Chapter 27 – Rowan
ROWAN
It goes exactly as I expected.
Brutal.
I fall.
A lot.
Ayer keeps us moving until long after dusk bleeds into the trees.
At first, knowing we’re traveling through the Wyldewood on the cusp of night has me on edge. I jump at every sound, tripping often because of the way I’m constantly scanning the surrounding forest.
The way we keep on, I’m almost certain we’ll just keep trekking on through the night until I’ve gone and collapsed for good. Until the last whispers of daylight finally fade away, and a shout rises from the front of the line. A call to halt.
Finally.
Ayer’s horse slows before coming to a stop in a small clearing just off the road.
Relief nearly drops me where I stand. It’s all I can do to remain on my feet and not crumple to the ground, my legs trembling under me.
My bare feet are throbbing—bleeding from several cuts from rocks, sticks, and the occasional stray thorn.
The bottoms are black with dirt or blood; I can’t be sure, but it’s probably both.
When I catch Ayer looking my way, I’m not sure where I find the strength, but I meet his gaze with an icy glare.
His unreadable, stony expression doesn’t waver. I can’t tell if he’s drawing amusement from my prolonged torture, or if just my mere existence is grating on him.
All day, I’ve counted the hours, minutes, seconds—praying for night to come.
For rest. But now that we’re here, a sharp prick of fear sets up a fresh wave of anxiety—at what might come next.
Ayer’s words from earlier now play on a loop in my head.
The promise he made back at the war camp—the one about putting me on my knees.
He can try.
I don’t acknowledge the truth: if it really came down to it, I could put up a strong fight, but Ayer is a mass of hardened warrior, with nearly a foot on me, built and trained for battle and war—I won’t win. Men don’t become captains as young as he is for no reason.
If he wants something from me... he’ll take it.
And with this stars-cursed rune on my wrist, I won’t be able to stop him.
A chill runs up my spine and I shiver, monitoring Ayer as he cares for his horse.
I’m as far from him as the rope allows, standing awkwardly, unsure what to do with myself while the rest of the men are hard at work around us, setting up camp.
Ayer finishes putting up his horse, not bothering to look my way again before going to join a few of the others gathering wood. He shakes his head at something they ask him.
The moment his eyes are off me, I move.
A few insistent steps, and the nearest tree has my weight as I lean hard against it, sliding down to sit at its roots. It’s the same one Ayer tied his stallion to—the horse whose rear I have become well acquainted with along the journey.
I curl in on myself, pulling my knees to my chest. It’s cold and I’m freezing, unable to hold warmth with my bare feet against the icy dirt.
I fight the urge to bury my face in my arms atop my legs, despite my firm resolve.
I also fight a war with tears as I lose another battle with exhaustion.
I distract myself by inspecting the rough condition of my feet, unable to do much for them aside from picking out any stray pricks of wood or thorns.
A soft nicker sounds above me.
I freeze.
Right. I’m sitting at the feet of a war beast.
Slowly, my gaze lifts.
The stallion above watches me, curious but calm. Not afraid of the little fae at his feet.
Gods, he’s beautiful—stunning, truly. I’ve always loved horses, though I’ve never been permitted to ride one.
What do you need to ride a horse for if you’re forbidden from venturing past the castle walls?
And this horse is breathtaking. His coat is as black as night, feathery around his hooves and ears, shining in the moonlight slipping through the trees.
Unlike my father’s horses, whose manes are usually cropped short, his silken mane has been left to grow wild, but is still free of any tangles or burrs.
Ayer, it appears, at least takes good care of his horse.
A lock of that silken mane falls down over his forehead, giving him a rough, untamed look. On a battlefield, he must be terrifying: broad chest, powerful, with deep lines of muscle rippling under his skin.
Cautiously, I raise a palm, reaching for his nose but pause halfway, leaving my hand midair when I notice him tracking the movement. So I stop, holding it there, letting him decide whether or not to close the gap.
He watches me, and I can see the whites of his eyes as he paws at the earth before throwing his head up in a sharp toss, pulling away from me, suspicion winning out over curiosity.
A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips, and I concede, lowering my hand. “Smart horse.”
Sighing, I go back to assessing the day’s battle scars; besides the atrocious state of my feet, there are cuts and bruises all up and down my legs, and both of my knees are bleeding—skinned from the many, many times I tripped and fell.
Worse than falling was that each time I tripped or lost my footing, I was dragged several feet before Ayer noticed.
Each time, he reined in his horse just long enough for me to get my feet back under me before starting forward again.
I suppose I should be at least a little grateful. A tiny, minuscule, itty-bitty bit.
He could have just dragged me the entire way.
But every time I fell, I learned. As the day wore on, I kept as close the rear of the horse as I dared, keeping hold of the extra slack of rope in my hands so as not to trip on it.
Once I fell, if I recovered quickly enough, I could be back on my feet before the slack in the rope caught and dragged me forward.
The extra slack also gave me precious seconds to pick around tricky roots or rocks along the path.
But inevitably, as the hours passed and the day stretched on into evening, the exhaustion weighed heavier on me. And the more tired I became, the more I hit the ground.
