CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN #2
The section of crowd off to my left parted as someone made their way towards the center of the clearing.
I forced a steadied exhale that did little to tame my thrumming heartbeat, for I intuitively knew what I was about to see, yet still could not trust my sight when it was Vayen who stepped into the torchlight.
This man’s command of fear rivaled even my father’s, but to see that it was Vayen he spoke of with such vitriol, such disregard?
My throat grew tight with the realization.
Perhaps I should have stayed in the tavern after all.
It was too late for that now, so I took comfort instead in observing her.
Only her profile was visible to me, those downcast eyes obscuring sharp features.
A tailored leather vest clung to her torso, its burgundy shade catching my eye, for there were several others in the crowd who wore the same.
Quite notably, Vayen was without an undershirt.
Honestly, she’s going to catch a cold if she’s not—
But Vayen had begun to roll her neck, breath puffing before her in vaporous clouds, and the thought ended abruptly as my attention skirted down her form.
Those broad shoulders were strong, but not bulky—the perfect preface to toned arms that somehow seemed built for both strength and speed.
I’d noted that line of muscle carving down her forearm before, but the way she flexed her hands served to draw my eye regardless.
Finally, there was the tapered waistline of her vest giving way to dark, fitted pants tucked into even darker boots.
The breath I had inhaled hovered there as I stood captivated by her.
Those arms that had encircled me only hours ago, and the scent of damp wood and moss that I now knew clung to her like a second skin.
The intensity of her gaze, always a single heartbeat from darkening into something too much, too poignant, too real.
Those lips, poised with a sharp word, but perhaps also poised for something more, should the opportunity present itself.
It was as if there was a primal recognition between us, and try as I might to avoid it, the magnetism that seemed to tip the world towards her whenever we neared continued to strengthen.
“There she is!” the man cooed, pulling me from my trance. I barely had a chance to inwardly chastise myself before he added, “And who will be joining you in your sacrifice this evening, my pet?”
Pet?
I wanted to throttle him. How dare he—
Wait. What did he mean her sacrifice? What kind of sacrifice?
The crowd shifted once more, and another familiar face entered the clearing.
Berig. I would recognize that beige behemoth of a man anywhere.
His shaggy blonde hair had been cut since I’d seen him last, though the beard remained.
He matched Vayen, his burgundy leather vest tailored to that hulking form, also foregoing an undershirt, with dark brown pants tucked into the largest boots I’d ever seen.
He was wider than the gaunt man, but even Berig did not reach his towering height.
I quickly took stock of the crowd, searching and searching until I found the contrast I was searching for: strawberry-blonde hair, dark brown skin.
And there she was. Catrin. Praise the stars, she was not wearing the uniform scattered throughout the crowd.
Hopefully that meant she, at the very least, was safe.
I assumed she had followed after Berig to stand at the innermost portion of the crowd, otherwise—given her short stature—she wouldn’t have been able to observe.
But the look on her face gave the impression she would have rather been anywhere but here.
Her brows were locked together, prompting deep creases on her forehead, and the rising of her chest was quick, as if she were unable to take a deep breath.
The fluttering of her jawline and the glistening in her kind brown eyes threatened to break me.
What in the depths was going to happen to them?
“Ah, yes, Berig,” the man said flatly, once more coaxing my attention. He seemed less than thrilled. “Well, that’s rather anticlimactic. Who was it last time?”
“Winifred.” Vayen spoke, but it wasn’t her voice. Instead of that implicit warmth that reminded me of the amber liquid in Father’s coveted bottle, I felt as though I’d been plunged into an ice bath. Her tone was listless. Almost Vacant.
“Winifred!” He clapped his hands together once more, gazing off into the darkened tree line as though in the grips of a fond memory.
“That was quite the battle, wasn’t it? I think I still see some of her remnants in the ground…
” He lifted his leg and stomped his boot back down, causing some dirt to billow around his feet.
My stomach roiled as I recalled my trek with Milo, when I had noticed the reddish color of the dirt in the clearing. Had that been… Winnie’s blood?
“You know who I’d rather see?” the man said suddenly. He cocked his head to the side, attention locked on Vayen’s face as though he intended to witness the entirety of her reaction. “The boy. Where is he? Bring him here.”
