Chapter 23 River
RIVER
Iwake before dawn, the hush of our enclave broken only by my breath and the faint rumble of the city still dreaming.
The air is cool—carry the scent of moss, ember ash, and something faintly sweet, like new blossoms daring themselves through concrete cracks.
My muscles coil, stiff from yesterday’s confrontation, but I push the ache aside.
There is something I must do before the dawn claims the night.
I slip out of the bed and pull on my cloak. Kragna shifts beside me, eyes closed but brow taut with memory or worry—I can’t tell. I don’t stop to think. Instead, I walk barefoot down familiar corridors, each step an echo through the reconstructed halls of diplomacy.
Outside, moonlight reveals rows of freshly turned earth, unmarked stones rising from the soil in neat, solemn lines. This is the mass grave beneath the ridge—the place where my scouts, my friends, were laid to rest. I kneel at the edge, feeling the cold seep into my bones.
I bring wildflowers—dandelions torn from the forest squall beyond the city wall, blooms so bright they light up the gray slate stones with yellow flame.
My finger trails on the first stone: Alaric. The mortar from the capital’s walls still dusts his edges. I kneel deeper, damp soil under my knees, the petals crushed in my palm.
“Alaric,” I whisper. “You would’ve hated peace. But you’d want the world rebuilt.” I press the flower into the earth, torn petals brushed with dirt and memory.
Beside me, Kragna comes to the edge. He watches me in silence until I place more blooms. Tulin—hero in broken light. Darya—laugher of embers. Each name held like a breath too sacred to exhale.
“These were the best of us,” I say, voice rough with soil and sorrow.
Crackling footfall behind me—he kneels beside me, so close I can feel his bone heat through cloak. He places something on the stones without a sound.
An old troll charm: a carved iron sigil bent through ritual forms—something meant to protect, ward off evil. It gleams faintly under moonlight, light catching on weathered runes.
He whispers, voice low as mist: “They died fighting. Not everyone gets that.”
I close my eyes. His words land like a promise on my skin.
Crushed flowers, tears, soil—this unholy ground becomes holy with the weight of our vow.
I shake, breath catching.
He touches my hand—warm fingers around mine. We sit in silence, letting the night cradle us.
When we stand, I brush my hair, full of starlight, onto my shoulder. He steps back.
But I don’t move.
We walk out of the graveyard, the city hollow beneath us. The winds flip our cloaks. Cold air tastes like guilt and grace.
Then we head for the hills.
I lean into him as we climb the winding path past scorched trees, past shards of bridges we once built. The rocks remember our footsteps. Each step a prayer whispered between promises.
We arrive at the old bridge—the one we used to ghost under before wars and crowns and broken treaties. Its stones are still sound, moss eaten into crevices, moonlight pooling around the arches.
Chill night air stirs, and there she is—Charen, perched on the bridge edge, her web stretched above: “I see you banging, don’t mind me.” The glow of her quips bounces across moss and shadow.
I laugh. Kragna shakes his head, battle-scar edges softening as humor warms his tongue.
Veeto lumbers up carrying booze in rattling bottles, breath sweet as regret. He throws me a cup—wine thick as blood and comfort.
Harriet coils behind the stones, sniffing the air for threats—or maybe just us. I crouch and scratch one of her many ears. Her snort is rumbled content. She leans into the touch.
I sip the wine, copper and heat drifting down. Kragna stands beside me, silent, as the moon crawls the face of the bridge.
We don’t speak. Words feel too loud for this quiet resurrection of souls.
Fingers curled together, we sit on collapsed stone bricks. Stars tremble above. The city lies behind us—a broken ember that we’ve chosen to protect.
Tonight, we choose the old woods. The sound of rushing river below, leaves whispering ancient lullabies.
In this stillness, amid grief, blood, politics, promises—love breathes.
And hopeful as fragile as moonlight on stone, it holds us together.
The mist wraps us like silk as we walk through the beneath the old bridge.
My boots sink into dew-heavy grass, soft as feathers coming undone.
The air tastes of wet moss and hope—not bright blooms, but faint promises that something green can grow through dust. I lean into Kragna’s side, letting his shape steady me: broad shoulders, steady breath, armor faintly warm beneath cloak.
We don’t say much at first. Words feel awkward where silence carries all the weight. The mist closes around us—thick and alive—so that the world vanishes into hushed grey and our footsteps. We’re two figures swallowed by quiet, hearts pounding like distant drums in rhythm.
When my hand brushes his, I flick a friendly spark into his palm. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he tightens his fingers around mine, anchors me here.
I laugh—a soft sound full of exhaustion and sweetness.
“What?” he murmurs.
“Just being alive,” I say. “With you. In mist. Feels like escaping forever.”
He smiles. That soft crinkled thing that wraps warmth around my belly.
We walk until our footsteps slow. Evening mist curls into our breath, mingling our smoke. I shine my eyes on him, patient.
“Want to do something stupid?” I ask.
He grins, claws still tucked. “Try me.”
I step close and capture his face in hands, star-bright eyes seeking his. “Something gentle?”
He leans in, lips grazing mine. “Always,” he whispers.
Our fourth time is as quiet as everything before this was loud.
No walls rattle, no alarms scream. Just us, mist, and breath.
He lets me lead—slow and worshipful, fingers tracing scars and muscle beneath cloak.
We fall into grass damp as new dawn, limbs entertwined and hearts beating reckless in night.
The dampness cools heated limbs. The air hums of living things.
He lowers himself around me, protecting. His lips ghost my neck. Then, a playful nip—pure teeth and warmth—on my shoulder. I growl—feral, funny.
“Still think I’m not going to eat you?” he murmurs.
I laugh around breath, wrists tangled in his cloak, eyes locked on his.
“Only when you’re asleep,” I reply.
He's big, strong, golden-horned and scaled—but right now he’s here. Whole. Safe.
The mist curves around us, distant crickets singing ancient lullabies. A fox’s cry tethers me back to moss and stone and cold grass pressing at my spine.
Kragna’s gaze softens. He lays his palm against my cheek, thumb sweeping across damp, rain-kissed skin.
“What now?” I whisper into the hush.
He doesn’t flinch. He smiles with something deep, slow, fierce:
“Now we build.”
And I feel his breath, his promise, solid in every inch of me.