Chapter 27 #2
By morning, Selene assures us we’ll reach the village before nightfall. “We’ll be out of the jungle soon,” she says, “and into the agricultural heart of the island. There’s a water source ahead. We’ll rest there before the last stretch.”
The air grows thicker as we walk, heavy with heat. When we finally stop beside the stream, I stretch my arms overhead, arching my back to work out the stiffness. Lowan’s gaze darkens immediately. He murmurs low, “Come with me. Now.”
As we head back to the group, adjusting clothes and hair, I try to smother my grin and fail. “I was thinking about your parents,” I say, mostly to distract myself from the heat still humming through me.
Lowan freezes mid-tug of his shirt. “Why in all the realms would you be thinking about my parents after what we just did?”
“Not then!” I swat at him, laughing. “I just mean—your parents were Threadbound too.”
His expression softens, though his mouth twists. “Yes. But I’d also prefer not to picture them doing… the things I like to do to you, either.”
“Stop,” I groan. “That’s not what I’m saying. I mean—your father’s gone, and now that I know what this bond feels like, the grief—how did your mother bear it?”
The humor fades from his eyes. He exhales slowly.
“Barely. She was a shell of herself for so long after he died. Could hardly care for herself, let alone us. That’s part of the reason I kept my secret.
If I’d been recruited, been pulled away, my mother could never have held the family together.
And my siblings, they would have had nothing. ”
I swallow hard, every fiber of me vibrating with the truth of what he’s saying. “Every Thread of me is tied to you now. I can’t imagine this being severed.”
He lifts a hand, brushing his thumb over my cheek. His gaze is steady, unyielding. “It won’t be. Nothing will ever separate us. Not time. Not realms. Not even death.”
The jungle finally breaks, and we step out into the light.
The heat shifts instantly—less suffocating without the canopy pressing it down, but no kinder.
Out here, the sun is merciless. Shade is scarce, the air drier, though still hot enough to prickle the skin.
At least it doesn’t cling like the damp blanket of the jungle.
The outskirts of the village rise before us: thatched-roof huts painted in bright splashes of pink, turquoise, and blue.
Children dart barefoot through the dust, shrieking as they chase one another with palm fronds.
A small mongoose-like creature streaks between the houses, vanishing under a low stoop and beyond, the fields open wide, rippling with green under the relentless sun.
We make our way toward the center, where the village hums louder. A market sprawls across the square, no frills, only necessities—fruits, baskets of vegetables, fish glistening fresh from the river, jars of honey and herbs. The air smells of salt and earth, of sweat and sweetness.
The people here bear Selene’s features: hair ranging from silver to ash-white, braided or loose, skin browned deeper from long hours in the fields. Many of the men go shirtless, wearing only loose trousers that hang low at the waist.
I glance at Lowan and smirk. “If you want to blend in, you’d better lose the shirt.” He arches a dark brow at me, mouth twitching. “Noted.”
We let Selene take the lead, hanging back as she speaks with a vendor. The woman gestures animatedly, pointing toward the fields beyond. Selene thanks her and places a few coins on the stall before accepting a round, pale-green fruit. She carries several for us.
I’ve seen nothing like it. The shell cracks easily under Selene’s knife, releasing a gush of clear liquid. She hands half to Zillah, who lifts it to her lips, and then offers one to Lowan and me.
The first sip surprises me—sweet, light, almost floral. It floods my tongue with freshness I didn’t know I craved. Lowan tilts it back for his own drink, and I’m distracted by the way his throat works as he swallows. Heat curls in me again.
Remli notices the look on my face and groans. “Absolutely not. Don’t even start. There are people everywhere.”
Lowan smirks around the fruit, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Selene distracts us with news. “They said Arden’s family lives on the far side of the village. He may be in the fields, but we can find his parents’ home and wait, perhaps.”
We nod and follow her lead, weaving out of the marketplace. The square gives way to open earth, wide rows of tilled fields stretching toward the horizon. Dozens of people work them—bending, planting, harvesting. Magic hums faintly in the air, like a vibration under my skin.
“Why not just use your power?” I ask, watching a man hoe at the ground while another kneels beside him to coax green sprouts upward with glowing fingers. “Wouldn’t it be easier?”
Selene shakes her head. “Some. But not all. Nature is its own force, Metra. It doesn’t always bend to will alone. We use our magic, yes, but we also tend with our hands—balance matters. Respect for the earth matters. Magic without that humility would only strip the land.”
