31. Kessara
KESSARA
The steady rhythm of hoofbeats against muddy earth pounds through my chest like a second heartbeat, each strike marking another moment my siblings remain lost. Zerion's arms encircle me with warmth that does nothing to chase away the ice in my veins, his chest solid against my back as we follow the wagon tracks deeper into the forest.
The rain has gentled from the earlier downpour, but cold droplets still find ways to slip beneath my collar and trickle down my spine. I press closer against Zerion's heat, hating how much I need the comfort of his presence when fury should be the only thing sustaining me right now.
"How much further?" The words scrape from my throat, roughened by tears I refuse to let fall again and the kind of desperation that claws at my chest with every breath. "How long until we find them? Until we bring them home where they belong?"
The question hangs in the damp air between us, carried away on the wind that rustles through the trees overhead.
I hate how small my voice sounds, how the fear bleeds through despite my efforts to contain it.
Hate that I'm asking questions he cannot possibly answer with certainty, but I need something—anything—to anchor myself to in this nightmare.
His breath warms the shell of my ear as he leans down, the movement deliberate and controlled even on equuback. When he speaks, his voice communicates that steady confidence I've somehow learned to rely on even when everything else crumbles and falls apart around us like ash.
"Soon."
The single word is both promise and reassurance, delivered with such unwavering certainty that I almost believe it. Almost.
The promise hangs between us like morning mist rising from the forest floor, fragile and impossible to grasp with trembling fingers.
I want to believe him with every fiber of my being, need to believe him more than I've needed anything in my entire life, but doubt gnaws at whatever remains of my composure with sharp, relentless teeth.
What if we're too late? What if whoever took them has already hurt them, or worse—what if we never find them at all?
What if they're calling for me right now and I can't hear them?
"Stop."
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, using the sharp pain to anchor myself before the spiraling thoughts can drag me under again into that dark place where nothing exists except terror and helplessness.
The metallic taste of blood spreads across my tongue, grounding me in the present moment.
Bran, Lysa, and Tobin are alive. They have to be alive because the alternative—the possibility that they might not be—will destroy whatever fragile remains of my sanity I've managed to cling to throughout this endless, horrible night.
The equus beneath us shifts restlessly, picking up on the tension radiating from both riders. Its hooves squelch in the mud as Zerion guides it around deeper ruts carved by wagon wheels, following the trail that leads ever deeper into territory I've never explored.
Trees press close on either side of the narrow road, their branches forming a canopy that blocks most of the weak moonlight struggling through the clouds. Shadows dance between the trunks, creating shapes that could hide anything or anyone watching our progress.
"My lord!"
Draven's voice slices through the night air like a blade, sharp with urgency that makes my pulse spike. The captain raises his fist, and the entire search party draws to an immediate halt. Leather creaks as riders shift in their saddles, hands moving instinctively toward weapon hilts.
Zerion urges our mount forward until we draw alongside Draven's position. The captain's weathered face appears grim in the pale light, his gray-streaked hair still damp from the earlier rain. He points toward a cluster of broken branches hanging at odd angles from a massive oak.
"There. Recently snapped, probably within the last few hours."
My eyes follow his gesture, and my heart lurches as I spot the obvious signs of passage. Branches torn away at shoulder height, bark scraped from tree trunks, and most damning of all—a set of wagon tracks veering sharply off the main road and disappearing into the dense undergrowth.
"That's where they went." The certainty hits me like lightning, electric and undeniable.
Zerion's arms tighten around my waist, his body coiling with predatory tension that I can feel in every line of his frame. When he speaks, his voice carries death in its depths.
"Draven, have three riders and block the crossroads to the east and south. Nothing passes without inspection." Zerion's voice carries along the night air with military precision. "Send Thale ahead on foot to scout the path."
Each muscle in my body coils with the desperate need to move, to act, to do something other than sit here while my siblings remain lost in the darkness. I twist in the saddle to face him, my hands fisting in the fabric of his coat.
"We should all go. Every second we waste—"
"Is a second we spend ensuring we don't walk into an ambush." His ghostly eyes capture mine, steady and implacable. "They took children to draw us out, sweet. Rushing blindly forward serves their purpose, not ours."
The logic burns like acid in my throat, caustic and bitter, but I swallow the protest clawing its way up from my chest with desperate, grasping fingers.
He's right. Of course he's right. Every tactical bone in his body, honed by a century and a half of existence, knows how to approach this kind of danger.
But knowing that, accepting the cold truth of his words, doesn't make the waiting any less excruciating—doesn't stop my hands from trembling where they grip his coat, doesn't slow the wild hammering of my heart against my ribs.
Draven wheels his mount around with practiced efficiency, the equus responding to his command before he's even finished the motion. He's already selecting riders with quick, economical gestures, his face set in grim lines. "You heard Lord Morvath. Move."
The men respond instantly, peeling off in different directions with the precision of soldiers who've trained together for years. I watch them disappear into the darkness, each one taking a piece of my desperate hope with them.
Thale dismounts with fluid grace that seems almost inhuman in its smoothness, his boots touching the ground without so much as a whisper of sound.
He checks his weapons with methodical care—knife at his belt, short sword across his back, something that might be a small crossbow tucked into his coat.
Then he's moving, melting into the undergrowth like a shadow given purpose, like darkness returning to its natural home.
Within seconds, I can't see even a hint of his passage, as if the forest has simply swallowed him whole.
The silence that follows his departure presses against my eardrums with physical weight, oppressive and suffocating.
It's broken only by the restless shifting of equus, their nervous whickering and stamping hooves, and the distant, mournful drip of water from rain-soaked branches somewhere in the canopy above us.
Each drop sounds like a clock ticking down, measuring out seconds we can't afford to lose.
They're okay. The mantra loops through my mind with desperate, clinging intensity, a prayer to gods I've never believed in.
They're okay. They're okay. They're okay.
Terrified, yes. Confused and scared and probably crying in the darkness.
But okay. Alive. Breathing. Waiting for me to find them.
They have to be okay because the alternative—the thought of Lysa's wide hazel eyes going dark, of Tobin's mischievous grin fading forever, of Bran's protective shoulders going still—will shatter me into pieces too small to ever reassemble, will break something fundamental in my soul that can never be repaired.
Zerion's hand finds mine where it grips his coat, his fingers warm and callused as they cover my trembling knuckles. The simple contact anchors me when panic threatens to drag me under again.
Time stretch like hours before Thale emerges from the darkness, his expression grim in the pale moonlight.
"The path's overgrown but passable. Easy to track the wagon through the brush.
" He pauses, and my heart sinks at the hesitation in his voice.
"But once it clears the undergrowth, the trail splits.
Two directions, both with fresh tracks."
"Damn." The curse slips out, bitter with helplessness.
My chest tightens until each breath feels like drowning. How are we supposed to choose? What if we pick wrong and waste precious time while whoever has them gets further away?
Zerion's arms tighten around me, his voice carrying that unshakeable confidence that has become my lifeline in the storm of fear threatening to consume me.
"We continue to the split, then divide our forces. Draven takes half the men toward the countryside. I'll lead the others toward Millhaven."
The certainty in his tone steadies the wild hammering of my pulse. He speaks like victory is inevitable, like finding Bran, Lysa, and Tobin is simply a matter of following the right steps in the correct order.
And despite everything—despite the terror and uncertainty and the voice in my head screaming that we might already be too late—I believe him.