My mouth went dry. She wouldn’t have brought him, would she? No, of course not. He must have been stowed away somewhere, hiding, waiting for all of this to be over.
But the way Vayen’s entire body flexed told another story. I imagined it took every bit of her self-control to remain rooted to the spot when she said, “Come.”
Catrin shifted to the side with wide, panicked eyes that only served to magnify the fear weeding through my extremities.
Milo stepped out from behind her, his head held high.
The matching vest he wore all but strangled my breath, it was so small.
His tiny arms had a surprising amount of definition for his age, but standing next to the mountain that was Berig and the lean well of strength that was Vayen, he looked only like the child he was.
His dark hair was disheveled as ever, and just like his companions, he wore dark pants tucked into boots.
“Milo,” the man said in a high-pitched voice, as though he were speaking to a baby.
Milo stared firmly at the ground.
Beside him, Vayen’s arm twitched, and I wondered if she had to resist the urge to wrap it around his shoulders.
“Now, that’s not very polite,” he said with a pout. But a moment later, the unsettling childlike demeanor he’d adopted transformed into that peel-apart smile with wide black eyes. “Greet your uncle properly, boy.”
Uncle? This awful man who seemed to have the entire village under some sort of sinister spell was related to Vayen and Milo?
“Whose story is it?”
“Videa.”
A crawling sensation skittered over my skin as my scars grew warm and itched with remembrance.
I knew firsthand that family did not promise an absence of cruelty, and in that moment, my heart broke for both of them.
I had absolutely no doubt that Vayen bore scars from this man—both physical and mental—and I could only pray to the stars that Milo had been spared thus far.
Milo took a step forward, though he never raised his chin. “Greetings, Uncle Gavner.”
“Greetings, Master Milo. You’re much bigger than the last time I saw you.” Gavner took the pad of his finger and pressed it to the center of his dimpled chin. “How many years are you now?”
“Eleven,” Milo said, though his voice wavered.
“Eleven years?” Gavner’s raised brow and dropped jaw, too exaggerated to be genuine. “I could have sworn to Naeno you were twelve. You know how Uncle Gavner feels about lying, don’t you, Master Milo?”
“He was born eleven years ago, on the twenty-ninth day of spring’s first cycle,” Vayen spat, daring to lift her head and lock gazes with Gavner for the first time since she’d entered the clearing.
Each syllable was laced with venom, and her silver eyes flashed visibly even in their narrowed state.
How Gavner did not pale in reply was beyond me.
“I see.” Gavner hummed beneath his breath, tapping at his chin repeatedly. “What a shame. Not quite old enough for Naeno, then. Unless…”
Vayen’s attention returned to the forest floor, nostrils flaring and eyes going wide.
“…I were guided to make an exception,” Gavner continued with a creased brow and puffed cheeks, as though the choice were a tough and unwelcome one for him to make. “Perhaps the boy is ready to make his first sacrifice! What does everyone think?”
The energy in the crowd shifted. The villagers did not outright look at one another, but I could sense as a collective breath was held.
No one dared to move, to make a sound. I had the distinct impression that Gavner’s question was cruel and rhetorical in equal measure; that instinct did little to quell the fury that sparked in my chest. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs on Milo’s behalf, but I knew better when faced with a man like that.
A man who very much reminded me of my father.
So I remained statue-still, searching desperately for the resilience that had been lashed into me.
I tried to remind myself that Winnie seemed fine, and she had been the last sacrifice, according to Berig.
Even if it was her blood that had been spilled, dyeing the ground a sickening shade of red, she bore no visible scars to prove it…
but why then was Ekko so worried for her life?
A worry that Winnie could not, in good conscience, assuage.
There was no fooling myself in the face of the conversation I’d overheard.
This was life and death, and right now, that malevolent man was deciding whether or not Milo would be the sacrifice.
Precious Milo, with pouches strapped to his chest. Pouches brimming with bugs and herbs and flowers that he knew all the names of, and wouldn’t hesitate to define if given the slightest opportunity.
Milo, the boy who insisted he would be the most famed herbalist in the land, and somehow made me believe it.