I fall quiet, watching the workers—half labor, half wonder. For the first time in a long while, I feel not like a fugitive, but simply a traveler, stepping into someone else’s life.
We wind our way to the far side of the village, following Selene’s lead. The deeper we go, the quieter it feels. Children’s laughter fades behind us, replaced by the low buzz of insects and the distant swish of crops in the fields.
Zillah slows her pace, hand brushing the hilt of her weapon.
Selene glances at me, her eyes sharp. “We should tread carefully,” she murmurs.
“If Arden is what we believe him to be, his family may have been keeping him hidden. Watching. Waiting for the wrong people to come looking.” That does little to ease my nerves.
The hut we approach looks no different from the others—painted trim, thatched roof—but it’s better kept than some. Swept stoop. Freshly patched thatch. A home tended with care.
A woman steps out, drying her hands on a faded tea towel. Her white hair is neatly pulled back; her face is lined but strong. Although she eyes us warily, she addresses Selene. “Are you lost?”
Selene bows her head slightly. “No, we’re seeking someone.”
The woman’s shoulders stiffen. “And who would that be?”
“A boy,” Selene says. “His name is Arden.”
The woman doesn’t flinch, her expression a mask of calm. She tosses the towel over her shoulder. “No boy named Arden here.”
Selene doesn’t move. “Are you certain? My magic has never failed me in finding a place. Or a person.”
The silence stretches. Finally, the woman’s eyes harden. “I already told you. No boy named Arden here.”
And then a voice behind us: “Maybe not a boy. But a man.” We spin, and there he is.
He must have come from the fields, judging by the dirt smudged on his knees and the gloves dangling from his hand.
His skin is lighter than the villagers’; his hair is a long, wavy strawberry-blonde, pulled back into a knot at the crown of his head.
Muscled, broad-shouldered, bare-chested save for the leather strap across him that holds a water skin at his hip. His presence is striking.
The woman exhales sharply, exasperated. “Why would you tell them who you are?”
“Trust me, Mama,” he says easily, not looking back at her. “I can handle this.”
She huffs, throws up her hands, and disappears into the hut. Arden studies us, gaze sweeping the group. “Quite the company you’ve brought to my doorstep. You already know who I am. Who are all of you?”
His eyes linger on Remli, then slide to Lowan. Selene steps forward first. “I am Selene Neythra.”
At that, his head tilts. “Neythra. I know that name.”
Selene nods. “My family lives on the other side of the island. This is my Bonded, Zillah Veynar.”
Zillah inclines her head, protective as ever at Selene’s side. Arden’s gaze shifts again to Lowan.
“This is my brother, Lowan,” Zillah says.
Lowan steps forward slightly, his voice low and dangerous. “And this is my Threadbound, Metra.”
The way he says it leaves no doubt—staking the claim, making sure Arden understands. I cut my eyes at him, fighting the urge to nudge his ribs, despite the heat that flares through my body at his claiming.
Arden smirks faintly before turning to Remli. His voice changes when he speaks. “And who are you?”
Remli squares her shoulders. “My name is Remli Ravelle.”
He studies her. Too long. Too intently. As if he sees something the rest of us can’t. Finally, he murmurs, “Tell me, Remli Ravelle—what do you shift into when you shapeshift?”
The air goes taut. We all exchange startled looks. Remli narrows her eyes. “How do you know I shift at all?”
Arden’s eyes fix on her, holding far too long. The air between them sharpens—his mouth curves in a smile—enigmatic, unreadable. “I see things others can’t. And when I look at you…” His gaze lingers, slow and deliberate. “I see something wild. Unbroken. Defiant.”
Remli doesn’t flinch, but her jaw tightens.
She stares back at him, unyielding. Arden lets the silence stretch before finally breaking it, turning his attention back to the rest of us, looking at each of us like he sees more than we even know.
“Like I said—quite the company you’ve brought to my door. ”
Mama Soli fusses over us the moment we step inside, as if we’ve been hers all along. The hut smells of wood smoke and herbs, with roasted roots crackling over an open stone fire. Chickens cluck outside. A woven basket of cassava sits ready by the hearth.
“You’ll not go anywhere on an empty stomach,” she scolds Arden, pressing her hand to his shoulder until he sits. “If your papa comes home and finds I let you march off without a bite, I’ll never hear the end of it.”