14. Buried Paths #2
He turned sharply to his soldiers commanding the ranks as though he were back on the battlefield. "Search the homes and barns, check every cellar and storage room. Leave nothing untouched. She is no longer running." His grip tightened on the cloth. "She's hiding."
And that meant she was tired. Which meant she was almost his again.
Snow compressed under his boots as he left the square, the storm of soldiers behind him tearing the town apart, voices raised in protest, children crying, doors kicked in.
He hardly heard them. He had trained himself to strip the world down to silence when he needed to listen, when he needed to feel the pull of the tether guiding him toward her.
He moved through the alleys behind the marketplace, where the snow turned thin and shadows clung to stone walls like secrets.
A gust of wind stirred through the alley, and with it came a warmth achingly familiar. He stopped abruptly zeroing in on the recognizable scent of fruit. Sweet and warm with a faintly tropical edge.
His eyes narrowed. Such a strange scent for this province in winter. He turned toward a leaning stack of broken crates by an abandoned stall. The canvas above it fluttered in the wind, edges torn and frayed, but the snow beneath had been disturbed recently.
Malec dropped into a crouch. There, half-buried in frost, lay the rotted core of a fruit.
Peach-like. Its skin collapsed inward, juice frozen into crystalline amber veins.
He lifted it carefully. Teeth marks pressed deep into the flesh, small and human.
The size was wrong for Awyan teeth, too delicate for anyone but her. And far too fresh for coincidence.
Malec brushed a thumb through the thin frost clinging to the pulp, and then he saw it.
A single strand of hair, wiry and black, caught in the sticky fibers.
His chest seized as his heart stuttered once before thundering, his blood rushing hot through his veins.
He plucked the hair delicately between gloved fingers and raised it to his face.
The tether inside him roared, golden and violent, confirming what his eyes already told him.
"She's here," he whispered, his voice reverent like prayer.
Behind him, Luko's boots crunched against the slush as he hurried forward, breathless. "Malec?"
Malec didn't turn. His eyes stayed fixed on the relic in his hand, on the proof. "She's no more than a day ahead of us. Possibly less." He rose slowly, and the wind caught his cloak, snapping it wide like the unfurling of wings. The entire square seemed to hold its breath.
"Send riders south," he ordered, voice quiet but lethal. "Move in stealth with no lights or banners to announce our approach."
He closed his fist around the fruit's core. The frozen pulp cracked under the pressure, juice spilling cold down his glove.
"She's running out of places to hide."
It had been weeks since she narrowly escaped Malec's reach.
He had gotten too close, forcing Kalemon and Allora to find shelter off grid just to keep from being discovered.
They had been laying low, weaving through back roads and making strategic detours before finally reaching the coastlands.
They had long since traded their horses for food and coin, forced to downgrade to a pair of tired, stubborn mules.
Rain fell in sheets, soaking through their cloaks, the swollen sky grumbling with thunder but never striking.
Allora rode sidesaddle, her back aching, one hand resting protectively against the soft swell beneath her ribs.
She had been hiding for three months now, skirting patrols and soldiers who carried her face on paper.
It felt impossible, surreal, but her body told the truth she couldn't outrun.
Her hips ached with every movement. Her steps dragged like lead.
Sleep, when it came at all, was fragile and filled with dreams she refused to speak aloud.
Kalemon rode ahead, her hood drawn low, her weathered face set in focus.
They had been riding since nightfall through fog, snow, and now relentless rain.
The air was warmer here, if not kinder. The town clung to the cliffs, the sea's salt piercing in the wind. Smoke curled from chimneys like crooked fingers beckoning them closer. It wasn’t home but it was a shelter.
They arrived in silence. Kalemon slid down from her mule with the groan of an old soldier, handing the reins to a waiting stable boy.
Allora followed more slowly, every movement careful and deliberate.
She adjusted her scarf, tugging the fabric down to hide the curve of her belly beneath the folds of her dark cloak.
The tavern was louder than she liked. Warm, yes, but crowded with wet cloaks dripping from wall pegs, air thick with firewood smoke, fish stew, and pipe tobacco. Kalemon gave her a short nod. "Stay here. I know the owner."
