17. Aeryn
AERYN
The forest feels different after the bridge. Not quieter, not safer, nothing so simple or comforting as that, but altered in a way I cannot fully name, as though something has shifted its attention away from us or perhaps toward us with greater intent.
The awareness of it settles under my skin in a slow, persistent way that refuses to fade even as the terrain opens into higher ground and cleaner air.
The scent of rot lessens. Pine and cold stone take its place.
Wind moves honestly here, threading through branches without hesitation, carrying distant sounds that behave like they should instead of folding back into themselves.
I should feel relief. Instead I feel watched.
Vaedros walks half a step behind me now, close enough that I sense him without turning, far enough that I cannot accuse him of pressing control. The adjustment remains deliberate. He does not interrupt when I pause. He does not redirect when I hesitate. He waits.
That waiting has weight. It gives me space to choose. It also gives me responsibility for what those choices become. I do not trust it. I do not trust him. And yet I am beginning to understand how to use both.
The path ahead divides where a fallen tree has split the slope into two uneven routes, one climbing along a ridge of exposed roots and broken stone, the other descending into a narrow corridor between dense cedar trunks where shadow gathers thick and unmoving.
Both carry risk. Both carry possibility.
I feel the future pressing at my vision, restless, eager to fracture open.
I let it. Two paths bloom. In one, we take the ridge. The climb is slow but stable. We gain height, gain visibility, gain distance from whatever moves unseen below. Later, further ahead, something waits among the stones, sharp, fast, territorial, but manageable with preparation.
In the second, we descend through the cedars. The ground remains soft but deceptively even. Sound dulls. Movement becomes harder to track. Something follows us there, patient and quiet, waiting for the right moment to strike from behind.
There is a third path. I see it only for a moment, flickering at the edge of everything else.
A narrow cut between stones half-hidden beneath hanging moss, leading neither up nor down but through, bypassing both ridge and corridor entirely.
It is the cleanest route. The safest, for now.
The one that leads most directly toward where the forest seems to thin.
It also places us in a position Vaedros would control easily.
I close my eyes. Let the third path dissolve. When I open them, I turn slightly so he can see my face.
“Two options,” I say. “Ridge or cedar corridor.”
His gaze sharpens, though he does not question the framing. “Advantages.”
“Ridge gives visibility and space. Corridor gives cover and concealment.”
“Disadvantages.”
“Ridge exposes us to whatever hunts openly. Corridor hides too much.”
He studies me, searching for the part I have not said. There is always a part I have not said.
“Your preference,” he asks.
“I don’t have one.”
A lie shaped carefully enough to pass as uncertainty. He shifts his weight slightly, attention moving between both paths, measuring terrain, wind, distance, risk. I am worried that he might hesitate long enough to find the third option on his own.
He does not.
“Ridge,” he decides.
Of course he does. Open ground. Information. Fewer unknowns. He steps forward without waiting for confirmation.
I follow.
The choice settles around us like something decided too easily.
The climb begins immediately, roots slick with moss, stones shifting underfoot, the incline steep enough to slow the pack beasts into careful, reluctant movement. Wind presses harder here, pulling at hair and fabric, carrying the scent of something distant and sharp I cannot yet place.
Vaedros moves ahead now, testing footing, choosing lines through the terrain, his body adjusting to the climb with fluid precision. I watch him without meaning to. He is not built like his brothers.
There is no excess weight to him, no reliance on brute strength or visible intimidation.
Everything about him is controlled, deliberate, designed for efficiency rather than force.
His movements are clean, economical, each step placed with intention.
Even here, even in unstable terrain, he wastes nothing.
Handsome. The thought arrives uninvited. I push it aside.
Halfway up the ridge, the vision strikes. There is no warning this time, no gradual pressure building behind my eyes. It comes sharp and immediate, slicing through the present with surgical precision.
We are on this same ridge. The same climb. The same wind.
Something breaks the surface of the ground ahead, fast enough that I do not fully see it before it reaches me. A strike aimed low, precise, lethal.
