Chapter 12 #2
The moth's wings beat frantically, still gaining strength as they rose.
Briar could feel Eliam's breath harsh against her neck, his arm around her waist trembling from blood loss and effort.
The raven beside them cawed in distress, struggling with the weight of two riders while still partially shadow.
A harpy slammed into them from above, talons raking across the moth's wing. The creature screamed—a sound Briar hadn't known moths could make—and spiraled sideways. She gripped the soft fur desperately as they tumbled through air, Eliam's arm the only thing keeping her from falling.
More harpies converged from all directions. The smaller ravens materialized to intercept, but there were too many. A harpy's talons caught Thaine's shoulder, tearing through leather before Karse managed to burn its face. Their raven lurched, losing altitude.
The moth recovered, diving toward the treeline, but the harpies formed a wall of white bodies and membranous wings between them and safety.
Eliam spoke through gritted teeth, and the moth suddenly folded its wings completely, plummeting like a stone.
They fell past the startled harpies, Briar's stomach in her throat, the ground rushing up—
The moth's wings snapped open just above the canopy. They crashed through the upper branches, leaves and twigs whipping past. Behind them, the harpies followed, shrieking their fury.
But the moment they entered the forest's domain, everything changed.
The trees moved. Not gently, not slowly, but with violent purpose.
Branches that had bent to let the moth pass suddenly became spears, piercing through harpy wings.
Roots erupted from the earth, coiling around ankles and throats.
A harpy that dove too low was caught between two trunks that slammed together, cutting off its shriek instantly.
The forest was hunting.
An oak's branches wrapped around a harpy mid-flight, pulling it into the trunk where the bark split open like a mouth and swallowed it whole.
Vines dropped from above, forming nooses that snapped necks with efficient brutality.
The very air under the canopy became thick, hostile to the mountain creatures, choking them with pollen and sap.
The moth wove between the carnage, following paths that opened just for them. Beside them, the raven carrying Thaine and Karse navigated the chaos, both mounts knowing exactly where the forest would strike next. Behind them, harpy shrieks turned from hunting cries to sounds of terror and pain.
One harpy, faster than the rest, managed to avoid the trees and lunged for Briar. Its talons were inches from her when a branch as thick as her waist swept it from the air, slamming it into a trunk with a wet crack that meant it would never fly again.
The pursuit ended as suddenly as it began.
The remaining harpies fled back toward the mountains, leaving their dead tangled in branches and buried in bark.
The forest settled slowly, branches returning to normal positions, roots sinking back into earth.
But Briar could still feel the watchfulness, the readiness to kill anything that threatened their lord.
They flew in silence after that, deeper into the forest where the trees grew ancient and the air tasted of old magic.
When the moth finally descended into the grove, setting down on soft moss, Briar could still hear the occasional distant shriek of a harpy discovering that one of its companions had been taken by the trees.
The forest had welcomed them home with blood, and she wasn't sure if that should comfort or terrify her.
The grove was quiet except for normal forest sounds—no shrieking harpies, no sound of pursuit.
Just the whisper of wind through leaves and the distant call of a normal, properly-sized owl.
They were safe, for the moment, but Briar could feel the weight of everything that had just happened settling over them.
Eliam hadn't moved from where he'd slumped against an oak trunk, his hand pressed to his shoulder where blood still seeped between his fingers. The ice blade had left more than just a wound—she could see frost spreading slowly from the injury, white tendrils creeping across his skin.
"Let me see," Thaine said, crouching beside him with professional efficiency.
Eliam removed his hand reluctantly, revealing the deep puncture wound.
Ice crystals glinted within it, and more concerning was the second wound lower down where Malachar's blade had found the space between his ribs during their fight.
Both wounds wept blood steadily, and the flesh around them had gone gray-white with cold.
"Ice magic," Thaine stated the obvious. "It's preventing the wounds from closing. You need to burn it out or it'll reach your heart."
Eliam nodded, his jaw clenched as he placed his palm over the shoulder wound. Green light flickered weakly, forest magic trying to purge winter's touch. The ice fought back, and Eliam made a sound of pain through gritted teeth as the two magics warred in his flesh.
