19. Aria
Aria
I stand in the heavy silence, heart pounding in my ears as I stare at the scattered enforcers on the ground. It takes a moment for me to realize we’re still alive, still standing.
My legs feel like water, and my fingers tremble from the rush of power that coursed through me a moment ago.
I stabbed someone.
Not just anyone— Maelric. One of my mother’s most loyal enforcers. I remember him from the estate halls—always silent, always watching. Cruel in the quiet way, the kind that didn’t need to raise his voice to make you flinch. He was the one who punished the bloodslave I refused to hurt. I can still hear his screams.
And now Maelric's bleeding because of me.
The weight of the dagger still lingers in my grip, my palm sticky with his blood.
I did that.
I hurt him.
I can’t decide if I’m horrified or proud.
Roan, blood beading on her forearm, shifts her stance. Her blade is still in her hand, but her grip has loosened slightly now that no one's attacking. She scans the bodies on the ground, sharp eyes flicking between them. I watch as one of the fallen enforcers stirs, a pained groan slipping from his lips.
“They’re not dead,” I murmur.
Roan glances at me, then at the man I stabbed, watching as his chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. A muscle feathers in her jaw.
“How do we make sure they stay down?” she asks. Her voice is flat, but I hear what she isn’t saying. Do we kill them? If so, how?
I swallow hard. “The quickest way is fire,” I say. “Or beheading. But blood loss will kill as well.”
Roan’s expression doesn’t shift, but something unreadable flickers in her eyes. Her grip tightens slightly on her sword, her gaze sweeping across the bloodied bodies again. For a long, breathless moment, she doesn’t move. Just stands there—still as stone, eyes sharp and distant, as if she’s already ten steps ahead.
Calculating.
The sight twists something low in my stomach. She’s weighing lives. Outcomes. Risks.
“They’ll wake up,” she mutters finally, almost to herself. “And they’ll come after us.”
I know she’s right. But…
My eyes drop to Maelric. He’s still unconscious, blood seeping from him. He crumpled with a sound I’ll never forget.
I stare at him now, this unconscious weapon shaped by the same hands that shaped me. And for all my fear, all my anger—I don’t feel relief. Just… hollow.
This could’ve been me, a voice whispers inside.
It almost was .
I force myself to breathe. “If we kill them, others will come looking,” I say, voice tight. “They always do.”
Roan exhales sharply through her nose. I can tell she doesn’t like it. But after a beat, she nods. “Fine. But we’re not leaving empty-handed.” She gestures toward the fallen enforcers. “Grab what you can.”
Relief floods through me, sharp and dizzying—but it doesn’t last. It never does. Unease creeps in just as fast, curling cold around my ribs.
Looting them?
The thought turns my stomach, but I don’t argue. Roan’s right. We need supplies—whatever we can carry. It’s survival now. Clean hands are a luxury I can’t afford.
Ignoring Maelric, I step past him, over a fallen branch, the forest floor damp and soft beneath my feet. My bare feet. I’d almost forgotten how cold they were until now.
The first enforcer I reach is a woman, maybe a few years older than me, sprawled on her side. Her gloved hand lies open beside her, fingers slack, a dagger resting inches away. I hesitate, breath catching in my throat, then reach out and close my fingers around the hilt. It’s lighter than I expect. I slide it into my belt.
Her pouch is small but heavy—I unfasten it with quick, fumbling fingers and tie it to my own, trying not to think too hard about it. Just things. Just tools. Just survival.
Then I pause.
My gaze flicks down from the pouch to her boots. Sturdy. Well-worn. My eyes travel from her feet to mine—filthy, blood-smeared, scraped raw from days of walking without shoes. I’d lost mine fleeing the estate. I hadn’t stopped moving since.
She’s about my size.
I bite down hard on the taste rising in my throat and reach for her laces.
The leather is stiff, stained dark, but they fit. Not perfectly, but close enough. The warmth of them feels wrong—someone else’s—but necessary. I don’t let myself hesitate.
Across the clearing, Roan crouches beside another enforcer, her expression grim. She moves with purpose, tugging a purse of gold from his belt, then rifling through his coat pockets in quick, practiced motions. There’s nothing mercenary in her face—no satisfaction, no cruelty. Just the cold efficiency of someone who’s had to do this before. Who knows what survival costs.
“Anything useful?” I ask.
She tucks the purse into her coat. “Coin. A couple of knives. Some flint.” She nudges one of the fallen men with the toe of her boot. He groans in response, face pale. “Nothing else worth carrying.”
We don’t bother with anything more. No sense in weighing ourselves down.
Roan steps back, surveying the unconscious enforcers one last time before her gaze flicks to mine. We need to move.
We’re not out of this yet.
