Chapter 27 Keeping His Word
REEDAV SHIFTED BENEATH Alar, snorting and tossing his head. Alar leaned forward and stroked the stag’s muscular neck with firm, steady pressure. “Easy,” he murmured. “We’ll move when I say.”
The stag settled. Barely. His muscles still coiled like springs ready to release.
Alar understood the feeling. They couldn’t linger here, not with the full moon so close. Nonetheless, for him, something else made him restless this morning.
Foreboding had woken him well before dawn—a cold certainty lodged behind his ribs like a blade. He’d lain there by the dying hearth, watching the embers pulse and fade, knowing something was about to go catastrophically wrong.
Then he’d remembered.
Something already had.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Apologizing to Lara had been a mistake—what had he been thinking?
The need had been building for days, a constant pressure under his breastbone, gnawing at him until he couldn’t think straight.
But giving in had led to an encounter that would haunt him until his last breath.
He was to blame. She’d initiated it—pulled him close, kissed him first. She’d made it clear what she wanted. But a better man would have stopped it, would have told her she’d regret it afterward. She would have been angry then, aye. But grateful later, once the madness of lust burned itself out.
He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose hard. But he wasn’t a better man. That was the core of it. And he’d never stop wanting her.
Behind him, the others were mounting up—horses, elks, and stags stamping, leather creaking, low voices murmuring farewells. Duana and Eithne stood at the edge of the walkway, wrapped in borrowed cloaks against the morning chill.
Alar stayed where he was. It wasn’t him they’d come to see.
Roth moved forward and bent his head close to Duana’s. Whatever he whispered made color rise in her cheeks. She nodded, shy and pleased at once.
Beyond them, a cluster of crannog-dwellers had gathered at the walkway’s end.
Connor stood among them, worry carved into the grooves around his mouth.
The whole settlement had that look now—shadows under eyes, mouths pressed thin, the hunted wariness of people waiting for the next blow to fall.
Life had grown brutal at Crask. But Lara had given them something: hope that the darkness closing in might finally end.
Reedav snorted again, tossing his head.
“Very well, lad.” Alar let the stag move forward. Someone had to lead. It might as well be him. He’d deliberately left the roundhouse before Lara emerged from her alcove this morning—he couldn’t face her, couldn’t trust himself not to—
He cut the thought off. He’d keep his word. He wouldn’t approach her again.
He urged Reedav to the front of the group, past Ravens on their elks and stags, past Vyr adjusting the weapons belt slung across his chest, past where Cailean and Bree whispered together. They all fell in behind him.
To the east, the last of the Goatfells reared up, their jagged tips catching the pale morning sun.
To the north—their destination—the mountains of Darkmere rose like a wall against the sky.
Alar’s gaze lingered on those high-domed summits.
Bleak country. Few Marav ventured that far into the northwest Uplands.
It had brutal weather year-round: floods in summer, avalanches in winter.
Nothing grew up there but tough grasses and lichen clinging to bare rock.
Only the Shee traveled there regularly, slipping in and out of Darkmere barrow like ghosts.
They left Loch Glass behind, riding into a steep-sided glen that carved north through the hills. A burn wound along the bottom, clear water bubbling over pale stones. The mist pulled back as they rode, but the clouds pressed lower, a grey ceiling bearing down.
After an hour, a wind kicked up—sharp, high-pitched, cutting through cloaks and tunics as if they were paper. The Whistle.
Alar pulled his borrowed cloak tighter. The wool helped against the cold biting at his face and hands. But it couldn’t touch the ice lodged in his gut.
Nothing would.
He glanced back once—just once—to check everyone was following. His gaze skipped over Roth, just behind him. Over Bree and Cailean, and Annis, Ren, and Ruari hunched against the wind, and the Ravens riding in tight formation around Mor.
It found Lara.
She sat straight on Bracken’s bare back despite the cold, chin lifted, eyes fixed ahead. Not looking at him. Deliberately not looking at him.
Good. And it was good. It was what they both needed.
Alar turned back to the path ahead, shoulders squared, and led them deeper into the North.
“There are cries on the air.”
Lara’s hands froze mid-motion, a stick halfway to the flames. She looked up.
Bree stood motionless, head tilted back, eyes scanning the darkening sky. Her body had gone still—the hunter’s stillness that meant danger.
“The Slew?” Lara’s voice came out hoarse. She dropped the stick, her fingers flexing.
Bree shook her head slowly. “No shrieking. Not yet.”
“It’s The Gaulas again.” Mor approached the fire, her boots crunching on the sparse grass. She’d just finished tethering Dorka—Lara could hear the clag-doo’s low growl behind them as she tore into a hare carcass. “Look north. The sky’s turned pink.”
She was right. The raw cold that had been flaying their skin all day had pulled back. The air felt wrong now. Too mild.
Lara twisted around to see for herself.
The northern sky had gone dusky rose, bruised at the edges. Beautiful, but beneath that beauty, voices tumbled over each other, worming their way into her ears.
You’re pining for him, aren’t you?
Her stomach turned to stone.
You’re playing straight into his hands.
Her spine went rigid. She forced herself to turn back to the fire, to the circle of faces watching the sky with varying degrees of dread. “Aye,” she said. Her voice came out flat. “It’s The Gaulas.”
Bree muttered something—a prayer or a curse, Lara couldn’t tell. Beside her, Cailean’s face had hardened. “We’ve got a rough night ahead then.”
“I’ll take my turn warding the camp.” Vyr dumped an armload of dusty whin next to the firepit.