Obedient, Allora moved to a worn table near the hearth. The chair groaned beneath her as she lowered herself onto it, her breath still short from the ride. She folded her hands in her lap, kept her gaze low.
Then something shifted.
She felt it before she saw it. A pull in the air, subtle but undeniable.
Her eyes flicked up, and there, across the tavern, sat a cloaked figure.
Blue velvet, constellations stitched in gold, stars glinting like warnings in the firelight.
Their hood shadowed their face. A pipe dangled from their lips, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling beams. Boots crossed on the table, posture relaxed. Watching her.
Allora's breath caught. Her hands curled into fists beneath the table. It was them, the one from the market, the one who had handed her fruit with that eerie warning. Instinct screamed at her to run, to vanish, but her body stayed frozen, caught in the gaze of a dangerous predator.
The figure tipped their head slightly. Greeting? Dare? Purple smoke puffed from the pipe, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world.
"Kalemon..." Allora whispered.
But Kalemon was still at the bar, laughing with the tavern owner, blissfully unaware.
Allora rose, shadows stretching behind her cloak, and crossed the room stiffly. The stranger made no move, only gestured with slow deliberation toward the chair across from them. Reluctance stiffened every step, but Allora sat.
What passed between them was wordless and charged, and it went on long enough to irritate her. Allora narrowed her eyes beneath her hood and leaned forward. "Alright. I'll bite," she said coldly. "Who the hell are you, and what do you want?"
The figure shifted, smoke wreathing their face. The scent was earthy, faintly floral, curling into her nose. When the voice came, low and androgynous, it was steady as stone. "I'm no one important. Just here to observe. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Allora scoffed. "Well, I don't like being observed."
The pipe glowed faintly as they exhaled, blowing a lazy stream of smoke directly into her face.
Allora waved it aside, pushing her chair back. "You know what? Forget it. I don't care who you are." She turned to rise.
But a gloved hand reached forward, placing a round flat object on the table with a quiet, heavy clink.
A coin. Pale, silver-white, glowing faintly in the firelight. Engraved with layered sigils, house emblems, judicial seals. The kind only the highest-ranking Awyans carried.
Real. Powerful. Worth five horses, a ship, a new life.
Allora froze, her breath catching.
The figure's voice slipped through the haze of smoke, calm and faintly amused. "Three questions. You answer them honestly, and the coin is yours."
Her eyes flicked toward Kalemon across the room, still unaware of the danger. Slowly, Allora sat back down. "And when I'm done," she said carefully, "you'll answer mine."
"Of course."
She glared at the smoke drifting between them. "And put out that damn pipe. I'm with child over here."
The figure paused. The ease went out of their posture, replaced by a tension that hadn't been there before. "Really?" The word came slowly, strangely fascinated. "That changes things."
Allora got the sense that this figure already knew about her and was here to probe and gather intelligence for purposes she couldn't yet discern.
Then, with a faint chuckle, the figure tapped the pipe against the table's edge, scattering the last ember into the ashtray. They placed it aside with deliberate care, then leaned back, folding their gloved hands neatly in their lap.
Their hood still masked their face, but Allora could feel their gaze on her, steady and probing, heavy as a hand pressing against her chest.
The tavern noise dulled to a distant hum. The clatter of bowls, the bark of laughter, the scrape of chairs faded into background noise, leaving only the coin between them. Pale silver-white, glowing faintly in the firelight, shining like a frozen moon.
Allora leaned back slowly, folding her own arms in mirrored defiance.
She forced her breathing steady, burying her nerves beneath a mask of cool indifference.
But inside, her pulse drummed fast and hot.
Every instinct screamed danger. This could be a mercenary, an assassin, one of Malec's spies sent to test her loyalty.
What if he'd sent this one to reel her in with riddles instead of chains?
And then the first question came.
"If freedom were truly yours, without walls or chains, would you choose to run from him or back to him?"
The words dropped like stones into her stomach.
Her throat bobbed as her gaze flicked to the coin as if the silver could anchor her. She hated the question. Resented it even more that it made her hesitate. Because the truth was, she didn't know completely.
Still, she forced her mouth to move. "From him," she said flatly, the words clipped and cold.