Within moments, we’re on the move, slipping away from the bodies and into the cover of thicker trees, back toward camp. The scent of blood follow us. Roan’s wounded. That gash on her arm could get infected if we don’t clean it soon.
The sound of rushing water reaches my ears before I spot it—our narrow stream, winding in a gentle curve through moss-covered stones. I breathe a shaky sigh of relief.
I glance at Roan. She’s favoring her injured arm, her movements a little stiffer than usual, but she doesn’t complain. I don’t think she ever does.
“Sit,” I murmur, nodding toward a fallen log near the edge of the bank. “Just for a moment. Otherwise, they’ll wake and follow your scent.”
She hesitates, scanning the area for threats before finally lowering herself onto the rough bark. Even injured, she keeps her sword within reach, her eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. Always ready. Always on edge.
I kneel beside her, reaching for the scrap of cloth she’s been pressing to her arm. “Can I see?”
“It's only a scratch,” she grumbles, but she doesn’t stop me when I peel the fabric away.
The wound is shallow but jagged, blood seeping sluggishly from the torn skin. The edges are raw and inflamed. My stomach tightens. This is my fault. If not for me, she wouldn’t have had to fight those enforcers.
I dip a strip of cloth into the stream, the cold stinging my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice catching in my throat.
Roan watches me, dark eyes unreadable. “You don’t have to be,” she mutters, but there’s a flicker of tension at the corner of her mouth, betraying the pain she won’t acknowledge.
Carefully, I press the damp cloth to her wound. She hisses between her teeth, her whole body flinching.
“Oh, for—Roan, hold still,” I chide, biting back a smirk.
She exhales sharply. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
I arch a brow. “Oh yes, inflicting pain is my new favorite pastime.”
She grunts, but the corner of her mouth twitches—just slightly. The sight of it makes something warm settle low in my stomach.
We fall into a silence thick with something unspoken as I clean the wound, my fingers careful, precise. Too careful, maybe. She’s warm beneath my touch, her skin fever-hot where my knuckles brush against hers.
Her voice cuts through the quiet. “You alright? You… looked different back there.”
I freeze for half a second before forcing myself to focus on her arm. “I guess…” I swallow, choosing my words carefully. “I forget what I’m capable of sometimes.”
The memory flashes behind my eyes—the way my strength surged before I even realized what I was doing, how easily I sank my blade into flesh. How easy it was.
Roan studies me, her gaze sharp, assessing. “Does it scare you?”
“Yes,” I admit, barely above a whisper.
A beat of silence. Then, her uninjured hand reaches out, steadying my trembling fingers. Her thumb brushes against my wrist—just once, just enough. A grounding touch.
“Better that it scares you,” she says quietly. “Means you’re not like them.”
Something in my chest twists. Her faith in me—her certainty—steals my breath.
I blink rapidly, pushing the lump in my throat aside. “All I wanted was to leave that life,” I murmur, dipping the cloth back into the stream. “I never wanted to hurt anyone—human or vampire. I just… wanted peace. Somewhere I can exist without looking over my shoulder every second.”
Roan nods, letting that confession settle between us. The breeze rustles through the canopy, sending ripples through the water.
“Peace,” she finally says, as if testing the word. “Elden Hollow’s not far from here. If we can slip in quietly, we could gather supplies, maybe find a place to lie low for a while.”
I glance at her, uncertain. “A town? With people? Are you certain that’s wise?”
She offers a wry smile. “It’s a risk. But staying out here doesn’t seem safer. They’ll keep coming.”
Elden Hollow. The thought of a town makes my stomach tighten—crowds, too many heartbeats in one place, the scent of warm blood filling the air. But it also means shelter, anonymity. A place to vanish.
“Alright,” I say softly, wringing out the cloth and pressing it one final time against her wound. “Then… we go to Elden Hollow. Together.”
She exhales, nodding once. Together. The word hums between us, settling into something weighty, something solid.
I wrap her arm as best I can, fingers lingering a little too long as I tie the bandage in place. Her skin is warm beneath mine, rough with old scars, but she doesn’t pull away.
I glance up, expecting her usual stoicism, but her eyes are already on me—watching, unreadable. The space between us feels smaller than it should.
She swallows. I do too.
I should let go.
“Done,” I murmur, forcing myself to pull my hands away.
“Good,” she says, just a little too quickly, shifting back. “You’re almost professional at that.”
“Oh?” I smirk. “If that’s the case, perhaps I should charge you for my services?”
Roan snorts. “You want coin, Mouse?”
I huff a laugh, but something about the way she looks at me lingers.
The tension sits too thick, too heavy in the air. So I break it first—rising to my feet, brushing the dirt from my palms.
“Let’s pack quickly,” I say, already turning toward the tree line.
But my heart is still thrumming, and my fingers still burn where I touched her.
Because for the first time in a long while, I’m not just running.
I’m falling.