I kept my focus on Rusic’s back, making silent promises.
The first chance I get, I’ll make him pay.
I just have to find a way around the cursed rune burned into my wrist. Sitting here in the quiet, I can feel it pulsing faintly—mocking me.
The dark ink is a constant reminder of how helpless I am.
Whatever Ayer chooses to do to me, I won’t be able to fight back, not against him.
And no matter how hard I try to reach down inside myself and drag my magic up, the rune absorbs it, and I swear the ink itself almost grows darker the more I pepper it with power.
Not that magic ever really was an option anyway—it’s not like I know what to do with it even if I could access it, but it’s frustrating all the same.
I sigh, giving up and turning my attention back to the makeshift camp the men have thrown together. While my battle with the road took up most of my time today, I’m still trying to pay attention to the men—what they do, what they say. Maybe I can learn something.
There are just short of twenty of them, and they all wear black leather armour, like their captain. A mix of ages—young and old.
So far, all I know is that we’re headed southeast. Closer to Daekhar but also—I sit up a little straighter, feeling a light spark to life inside me—toward Skye.
Toward Kane.
For the first time today, the heaviness lifts, my spirits rising at the thought of my fiancé.
If I can escape… If I can make it across the border…
Maybe this isn’t over.
Maybe I haven’t lost yet.
I redirect my attention back to the men. If I’m going to escape, I need to look for patterns—routines. Anything I can take advantage of. Most of the men take turns riding ahead, scouting. But Wyatt and Hayes stay close to Ayer. And another man, Marz, brings up our rear.
Ayer rides with a bow slung across his back, over a large sword. He moves as if he were born to command—easy, confident, cocky. I narrow my eyes at the captain, silently glowering at him while he touches base with each of his men.
They respect him. It’s obvious. And they all ride as if the forest holds no danger, like the Wyldewood isn’t watching us—even now.
But I feel it.
Trying to stay on my feet proved to be a welcome distraction from the forest, but as darkness settles over me, that familiar fear creeps back in. As does an overwhelming feeling of being watched.
I do my best to shake it off, telling myself there’s nothing I can do about it, and turn my attention back to my wounds—to my wrists.
They are on fire, burning from the ropes constantly chafing against my skin.
I fiddle awkwardly with the tightly wound ropes, attempting to loosen them, but there’s almost no give at all, even after all day of being dragged around this way and that, they’re still as tight as ever.
I try shifting them a fraction higher up my arm, to give the raw skin underneath just a little relief, but they don’t budge.
I blow out a pained breath at having made things worse in my efforts, and then rest them gingerly atop my knees before tilting the back of my head against the tree and closing my eyes.
I sit like that for a while. I sense the men’s eyes on me, checking to be sure I’m still where they’ve left me while they eat and soak in the warmth of the fire they’d built.
The chill of night cuts deeper as the air turns colder. My clothes are still damp from the mud and river crossings. My stomach growls loudly, and I pull my arms tighter around myself.
While I thought the day would never end, now I worry about the night.
But as deeply uncomfortable as I am, sleep still beckons, exhaustion winning out and nearly taking me under right before I catch a whiff of Ayer’s scent.
It’s mixed with all the other scents of the day: leather, horse, forest, and sweat, but underneath it all is a faint musk of ash and cedar I can attribute only to him.
My eyes snap open. My stomach roils with rising anxiety.
Ayer reaches his horse, swiftly untying my rope from the saddle before giving it a sharp jerk.
Pain lances through the raw skin of my wrists from the pressure, and I hiss softly, giving him my best withering glare while refusing to move an inch.
The rope tugs again; he’s clearly summoning me over, but I’m not some dog to be called. I don’t move, practically rooting myself into the tree at my back, staring defiantly up into Ayer’s dark eyes.
To my astonishment, the rope slackens. The captain steps closer, peering down at me like I’m nothing more than a cockroach in the mud. One he wishes he could crush with a stomp of his boot.
“You can come on your own, or you will be brought.”
My frown deepens, and I glare at him—a challenge in my eyes, tempted to be as much work as possible—but he just shrugs.
“Your choice, Princess.”
With the end of my rope in his hand, he leans casually against a nearby tree, arms crossed, waiting.
Though there’s nothing casual about it—about him.
He might play it off well enough, but the man exudes power, discipline, and if anything, he reminds me of a big cat, tensed up and waiting for an opportunity to attack.
I narrow my eyes.
I absolutely do not want to comply. But the thought of being thrown over his shoulder and carried like a petulant faeling does little for my wounded pride at the same time.
Taking a few more seconds to study him, I sigh, rising slowly and taking my sweet time, wondering just how far he’ll let me push him.
The twitch of irritation I catch on his face before it’s quickly masked gives me the smallest hint of satisfaction for being the reason behind it.
But my amusement is short-lived when, despite following his directions, he reaches for me anyway. And maybe it’s my utter exhaustion fueling hysteria, but his approaching gaze causes something inside me to snap.
Panic—sudden and violent—surges, and I lose it.