Chapter 28
The forest path is a beautiful sight behind us, made all the more beautiful for having survived it. But the landscape ahead is desolate.
My breath catches in my throat when we finally emerge from the trees.
In front of us, as far as the eye can see, is a boneyard.
The ground is scarred and uneven, a barren wasteland littered with the remnants of war.
Blackened stumps of burned trees jut out from the earth alongside singed banners, torn and tattered, their colors faded to a ghostly memory.
Here and there, the bones of unidentifiable beasts lie bleaching in the sun.
The wind howls through the decaying battlefield. It catches a torn banner that’s still attached to a post. The fabric flaps wildly in the dusty air. It’s faded and splattered with mud, but I can still make out the design: a copper fox on a once-white background.
Next to me, Hunter sees it too. His face is sad, his shoulders heavy with the weight of guilt. But none of this is his fault, of course. It’s my father’s.
“What’s the matter, Red? Haven’t you been to the borderlands before?” Tristan asks lightly, his voice a poor attempt at levity. I catch the tension in his jaw, the way his gray eyes turn stormy. He’s disturbed too, though he won’t admit it.
“Not like this.” My voice is a whisper, barely audible over the mournful wind. “The camps … they’re never on battlefields.”
Tristan just sniffs and starts walking, his boots crushing the brittle earth underfoot. He steps over mounds of turned-up soil and fallen armor, the ground uneven and bone dry.
Hunter steps closer to me. He brushes his fingers over the back of my hand where it hangs limp at my side. His touch is light, hesitant. Like he’s not sure how to touch me after the feverish heat of yesterday.
I look up to meet his eyes.
“We’ll get through this.” He reaches forward and tucks a stray lock of hair away from my face. “All of it.”
The intensity of his gaze makes my heart clench. After what happened, he keeps looking at me with barely contained emotion behind his eyes … And I have no idea how I feel about it. Now that the heat of passion has faded and we’re face-to-face with reality again, all I feel is shame and guilt.
I wanted it, yes. I wanted him. But it shouldn’t have happened.
We’re still out here in a battlefield, running for our lives, with no plan beyond reaching the border of Annwyn. How can love possibly blossom under these conditions?
I swallow hard and nod, then turn to follow Tristan across the wasteland. The air is thick with the stench of death, and buzzards call overhead. Their dark shapes float lazily as they wait for fresh carrion.
After nearly an hour of walking, I almost trip over something half-buried in the dirt.
At my feet lies a desiccated corpse clad in thick leather armor.
A silver insignia is pinned to its chest, so tarnished I can barely make out the shape of a wolf.
The man’s eyes, long since eaten by birds, are hollow sockets staring at the sky.
His flesh is mummified, stretched tight over bones that look ready to crumble.
Ahead of me, Tristan and Hunter press on.
As we continue to pick our way across the battlefield, I start to notice the world around us is changing. The light is dimmer, as if a storm cloud has passed over the sun. But when I look up, the sky is clear, though hazy. It’s as if the sun itself is beginning to fade.
I run to catch up to Hunter. “Wait.”
He pauses, half turning back toward me.
“Something isn’t right.”
“Of course not,” Tristan says, turning to see why we’ve stopped. “We’re standing in the middle of a massive graveyard.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that. The light …”
All three of us look up. Hunter’s face changes, as if he’s now realized how dark it’s become.
A sense of doom crawls up my spine. “It’s much too early for twilight.”
In a rush, the air grows colder. It blows my long auburn hair around my face like a windstorm. From the darkened horizon, a thick fog seeps across the ground. It swirls around our feet, then rises steadily until it envelops us completely. In moments, visibility drops to almost nothing.
“Hunter!” I call.
Someone grabs my hand and squeezes it tight. I turn to find him at my side. He’s hazy, but visible this close. I let out a breath of relief.
“Sienna, don’t let go of my hand.” His voice is quiet and cautious.
I nod, even though I’m not sure he can tell.
Tristan emerges from the fog a few feet away. “Stay close,” he says. His eyebrows pinch together with concern.
“Is it shadow magic?” I ask.
Tristan stares into the swirling gray. “I don’t think so.”
He reaches for my free hand. Even now, in these dire circumstances, I hesitate to take it. But we’ve come this far with the Wolf. It’s time to drop the pretense of mistrust.
When I wrap my fingers around his, a warm, tingling sensation climbs up my arm. My power flares to life inside me and I flush with heat, but I ignore it. Now is not the time to lose focus.
