CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
They reached the village of Acre in the early afternoon, finding an acceptable inn before Evylin and Deckard left for Hewitt’s grave, which was a short ride away.
Uncharacteristically, Hewitt requested to say one last goodbye to the troop.
So they gathered in Thom, Rafferty, and Brea’s room (the inn didn’t have enough rooms for Brea to sleep on her own), everyone cluttering up the small space.
As Vayden, Isla, and Brea had never known Hewitt well, they excused themselves from the meeting, relaxing in the tavern on the main floor of the inn to provide a more private farewell for the troop.
Now, Rafferty sat on the footboard of one of the single beds, Thom at his side. Ethenn and Ilain stood together near the far wall. Evylin fought the rising tears in her throat while Deckard took the Night Relic from his brother.
Hewitt’s ghost became visible, looking like the military legend he’d always been—broad shoulders bound in his Order of the King coat, beard growing scraggly after weeks of travel, and those steel-gray eyes that caught everything.
“All right,” Hewitt said, his bushy brow raised as he surveyed the troop. “This isn’t going to be an emotional farewell. I have a few things to say, and that will be that.”
Hewitt turned to Ilain and Ethenn. “First,” he said, gruff voice softening, “I’d like to offer my condolences to you, Highlady.
As someone who lost their family, I’d advise you to take comfort in those around you.
If I’d have allowed myself to do the same, I wouldn’t have ended up a bitter old man. ”
He paused, then added, “I wish I’d had the chance to tell your brother myself, but I appreciated his dedication to his craft. It was impressive, even if I don’t care for magic.”
An airy chuckle escaped Ilain, and her gaze grew glassy. “Thank you,” she said.
“And take care of this one,” Hewitt said, gesturing to Ethenn. “He seems docile, but he’s even more dangerous than you. He needs your love, not your cunning. Remember that.”
Hewitt turned from Ilain before she could reply.
He faced his pupils—Ethenn, Rafferty, and Thom—with the steady stare of an officer.
“You lot,” he began, the growl back in his voice.
“Remember what I taught you. You’re my chosen team—not Deckard’s, not the bloody King of Ephria’s, not this damn Alliance’s.
Mine. You look out for one another and listen to Evylin and Deckard. Got it?”
The three men shared a proud look before saying together, “Yes, sir.”
Hewitt turned to Thom alone then. “Remember,” he said, “your purpose is whatever you make it; just make sure it’s a worthy one.”
Thom’s shoulders drew back, accepting the charge. “I swear,” he said, a slight tremble in his voice, “I will make you proud.”
With a grunt and a small grin, Hewitt nodded. He scanned the gathered members of the troop once more, and though his expression remained as impassive as ever, Evylin could see the softness in his gaze. Then he turned to Evylin and Deckard. “Let’s go,” he said.
The ride to the site of the grave was quiet.
They chose to take one horse to allow the others to rest as much as possible before another hard day’s ride.
Evylin sat behind Deckard, her arms around his waist. It wasn’t the most comfortable ride, and she could still feel his tension at her touch, but the trip was short.
Only an hour later, they slowed to take in the forest between Acre and Virwoud.
Evylin tapped into her magic, scanning the tree line.
Despite knowing the general location of their old camp, the seasons had changed the landscape dramatically.
Lush green leaves clung to the branches, dancing gently in the wind.
The late afternoon sun was golden, casting languid shadows across the grass.
Their memories could only serve them so much.
With the Space Relic around her neck, she found her focus easily.
She worried she’d start relying on the Relic too much, but she was grateful for it as her hands trembled at the task before them.
She meant what she’d told Deckard the previous day; she would be all right without Hewitt.
But that didn’t lessen her desire to keep him by her side.
“It’s another fifty paces up,” Evylin said, pointing toward the entrance to the woods.
Deckard guided the horse off the road. They dismounted and led the horse into the trees.
Almost two months ago, they’d camped within these woods.
Yet now, it looked like an entirely separate land.
Bright green growth filled the terrae. Woodland creatures darted through the trees and underbrush.
Birds called their songs to one another.
If Evylin wasn’t using her magic to guide them, she might have thought they were in the wrong place.
But she could also smell the subtlest decay of an old campfire and the charred remains of their attackers. It was a foul means of tracking, but it was all she had.
Her breath caught as they stepped into the clearing.