“As will I,” Ren assured them, her sharp-featured face tight with determination.
Lara nodded, relief washing through her chest. She felt brittle tonight—stretched too thin, ready to snap.
The fever had come back at dawn. She’d spent the morning caught between shivering and sweating, her body unable to decide whether to freeze or burn.
By noon, it had receded, leaving her wrung out like a wet cloth.
Then she’d lost time again. Most of the afternoon on this occasion—just gone, swallowed by a blank space in her memory.
Dread sat like a boulder in her belly. The last thing she needed was poison being poured into her ears all night.
You’re falling apart! The voices crowed, gleeful. You will fail. You will burn. You will—
No. The word formed sharp and hard under her ribs. No, I won’t.
She lowered herself to the ground, legs crossing beneath her. The earth was cold through her tunics, but the fire’s heat washed over her face. Ruari and Annis were unwrapping food—oaten bread packaged in cloth, hard cheese, and apples that had gone slightly soft.
They’d made camp on a windswept hillside. Nothing grew here but heather, tough tussock grass, and clumps of thorny whin.
The food made its way around the circle. Bread torn into chunks. Cheese cut with daggers. Ale skins passed from hand to hand. Voices rose and fell—quiet conversations and forced laughter, the sounds people made when they were trying to pretend everything was fine.
Lara ate slowly. Or tried to. The bread turned to glue in her mouth and stuck in her throat. She chewed doggedly, her mind drifting, snagging on the flames that danced and flickered before her.
Gold. Orange. A core of white so bright it hurt to look at it directly.
She leaned forward. Just slightly. The bread in her hand forgotten.
The fire called to her. Whispered. Not with words—not like The Gaulas—but with something deeper. A pull in her chest. A hunger that had nothing to do with food.
Come closer. Give in. Let go.
Her fingers tingled. Heat bloomed under her skin, spreading up her arms, settling in her chest like coals banked for the night.
The urge to reach out—to touch the flames, to let them consume her, to stop fighting and just surrender—crashed over her like a wave.
She couldn’t look away.
Around the fire, conversation continued. Someone laughed—Roth, maybe. Someone else asked for more ale.
Lara barely heard them.
And then her attention drifted to Alar. She didn’t mean to look at him—she’d been so careful not to—but her gaze found him anyway.
He sat between Mor and Vyr, his profile sharp in the firelight. He hadn’t approached her all day. She’d avoided him too. A careful dance of distance and deflection. He turned his head slightly, as if feeling the weight of her gaze, yet didn’t look her way.
Her attention moved back to the flames. So warm. So bright.
“Lara.”
A hand clamped around her arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
She blinked. The world swam back into focus—faces ringing the fire, all of them staring at her. When had the conversation stopped?
She stiffened, turning to Bree. Her warder’s hand was still locked around her arm. “What?”
“I called your name.” Bree’s voice was quiet, controlled in that way that meant she was barely holding back alarm. “Five times, at least. You didn’t hear me.”
Lara’s pulse kicked hard. “It’s getting worse.” The words scraped out. “Thank the Gods we’re close.”
“The fevers?” Mor leaned forward, firelight carving shadows under her cheekbones. “You're still losing time?”
Lara nodded. She looked down at her right hand, at the Ord-ree seal catching the firelight. “I'll be glad to be rid of this.” Once, she’d worn it with pride. Now, she wanted to claw it off, tear it from her finger, and throw it into the fire.
The ring pulsed. Once. As if it had heard her.
“Soon,” Mor said.
“We need to talk about what happens after The Shattered Crown.” Alar’s voice cut in.
He’d been quiet all evening, but now the authority in his voice made everyone turn.
“Assuming this works … that we close the rift and survive … what then?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Mor.
The firelight turned his face to planes and angles, all sharp edges.
Never had he looked so much like his father.
“Does our alliance end the moment the ritual is complete?”
Mor’s jaw tightened. “Not necessarily.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
Her dark eyes narrowed. The air between them shivered. “My first responsibility is to my own people.”
“Of course it is,” he said, his attention never wavering. “Just as Lara’s is to hers. But that’s not what I asked.” He paused, letting silence swell between them. “Do we all go back to being enemies?”
Eagal shifted on Mor’s shoulder, feathers ruffling, his beady gaze fixed on Alar. Vyr’s face had gone carefully blank, while Sablebane watched his son intently.
“That depends.” Mor’s tone held a steely edge. “On whether the Marav … and wulvers … are willing to compromise.”
Lara’s gaze flicked between them, tension coiling in her gut. Alar was right to bring this subject up—she too wanted assurances from Mor—but his timing was poor.
“Alar.” She didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t need to. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her, even as he continued to stare the Raven Queen down. “One thing at a time. Let’s close the rift first. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”
He frowned. For a moment, she thought he’d push harder—demand commitments that Mor clearly wasn’t willing to give.
He then sat back. “Very well,” he said softly. “This conversation can wait … for now.”
A nerve jumped in Mor’s cheek, yet she said nothing.
Alar turned his gaze away from her then—from all of them—and stared into the fire. Lara watched him, noting the way he held himself apart now. The careful distance he’d been maintaining all day suddenly seemed deliberate. Calculated.
He’d do as promised. Stay away. No more watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking. No more excuses to talk.
The realization landed strangely in her chest. Heavy and hollow at once.
She should be grateful. This was what she wanted.
Wasn’t it?
You will never recover from him. The Gaulas slithered into her ear, gleeful and cruel. He’s an affliction you’ll never cure.
Her breath hitched. She shoved the vile voices back.
Aye, she would. Even if it killed her.