Chapter 10
The estate feels different at dawn, buzzing with quiet movement. Selene and Zillah have already mounted and are waiting in the courtyard.
Selene sits tall on a pale dapple-gray mare whose mane catches the light like spun silver. Even with practical riding trousers beneath her flowing top, she looks every inch the huntress—a quiver of arrows slung across her back, a bow gleaming at her side. Ethereal, serene, dangerous in her own way.
Zillah’s black stallion stamps the cobblestones, all restless power. She looks like she belongs to him as much as he belongs to her: clad in black, short sword strapped at her hip, her posture easy and unshaken, as though no terrain or foe could ever catch her off guard.
Lowan is astride a dark bay warhorse, broad-shouldered and muscled like its rider.
The silver hilt of his sword rises above his shoulder, but I know him well enough by now to assume there are more blades hidden away.
His gaze flicks to me when I step out, dagger strapped low at my boot.
I feel his eyes linger, assessing, as if he’s already imagining how many ways I’ll get myself killed out there.
Then, without a word, he draws a sheathed sword from his saddle and holds it out to me.
I blink, surprised. “What’s this?”
“Yours,” he replies.
My hand hovers before I take it. His gaze snags on the red braided cord still tied at my wrist—the one he gave me at Feyrnacht. His eyes flick back to mine, and the memory of what almost was between us hums in the air.
I lower my gaze to the sword. The hilt gleams faintly, familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten. When I glance back at his weapon, realization strikes. “This matches yours.”
He inclines his head. “It was mine, before I carried my father’s blade. I had it reforged, balanced to your reach and weight.”
I slide it free of its sheath, the steel singing in the morning air. The sword whirls easily in my grip, the balance so perfect it feels less like I’m holding a weapon and more like I’ve discovered a part of myself I’d forgotten. It fits as if it were meant for me.
“It’s…” I swallow. “It’s perfect.”
He watches, silent, silver eyes unreadable. I sheath it again and strap it across my back. With the dagger at my boot and the sword at my shoulder, I feel—for the first time—like I could belong on this journey.
But when I glance around the courtyard, the truth hits again. Three riders, three horses. No mount for me. Lowan swings down from his warhorse and holds out a hand. “With me.”
Heat prickles up my neck. Riding pressed against him, arms brushing, breath mingling? Gods. But what choice do I have?
I place my hand in his, leather gloves between our skin, and he pulls me up in front of him. His arm comes around to take the reins, solid and sure. The horse shifts beneath us, impatient, powerful. I sit stiff as a board at first, painfully aware of every place our bodies touch.
“Relax,” he murmurs near my ear. “You’ll unseat us both if you don’t.”
I force a breath, trying to focus on the horizon. On Selene’s serene calm, Zillah’s unflinching confidence. On anything except the fact that Lowan’s chest is solid against my back and his hand brushes my hip each time he adjusts the reins.
I try to relax, but the shift of my body grinds me back against him. His breath catches, a low grunt slipping out before he can stop it. The sound ignites something in me so sharp, so urgent—I seize up all over again. The gates creak open, and the road unfurls ahead. We are leaving.
We ride in silence, the steady rhythm of hooves muffled beneath the canopy of the Knollwood.
The air is damp with evergreen and shadow, familiar still, because we haven’t yet left Lowan’s lands.
For now, there’s nothing to fear—only the creeping anticipation of what waits beyond these trees.
I lean back against the rise and fall of Lowan’s breath, but my mind drifts backward, to farewells.
Sirona. I’d found her in the healer’s workspace on the grounds—the one just beyond the estate where people come when they need Alva’s care. The door bore a carved symbol, a curling knot of lines shaped like a leaf wrapped around a flame. A healer’s mark, she’d told me once—a sign of safety.
Inside, jars and bundles crowded the shelves, with herbs hanging from the rafters. Sirona had been bent over a table, grinding something into powder, her braid bouncing as she worked.
“My friend Trevor would love this place,” I’d blurted.
She glanced up, eyes wide. “Trevor?”
I nodded. “He was a sort of potions master himself. Nothing magical, just… he loved mixing things, experimenting, making something new. He would’ve loved what you’re doing in here.”
She smiled, a little wistful. “Maybe I’ll meet him someday.”
“Maybe,” I whispered, though the word caught in my throat. Because I doubted I’d ever see Trevor again, let alone bring him here.