The frost receded slightly but didn't disappear. He tried again, and this time Briar saw him sway, exhaustion written across his features. The shadow walking, the summoning, the fight—it had all taken its toll, and now this healing was draining what little remained.
Frederick, who had been quiet in his bowl on the ground beside Karse, suddenly became agitated. The sprite swirled in tight circles, creating a tiny waterspout that splashed over the rim.
"What's wrong with it?" Karse asked, his voice still rough from the cold he'd endured.
Frederick's response was to flow completely out of his bowl, something Briar had rarely seen him do. He formed a tiny rivulet on the forest floor, moving with determined purpose toward the trees.
"Frederick?" Briar struggled to her feet, concerned. The sprite had been so weak in the mountain, and now he was expending energy he couldn't spare.
The rivulet of water reached the base of a moss-covered boulder and began flowing up it, defying gravity in the way only magical water could. At the top, Frederick reformed into his sprite shape and began gesturing frantically back the way he'd come.
"I think he wants us to follow," Briar said.
"We don't have time for—" Thaine began, but Eliam cut him off with a raised hand.
"The sprite's found something." Eliam pushed himself to his feet with visible effort, fresh blood seeping through his shirt. "Water knows water. We follow."
Frederick led them through the trees, staying visible as a ribbon of water that gleamed in the moonlight. The path wound between ancient oaks and over moss-covered stones, and gradually Briar became aware of a change in the air. It grew warmer, heavier, carrying a faint mineral scent.
They heard it before they saw it—the soft bubbling of water over stone. Frederick disappeared over a small rise, and when they crested it, Briar saw what he'd found.
The hot spring was nestled in a natural depression, surrounded by smooth stones worn by centuries of mineral-rich water.
Steam rose from its surface in gentle wisps, and the water itself was crystal clear despite the late hour, somehow luminous from within.
Frederick was already there, floating in the shallows where the temperature was bearable for him, his form more solid and healthy-looking than she'd seen since they'd left the Star Court.
"Clever sprite," Thaine admitted, then looked at Eliam. "The heat might help draw out the ice magic."
Eliam was already moving toward the spring, though his steps were unsteady. He sat heavily on one of the smooth stones at the edge, working to remove his blood-soaked shirt with trembling fingers. The movement pulled at both wounds, making him hiss through his teeth.
"You two keep watch," Briar said to Thaine and Karse. "Please."
Thaine looked like he might argue, but something in her expression stopped him. He nodded once and moved back toward the trees, taking position where he could watch the approaches. Karse followed more slowly, still recovering from his imprisonment but understanding the need for privacy.
Briar approached Eliam carefully, kneeling beside him on the stones. Up close, she could see how bad the wounds really were. The ice had spread further while they walked, creating patterns like frozen veins beneath his skin.
"You need to get in the water," she said softly. "The heat will help."
"I know." But he didn't move immediately, just sat there breathing carefully, gathering strength.
She helped him with his boots, her fingers working the laces when his own couldn't manage the task. The simple domesticity of it, after everything that had happened, made her chest tight with emotion she couldn't name.
When she finished with his boots, he stood slowly and began working at the fastenings of his trousers. His movements were stiff, pained, and she could see him struggling with the simple task. Without thinking, she reached to help, then stopped, her hands hovering uncertainly.
"I can manage," he said, but his fingers fumbled at the ties, slick with blood from his wounds.
She helped anyway, keeping her touch clinical, practical. This was about healing, about necessity. When he finally stepped into the spring, the sound that escaped him was part relief, part agony as the hot water hit the ice-infected wounds.
He sank down until the water reached his chest, bracing himself against the smooth stones at the spring's edge. The mineral-rich water turned pink around him as it worked to clean the blood from his injuries. She could see the ice magic fighting the heat, steam rising where the two forces met.
Briar hesitated at the edge, still fully dressed in the gown from Malachar's castle. It was ruined anyway—blood-stained, torn, smelling of fear and mountain cold. And Eliam needed help. The wounds on his back, where the ice blade had entered, he couldn't reach properly himself.