Slowly, we inch through the fog, careful not to trip over one another or the desiccated bodies left to rot in this place. When we come upon an overturned cart, Tristan kicks over sun-weathered crates until he finds something useful.
“Here,” he says, handing me a long, worn rope. “Tie the middle around your waist. I’ll take one end.” He looks to Hunter. “You take the other. We’ll be able to move faster without getting separated.”
For once, Hunter doesn’t push back or give Tristan any grief. That’s how I know he’s as worried as I am. Once the rope is secure around us, Tristan takes a few tentative steps ahead. All too soon, his body vanishes into the gray, the rope slithering across the ground behind him.
“It’s alright, Red.” Tristan calls out, his voice muffled. “I’ll lead the way. We just have to keep moving.”
Despite the rope, Hunter grabs my hand again. “I’d feel better with you by my side.”
I nod and, together, we follow the rope in Tristan’s direction. The ground crunches beneath our boots, grit and brittle bone indistinguishable from each other.
The fog is suffocating, a heavy blanket that muffles sound and distorts shapes. Every rustle, every whisper of movement is amplified, feeding the growing unease that grips my chest. I can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes on us, watching our every move despite the impenetrable gray.
Suddenly, the rope jerks forward, catching me off guard. I stumble, letting go of Hunter’s hand. I land hard on my knees, but no worse for wear.
“I’m alright,” I say as I stand, brushing the dirt from my hands. I turn back.
Hunter is gone.
At my feet, the rope tied between us is slack, leading into the dense fog. I reach to pick it up, but it slithers forward an inch out of my grasp. I freeze, my hand outstretched.
“Hunter?”
The rope moves forward another inch.
“Hunter?” I call out again, louder this time.
Nothing.
I bend forward, reaching for the rope again, but it suddenly begins to slither away, faster this time. I try to hold on, but the rope burns my palms, forcing me to let go. It pulls taut, pinning me between the two men lost in the fog in opposite directions.
The rope pauses, suspended in the air.
“Hunter!” I shout, my voice sharp with panic. “Tristan!” I call the other way.
No answer.
Then both ends of the rope yank tight, jerking me back and forth by the section knotted around my waist. The pressure digs into my stomach, pulling harder and harder until I’m afraid it will slice into my skin—or worse, tear me in half.
I scream and scramble for the knife hidden in the ankle of my boot. Half-blinded by fear, I saw at one end of the rope. Tears spring to my eyes as the fibers resist the blade.
It snaps. At the same moment, the other end goes limp.
I collapse to the ground, gasping. The knot around my waist is too tight to undo with my fingers.
My hands shake as I use my knife to saw through it.
A sob of relief escapes me when it finally snaps off, the frayed ends falling to the dirt.
I gasp on my hands and knees, trying to get ahold of myself.
All is silent.
Then, footsteps. Someone is running toward me. I brace myself, but Hunter emerges from the fog, his face full of panic. He gasps in relief when he sees me on the ground. He falls to his knees, pulling me into his arms.
“Sienna! Why didn’t you answer me when I called?” He lifts my face, brushing my wild hair from my eyes.
“I was yelling for you,” I say, alarmed.
He shakes his head. “That’s not possible. I’ve been calling your name ever since you disappeared.”
“No, you disappeared. I tripped, and you were gone!”
Understanding washes over his face. “It’s the fog.”
There’s no point in asking how that’s even possible.
I bolt upright, horrified. “Tristan.”
Hunter and I scramble to our feet. Hunter grips my hand tightly.
“Tristan!” I call.
“Tristan!” Hunter follows.
Silence.
Then, “Red?”
Relief washes over me. “Tristan, we’re here! Follow my voice!”
A figure emerges from the fog, crouched low, one arm stretched out to feel his way forward.
“Thank the old gods,” he says when he sees us. His gray eyes are wide, and his dark hair is a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me into his chest, taking me by surprise.
Hunter doesn’t let go of my hand.
Tristan’s voice is breathless with relief. “I thought I’d lost you.”
This place has stripped away his usual icy manner. I’ve never seen him this shaken, not even when he was tied up in the kennels. Not even when the foxhounds attacked us on the road.
His eyes move to Hunter. “I thought I’d lost you both.”
Hunter’s voice has an edge to it. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“What happened?” I ask, but he just shakes his head.
“I don’t know, but the sooner we get out of there, the better.” He grabs my hand again. “So, no ropes then.” He leads us forward a second time.