I cleared my throat. “I just wanted to thank you. For everything you did to take care of me. For being a friend when I had no one. From the moment I opened my eyes and saw your face, you felt safe. Trustworthy. I needed that.”
For once, Sirona had no words. Her eyes glistened as she moved around the table as if she might hug me, but I stepped back quickly. “No touching,” I reminded, lifting a hand.
She laughed wetly, wiping at her eyes. “Right.” Then she sobered, gaze earnest. “Well, just… take care of my brother, all right?”
I rolled my eyes lightly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“No,” she blurted a little too quickly, a little too knowing. “I mean it. My brother is different with you. I can’t explain it, but I can see he cares for you. Take care of him.”
Her words had carried weight, an implication I wasn’t ready to untangle.
I’d nodded anyway. “I will.”
And now, riding into the forest with his arm braced around me, I wonder if Sirona had seen much more than I wanted to admit.
We ride for hours in silence. Selene leads us, her pale mare weaving confidently through the shadowy paths of the Knollwood. Zillah stays close at her side, black stallion pacing steadily, her posture as sharp and unyielding as ever.
Lowan and I bring up the rear. His horse carries us both, the steady rhythm of hooves crunching the snow rocking through me. I can feel every breath he takes, the warmth of his chest at my back, the faint shift of muscle each time he adjusts the reins. It’s enough to make me dizzy.
I know we’re still on Veynar lands. For now, there’s nothing to fear—just anticipation, humming low in my gut, of what lies beyond the trees.
Selene’s voice drifts back to us when we pause near a stream.
“If we stay on the safer paths, we can reach Myrradon in a week. But if we’re to remain unseen…
” She trails off, glancing at me with a look I can’t quite read. “Closer to two.”
My stomach sinks. Two weeks. Two weeks pressed against Lowan. Two weeks of his silence breathing down my neck.
“Too bad we can’t just fly,” I mutter under my breath.
I feel him tense instantly behind me. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “Where I come from, flying is just a way to get places. Machines, not magic.”
He’s quiet for a beat longer than necessary. Then, in a voice softer than I expected: “Tell me more. About where you came from.”
The question catches me off guard. Of all people, I never thought Lowan would be curious. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start anywhere,” he says.
So I do. “I was in college. University? A kind of formal education. My friends—Abigail and Trevor—they were everything to me.”
“Trevor?” he repeats, like the name tastes bitter in his mouth.
“Yes.” I glance back, but his expression is unreadable. “Dear friends. We met on the first day and never stopped being… us. Safe to say neither Abi nor I are Trevor’s type, so…” I trail off, unsure if I should explain further.
Lowan clears his throat. “Ah. I see.”
I clear mine. “Anyway. I moved around a lot as a kid. The only steady thing I had was running. Once I found it, I held onto it. It didn’t matter where we lived, what the weather was, or who I had to leave behind. Running was always mine. A way to breathe.”
There’s a pause, and then he says, almost grudgingly, “It sounds like it saved you.”
My chest tightens. Lowan Veynar, being nice? Suspicion prickles through me. “Why are you asking me all these questions, anyway?”
His silver gaze flicks down at me, sharp and amused. “You berate me with questions every time we’re within ten feet of each other. Now that we are six inches apart, I ask three about you to make conversation, and suddenly I’ve gone too far?”
My jaw drops. “Lowan Veynar! Did you just make a joke?”
His mouth hardens. “Let’s just not talk.”
I can’t help it. I chuckle under my breath.
But then the words echo: six inches apart.
My skin heats, awareness flooding me all at once.
The leather of his gloves brushing mine on the reins, the unyielding warmth of his body against my back, the quiet strength encasing me.
Lowan inhales sharply, as though he can sense exactly where my thoughts have gone.
Two weeks of this. I press my hood lower over my hair, pretending it’s just the cold making me shiver. But I know better.
The steady rhythm of the horse beneath me blurs into the rhythm of memory. My mind drifts back to my farewell with Alva.
After I’d recovered from the fever, I’d thrown myself into shielding practice with a single goal: to be strong enough for her to do what she promised. To take away my cycle. I couldn’t risk being laid up on the road, helpless and doubled over in pain. Not anymore. So before we left, I asked her.
She sat beside me, hands folded, her eyes kind and steady. I tried to thank her—for healing me, for guiding me, for being more than she had to be. The words tangled in my throat. What I wanted to say was, “You’ve been a mother to me.” But all that came out was, “My mother…” before my voice broke.