She unlaced the dress with efficient movements, letting it fall to pool at her feet. The shift beneath was thin, already damp with sweat and blood—his and hers. She kept it on as she slipped into the water, the heat a shock after the cold of recent days.
The mineral-rich water reached just below her ribs, the thin shift clinging to her skin, transparent now but she couldn't bring herself to care. Eliam's breathing had gone shallow, controlled—the way it did when he was fighting not to show pain.
Steam rose between them, carrying the scent of earth and stone and something green that belonged to him despite the blood.
The ice crystals in his wounds fought the spring's heat, creating wisps of vapor where opposing magics met.
She moved behind him, careful not to disturb the water too much, and sucked in a breath at what she saw.
The entry wound was worse from this angle. The ice had spread in veins across his shoulder blade, the skin around it that terrible gray-white of frostbite. Lower, where Malachar's blade had found the gap between ribs, blood still seeped steadily, refusing to clot.
"This is going to hurt," she warned, though they both knew it already hurt, would continue hurting until the ice magic was purged or killed him.
"Do it." His voice came out rough, tired in a way she'd never heard from him.
She cupped water in her palms, letting it heat her skin before pouring it directly over the shoulder wound.
His whole body tensed, muscles locking beneath her touch, but he made no sound.
The ice hissed, fighting the heat, and she saw one crystal actually crack and fall away, leaving raw flesh behind.
Again. Cup the water, pour it over the wound.
Watch the ice fight and slowly, slowly lose.
The warmth in her chest pulsed with each repetition, reaching toward him, wanting to help but not knowing how.
She could feel it pressing against the boundaries of her ribs, desperate to flow into him the way it had during the summoning.
"Why did you come for me?" The question escaped before she could stop it, her hands still working, still pouring heated water over wounds that should never have been earned in her defense.
His head turned slightly, not enough to see her but enough to acknowledge the question. "You know why."
"I don't." Another pour of water, another hiss of dying ice. "You cast me out. Made me prey. You were done with me."
"I was angry." The admission came grudgingly, pulled from him like thorns from flesh. "You freed my brother. You betrayed—"
"I made a mistake." Her voice cracked. "I thought I was saving someone like me, someone human and trapped and forgotten. I never meant—"
"I know." Two words, soft enough she almost missed them over the bubble of the spring.
The ice in his shoulder wound had receded to a few stubborn crystals embedded deep. She worked at them carefully, using her fingers now to direct the heated water precisely where it needed to go. Each touch made the warmth in her chest pulse harder, reaching through her hands toward him.
"Karse claimed me," she said, needing him to know though not sure why. "Said I belonged to him because I freed him from chains."
Eliam's laugh was dark, unamused. "The Drak can claim whatever he wishes. It doesn't make it true."
Would now be the moment to tell him what else had happened with Karse?
The thought of confessing that desperate coupling on the Star Court's terrace made her stomach turn.
Not from shame exactly, but from the knowledge of how it would hurt him—and more confusingly, the certainty that it would hurt him, despite everything.
"The collar," she said instead, her fingers finding the marks it had left on her throat, already bruising dark. "Malachar's collar. It fed on defiance, on anger, on any attempt to fight. It was killing me just for wanting to reach you."
His hand rose from the water, fingers covering hers where they pressed against her throat. The touch was gentle, careful of the bruising, but she felt him trembling—whether from pain or rage, she couldn't tell.
"He'll never touch you again," Eliam said, and there was something final in it, a promise written in blood and thorns.
The last of the ice cracked away from his shoulder wound. The flesh beneath was raw, angry, but no longer infected with winter magic. She moved her attention to the lower wound, the one still seeping steadily.
"This one's deeper," she observed, seeing how the ice had worked its way between his ribs, dangerously close to vital organs.
"I'm aware." His hand dropped back to brace against the stone, and she saw his knuckles go white with the grip.
The warmth in her chest suddenly surged, pushing outward so forcefully she gasped. It wanted out, wanted to flow into him, wanted to heal what winter had broken. Without thinking, she pressed her palm flat against the wound.
The warmth poured through her hand into his flesh like liquid sunlight.