23. Cato
Cato
Thulga and Grimhild cook lunch after the chores are done. There's enough food on the table to feed a group three times our size, and enough activity to cover the way my mind won't stop racing. No one else notices my silence, even if Aryn tosses me a few concerned glances.
Everyone showers once more while we have the convenience, and my jacket has to be repaired and laundered—again—but a few hours hanging in front of the fire has it dry and toasty warm.
Before we go, Thulga spends some time looking through the things we have to trade.
She swaps one of Lillith’s sweatshirts for a warm wool sweater and gives Aryn far too much salted meat and grains for a few bags of dried fruits from back home.
I’m not sure what he told her about what they were or where they were grown, but she hugs them to her chest like something precious.
As we’re loading our bags and preparing to leave, she shoves a handful of coins into Aryn’s hand. In true goodie boy fashion, he tries to tell her no, but she insists. Eventually he caves, because despite those picture perfect manners, he knows how useful it will be to have the local currency.
I understand his aversion to taking handouts, even if I have no such hesitations. If he hadn't taken them, I sure as shit would've.
Ronan and Aryn translate as we say goodbye, and Thulga tries to convince us all to stay another night.
While it’s tempting to take them up on their offer and spend another night in a real bed, it does us no favors to delay.
Aryn politely turns her down, but promises we’ll come back to visit if we’re ever in the area again.
It’s nearing midday when we leave the farmhouse. The sun’s actually out for once, and despite the weirdness in my head, I join in the shared good mood. It feels like we’re finally catching a break, though I don’t dare risk saying that out loud.
Aryn and I walk in the back, listening to the others chatter as we scan the terrain.
For a while, we’re quiet, and I let the last few days of conversation play through my mind.
It’s not that I’m a dishonest person necessarily, but openly talking about the shit in my past is new.
I don’t share easily. Bash knows my story, as do Ego and Sakane, but I’ve never told anyone aside from those three.
It feels like admitting a weakness, as ridiculous as I know that is. But after a lifetime of not trusting anyone, handing them the most vulnerable parts of my story feels like ammunition that can only be used against me.
I glance over at Aryn’s profile, remembering the pain in his face when he told me about his family.
The jealousy I feel over his past is stupid—not only because it was so long ago, but because I told him I’m not in this.
He needs someone steady and stable. Someone who isn’t impulsive, combative, and always looking for the next adventure to fill the quiet spaces.
Someone who isn’t me.
I’m self-aware enough to know my personality isn’t for everyone, and I’m certainly not what he needs.
I can’t be.
Aryn said it himself—he likes calm nights of peace and quiet, and I don’t know how to live a life that isn’t surrounded by noise.
It’s always been that way.
I’ve always needed life to be loud enough to drown out my past.
Aryn pulls me out of my head, and we chat as we walk.
It’s nothing deep—just easy conversation about the path ahead, talk about the food we were served and what it’s called, and how things have changed since he’s been here.
It’s light and simple, and doesn’t call for more.
Every so often our arms brush, and neither of us pulls away when it happens.
I should pull away. He’s already admitted he’s getting attached, and it isn’t fair to him when he’s made his stance abundantly clear. Instead, I catch myself wanting to lean into it.
As the afternoon goes on, the forest changes.
Bright patches of color break up all the white and gray we’ve gotten used to.
Sapphire-blue ferns sprout along the path, so bright they nearly glow.
Crimson and gold vines weave between trees and wind along trunks, and little violet and teal flowers peek up from the snow everywhere.
It’s… beautiful. Almost too beautiful for this frozen place.
“These are new,” I say, nodding toward a cluster of the ferns.
Aryn crouches to look closer, running his fingertips over the fronds.
“I know you have a hard time picturing it, but the Elyra I remember was full of color. Back then, these were almost invasive. They’d grow in places no plant should.
They’d pop up in the cracks of village walls and on slate rooftops.
Hells, they’d take up residence in a windowsill after a single afternoon if you didn’t catch the seedlings. ”
“Think it’ll be like that again?” I ask. “If we can actually do this?”
“Having doubts?”
I shrug, glancing at where the others have walked ahead of us, then speak low enough that only he can hear me.