The barren camp appeared haunted. One tent remained, almost entirely burned to ash.
Burgeoning flora had already begun to reclaim it.
The vacant firepit’s rocks were scattered from her scuffle with one of the swordsmen who’d attacked them.
What few camp supplies remained lay strewn across the dirt and grass.
They’d scavenged what they needed but chose to leave behind the rest, as Hewitt’s death tainted it all.
Evylin’s memories plagued her. She chewed on her lip, fighting them back. She didn’t want to remember Hewitt’s broken body. Yet, her imagination assailed her with the vision of his dead form—cold, rigid, and swiftly turning a sickly green. Her knees weakened, but she remained staunchly upright.
Deckard stood at her side, his fingers finding hers. He didn’t speak, but she could feel his sorrow wrapping around him like a wool cloak too.
“This is bloody depressing,” Hewitt’s ghost said, appearing suddenly.
An unbidden breathy laugh escaped Evylin.
“Come on,” Hewitt said with an unusual gentleness. “You can mourn me on the way to my grave.”
Deckard hobbled the horse, not wanting to lead it deeper through the thick trees.
They began their trek, stepping over roots and rocks.
Evylin’s heart felt as tangled as the underbrush around them.
She didn’t bother stopping her tears or bearing up under her sorrow.
She let herself mourn, knowing that this would truly be her final goodbye.
Shafts of yellow sunlight streamed through the treetops, creating a haven within the hollow of Hewitt’s grave. The mound lay to the far side, covered in a thick coating of lush green and ivory everbloom ivy. Evylin gasped at the scene. It was beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.
“You did a good job,” Hewitt said as they halted at the hollow’s edge. “This is a peaceful place.”
Pulling in a slow, staggered breath, Deckard muttered his response brokenly. “I’m glad you like it.”
Evylin looked up to see his eyes rimmed in glassy tears, though he held them at bay. His jaw was hard, and his hands were fisted at his sides. She rubbed his arm, offering an encouraging smile, though she doubted its strength.
Deckard’s eyes met hers, a sea of blue and green, blending and shifting together. “I’ll give you a moment alone if you’d like.”
Evylin shook her head. “Stay with me,” she whispered.
Together, they walked to Hewitt’s graveside.
The ghost took in the ivy patch. “Is this the Fire Mage’s work?”
“Only in part,” Evylin said. “I took an everbloom from Ryen’s grave and laid it to rest here with you. It seems her magic brought it back to life.”
“Mm.” Hewitt drew in a long, emotion-filled breath. “That’s good.”
He turned to them. “This is it,” he said with decided assurance. “I will sleep and find rest. Perhaps if the stories are right, I’ll wake in the Heavens and be reunited with my family. Either way, I’ll be at peace.”
Evylin’s throat grew painfully raw. Her chest tightened with a well of more tears.
Deckard kept his head high, but she could feel the tension leaking out of him as he fought his grief.
Hewitt’s steely eyes swept over them fondly. “Don’t miss me,” he ordered. “Live your lives and know that I’m proud of you. Both of you.”
They bore up under his charge.
“Evie,” his lips lifted in the smile he only gave her, “if I couldn’t have my son by my side in this life, there was none but you I’d ask to take his place. The woman you’ve become is more than I ever imagined. I will always be thankful you chose me. I only wish I could have deserved your love.”
“You did,” Evylin sobbed. “I couldn’t have loved you more.”
Flexing his hand as though wishing to wipe away her tears, Hewitt shared her sad smile. “But I could have been better to you. I should have been better.”
“You were everything I wanted.”
Hewitt dipped his head, accepting her words. He turned to Deckard. “She chose you, but so did I,” he said. “Remember that. She’s yours because she chose you. But I gave her to you because I knew you’d take care of her the way she needed—even more than I could. Never forget that.”
“I swear to you,” Deckard said thickly, “I will do whatever I must—whatever it takes—to be sure she has the life she deserves. Just as you charged.”
With a step closer, Hewitt glared at him. “I chose you because of who you are,” he growled. “If you sacrifice the man you truly desire to become, you can’t be the man she needs. Do you understand?”
Deckard lifted his chin, expression pinched. But he gave a swift nod of acceptance.
Hewitt glanced at the grave. His lips pursed. “One more thing,” he murmured as though convincing himself. He turned to Evylin. “He’s yours. Don’t take that lightly. I could never have entrusted you to someone less than him. Care for him the way he cares for you. He deserves that too.”
