Chapter 21 #3
Before he could say anything else, before that look could turn into a conversation she didn’t want, she exhaled and rolled her shoulders once, loosening the last of the tension.
“Now I understand why fighting in a dress wasn’t practical,” she said, brushing dirt off her torn robe with exaggerated dignity, even as her fingers trembled slightly against the fabric.
Rell blinked, then his mouth curved into that stupid, pleased little smirk that simultaneously infuriated her and threatened to soften something inside her.
“I told you,” he said. “I’m usually right.”
She fought the urge to smile.
He continued, his voice dipping lower, teasing.
“Though given your current choice of attire—” his eyes flicked meaningfully to the leaf-woven Al’teran garment peeking out beneath the robe— “you seem to prefer no pants at all.”
Heat flared hot and immediate along her cheeks.
She did not dignify that with a response.
Instead, she turned away from Rell toward Marcus, who sat propped against a tree trunk. His fingers traced the fresh bandage at his throat, wincing as he swallowed.
Rowan’s hands hovered an inch from the white gauze, eyes narrowed in assessment. “The bleeding’s stopped. No permanent damage.”
Nevin snorted, kicking a pinecone toward Marcus’s boot. “Shame.”
Marcus’s middle finger shot up in response.
Rell’s boots crunched through the undergrowth as he circled the clearing, scanning the treeline. “We need to move.” His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, thumb rubbing the worn leather grip. “Now.”
“I just had a knife at my throat,” Marcus whined, head lolling back against the bark.
“And there could be twenty more waiting.” Rell’s jaw tightened as a distant bird call echoed through the trees. “Empire patrols sweep these woods constantly.”
Marcus’s lips formed a silent curse as Rowan and Nevin each grabbed an arm, hauling him upright. His knees buckled before locking.
Rell’s eyes darted between shadows, muscles coiled tight as he positioned himself between the forest and Elora for the walk back.
The rest of the drive passed in a weary blur of trees and uneven road, the sun dipping low behind the jagged peaks as Aszona finally crept into view.
The city rose like a dark, sprawling beast on the horizon—sharp rooftops, metal-paneled walls, and the unmistakable silhouettes of Empire patrols sweeping along the outer perimeter.
Rell did not drive toward the city gates.
Instead, he veered off onto a narrow gravel road Elora never would’ve noticed if she were flying overhead. It was half-concealed by a curtain of dead branches and tall grass. The farther they went, the rougher and more overgrown the path became.
“Shortcut,” Rell said.
That was an understatement.
The road wound behind a line of ancient oaks, offering just enough shadow to hide them from distant patrol eyes. As they dipped toward the valley floor, an old barn came into view—weather beaten, with missing planks and a sagging roof.
Nevin hopped out and shoved the barn doors open with a grunt. Rell eased the motorcar inside, the scent of old hay and oil hitting Elora as the shadows swallowed them.
Rell motioned for her to follow. “Come on. HQ is this way.”
He led the group toward the very back of the barn, where a sliding wooden panel revealed a solid metal door reinforced with dark iron. He turned the wheel-lock with a grunt and pulled it open.
The darkness beyond was not a tunnel or a passage.
It was a closet.
Elora nearly walked into a shelf of folded linens before her eyes adjusted, her boot catching the edge of a wooden crate stacked low on the floor.
The smell hit her first: cedar and dust and something faintly floral, dried lavender tucked between stacks of pressed cloth.
She put her hand out, and her fingers brushed soft fabric, bolts of it, rolled and standing upright in neat rows.
Behind her, Rell squeezed through the door frame, then Rowan, then the others, each one blinking against the dimness. Marcus bumped into a shelf and caught it before anything fell, shooting a panicked look at the ceiling as if the sound might bring soldiers through the walls.
Rell pressed the door closed behind them with a careful click.
A thin strip of light ran along the floor ahead. Another door, this one ordinary, with a simple iron latch and a gap at the bottom wide enough to see movement on the other side.
Rell reached past her and lifted the latch.
The room beyond was unremarkable in every way that mattered.
A dry goods shop—shelves lined with clay jars and wax-sealed bottles, a glass counter displaying small tools and folded papers, a scuffed wooden floor worn pale at the center from years of foot traffic.
Two customers moved along the back shelves with the unhurried browsing of people who had nowhere pressing to be.
A young woman behind the counter glanced up from the ledger she was scratching figures into, registered them with the same mild disinterest she’d have given a draft from an open window, and looked back down.
They moved through the shop to the front door and stepped out onto the cobblestone streets of Aszona.