“Every mission I go into, I try to be realistic, you know? Obviously, I aim for success, but there’s always a contingency plan if something goes wrong. I make sure I can get out, and here…”
“There’s no getting out,” he says with a grim nod. “Sovran had enough faith in his sight to put us on this path. I have to trust his reasons for sending us.”
“He sent you,” I remind him. “You and Ronan were the chosen ones. I was just bored.”
He chuckles softly. “Still, the Fates are never so direct with their intentions.”
“Your people worshipped them, right?”
He nods slowly. “Worshipped is a strong word, but I suppose it fits. We viewed them as our deities, though we never expected anything from them. Others pray to the Fates or the Old Gods, asking them for help or blessings. I like to think we weren’t so selfish.”
“If you weren’t asking for things, what were you doing?”
“Seeking guidance. Showing them we didn’t take for granted the gift they’d given our people.”
I hum, though there’s a healthy dose of skepticism in it. “I’d argue the Fates didn’t do shit for your people. If you give them credit for what Kuu did, doesn’t that take away from her accomplishments?”
“I can see how you might think that,” he says as he tilts his head back and forth.
“In the writings she left behind, Kuu credited the Fates for giving her the strength to follow through with her plans. Who am I to deny her that?” I grunt, not wanting to burst his bubble by arguing further.
He only chuckles at the sound. “I take it you don’t believe in a higher power? ”
“Hard to say I don’t when I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” I say with a shrug. “Being a higher power means jack shit if you aren’t using your power for good, though. Living on some superior plane and watching two worlds destroy each other doesn’t seem very godly to me.”
He gets quiet, and I kick myself internally for not just keeping my mouth shut. I reach over and nudge his pinky with mine, the contact like fire even through our layers. He glances over at me in surprise.
“I didn’t mean to insult your beliefs or anything.”
He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze before releasing it. “No, I know. It’s something I’ve thought about a lot over the years. Once I was taken by Zadeus’s people, I struggled with the same concept.”
“Why you?” I ask quietly.
He glances at me with a sad smile. “Yes. Why such a bad thing would happen to a good person. I’m not perfect, not by any means, but I live my life in such a way that doesn’t bring harm to others.”
“It never seemed fair,” I agree.
We’re talking about two different events—two circumstances in life that happened a century apart—but they connect us in a way few others can understand.
Things grow silent between us again, both of us lost in memories, when Ronan holds a hand up. We go on alert, turning to scout behind us, but find nothing of concern.
We face forward to find what’s stolen Ronan’s attention.
A large tree just off the path has been hacked up.
Deep, angry gashes are carved into the trunk, forming some kind of jagged symbol.
Below it, smears of what appears to be old blood stain the bark and exposed roots.
Everyone falls silent, but there’s nothing to hear besides the wind.
Ronan and Lillith search around the tree, but aside from the carvings, there’s nothing out of place.
We continue, guard up.
A little further down the trail, we find a campsite with obvious signs of a struggle.
Thick hide tents are bloodstained and slashed, and even with the fresh snow on top, there are gouges in the ground that look suspiciously like bodies being dragged away.
A piece of a tent has been nailed to the tree as a crude banner.
I trace the symbol painted on it, an outline of a hand crushing a crown. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say this is the group they were telling us about.”
Ronan nods, gesturing toward some characters painted above the crown. “The Viskari.”
My stomach tightens. “How recent do you think this was?” I ask.
Aryn steps closer to examine the banner. “Within the last few days,” he murmurs as he inspects the symbols.
Ronan’s hand flexes around his hilt as he glances around at the group. “Thulga said they scout the roads. It might be a good idea for us to travel off the path.”
“And go into the creepy woods with these murder monsters?” Cameron demands. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m gonna pass on the death forest.”
Ronan purses his lips, staring into the dense trees like he might find them there watching us. The colorful plants suddenly don’t feel as pretty anymore. They look almost eerie against the signs of violence.
Finally, Aryn releases the hide and lets it flutter back into place. “I have to agree with Ronan. They’re looking for money and supplies, and they’ll be watching the road closely. We’re prime targets with these packs.”