“I know,” Evylin promised, leaning into Deckard. “I will.”
Hewitt smiled softly, then reluctantly said, “I’m ready.”
Evylin could feel her husband holding his breath as he straightened. Her heart jolted with sudden panic. “Wait,” she said, gripping his arm. “Wait, I—I’m not ready.”
Both men looked at her with sadness.
“I have to go, my dear,” Hewitt said. “Sooner or later.”
Evylin nodded through her tears. She stepped up to him, holding his deep gray stare. “I have to know,” she whispered.
“Know what?”
“I need your help,” she confessed. “One last time, I need your advice.”
Hewitt dipped his chin, listening.
“I’ve lost who I am,” she said. “For so long, my life was Ryen’s—living for the dream we’d promised to share. But now . . . I’ve done it. Yet, it doesn’t feel anything like what I hoped it would. What do I do?”
Her uncle’s gaze was gentle and affectionate. “I can’t decide that for you.”
“I’m not asking you to,” she promised. “I just need to know: This life—this adventure—there are moments of joy and adrenaline and excitement. It’s thrilling, and it makes me feel alive. But then there are these moments.” The words caught with her tears. “Moments of pure agony and pain.”
Evylin took a sharp breath in to get her last words out. “I can’t stand it,” she whispered. “There’s too much death.”
Hewitt sighed as he appraised her. He beckoned to Deckard, who readily slipped his arm around Evylin’s shoulder, enfolding her into his comforting embrace.
“Listen to me, Evie,” Hewitt said, the growl of his voice tender. “Death is everywhere. It’s here in these woods, and it reaches back to Whickam Village. Ryen died at home in his own bed. Adventure no more guarantees death than mundanity guarantees safety. Nowhere is safe.”
The unpleasant answer carved another layer of uncertainty within her. Wherever Evylin went, whatever she did, it didn’t matter. Death was inevitable. Loss was inevitable. So was the choice truly up to her? Was “more” really whatever she wanted it to be?
Blinking away her tears, Evylin looked up at her uncle, memorizing each line in his face for the last time. “You once told me that everyone has their own definition of what is more and what is less. That the knowledge is innate within us.”
“I remember,” he said.
“What was your ‘more’?”
Hewitt’s eyes crinkled softly. A broad smile brightened his face. She hadn’t seen him smile like that since Ryen’s death. He reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek without touch. “You were,” he said.
Evylin’s breath caught. She’d been Hewitt’s “more.” Life was enough for him if she was in it. So simple.
“Are you ready now?” Hewitt asked.
Grimacing from the joy and sorrow twisting in her chest, Evylin nodded.
Hewitt took a step back, looking at Deckard. “So am I.”
Arms tightening around her, Deckard’s breath grew rapid as though with fear. “Thank you,” he said, “for everything.”
“Thank you,” Hewitt replied. “You were more than I expected. Goodbye.”
Deckard whispered his farewell, and Hewitt turned to Evylin. “Goodbye, my Evie.”
Evylin’s voice caught as she held Hewitt’s steady stare. His unruly beard was no longer singed by the forge but scraggly from travel. His brawny arms hung at his sides, tight under his wool coat. He was now everything she would always remember him being.
“I will always love you,” Evylin whispered.
Hewitt’s eyes shone. “And I, you.”
“Goodbye.”
A wave of heat rolled through Evylin, a flash that coursed across her skin. Deckard’s breath sharpened, then steadied. The Night Relic beamed its deep purple around his neck, his coat open to the warm spring evening.
While Evylin held her uncle’s gaze, a shadow crossed over them, causing his form to thin. Hewitt’s ghost faded, then dissipated altogether, the fading of his presence like the trailing off of a whisper.
Deckard pressed a kiss to the top of Evylin’s head. “He’s gone,” he whispered, pulling her closer.
“I know,” Evylin heard herself say.
Her whole body was numb, her heart too sore to feel anything but emptiness.
In the midst of the hollow, staring at Hewitt’s ivy-covered grave, she rested in her husband’s embrace.
Despite their sorrow, a gentle peace radiated through them.
Despite the heartbreak of knowing she’d never see Hewitt again, Evylin knew she’d be all right.
And she knew, however the afterlife looked, Hewitt was now embracing his wife and son.