
At some point, my body sags against her. I don’t remember deciding to lean into her warmth, don’t remember when my head finds the solid curve of her shoulder. But I do remember the steady rise and fall of her breath, the way she doesn’t move away.
And for the first time in a long time, I sleep deeply.