I do not move in time. Vaedros does. He steps between us without hesitation. The impact drives into him instead.
I feel it. Not see it. Feel it. The force of the blow, the sudden jolt through his body as it connects, the way his breath leaves him in a harsh, involuntary sound, the heat of blood where there should not be blood.
His hand catches my arm, not to restrain, but to steady, to keep me from falling as he absorbs the damage meant for me.
The vision ends there. No aftermath. No resolution. Just that moment. I stop walking.
Vaedros turns immediately. “What?”
The question is sharp, focused, already moving toward action.
I stare at him.
The image refuses to settle into the patterns I understand. It does not fracture. It does not offer alternatives. It does not carry that subtle wrongness the previous manipulated vision held.
It feels real. That is the problem. Because it contradicts everything else.
“You’re going to get hurt,” I say.
He lifts one brow slightly. “That is a remarkably broad prediction.”
“Not broad,” I insist. “Specific.”
“Then specify.”
I hesitate. If I tell him exactly what I saw, I give him control over it. He will adjust, reposition, turn the moment into something predictable.
If I do not, I risk it happening exactly as I saw. I hate both options.
“Something strikes from below,” I say finally. “Fast. You step in front of it.”
He watches me closely, reading every shift in my expression.
“And you would prefer I do not,” he says.
“I would prefer you let me take responsibility for my own survival.”
“That sounds inefficient.”
“That sounds like trust.”
He almost smiles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re starting to use that word dangerously.”
Anger rises, sharp and immediate.
“Why did you choose the ridge?” I demand.
He blinks once, the shift in topic catching him off guard for the smallest fraction of a second.
“Because it offers better control of variables.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is precisely an answer.”
“It’s a justification,” I snap. “Not a reason.”
He studies me again, slower this time.
“You want the reasoning process.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because I don’t know if you’re leading me toward something or away from it. Because I don’t know if the visions are lying or you are. Because I don’t know which version of you is real. Are you going to hurt me or not?
“Because I’m part of this,” I say instead. “And I’m tired of being moved like a piece you adjust when necessary.”
“Very well,” he says. “I chose the ridge because it limits unknown approach vectors, increases reaction time, and reduces reliance on your visions in enclosed space where they have proven unstable.”
I cross my arms. “So you don’t trust me.”
“I trust your ability,” he replies evenly. “I do not trust the conditions affecting it.”
“That’s convenient.”
“That’s accurate.”
We stand there, halfway up the ridge, wind pulling at us, tension stretching tight between words and everything unsaid beneath them.
“You’re still controlling the outcome,” I say.
“I’m still responsible for survival.”
“You don’t get to choose that alone.”
“I’m not deciding alone,” he says, and there is something sharper in his voice now. “You presented options. I chose one. That is participation.”
“That is selection,” I counter. “Not collaboration.”
“And what would collaboration look like to you, huh? You are forgetting your place.”
The question lands heavier than expected. I open my mouth. Close it again. Because I do not have an answer that does not involve risking something I am not ready to risk.
The silence stretches.
Then—
The ground shifts. The moment snaps back into motion. Something moves beneath the surface ahead, exactly where the vision placed it, a sudden ripple through dirt and root that travels toward us with terrifying speed.
My breath catches.
“Now!” I shout.
Vaedros does not hesitate. He moves. Not in front of me. Not this time. He grabs my arm and pulls me sideways just as the creature bursts from the ground where I had been standing, a long, segmented body lined with hooked limbs that slash through air where my legs had been.
We stumble together onto firmer ground. The strike misses. The future fractures. Vaedros releases me instantly, blade already drawn, positioning himself between me and the creature, not shielding, not sacrificing, simply aligning for the next move.
I stare at him. The vision was wrong. Or changed. Or incomplete.
The certainty I felt dissolves into something far more dangerous. Doubt.
Since this began, I do not know whether I am being guided, manipulated, or simply losing my ability to tell the difference. What is going on?