12. Ash
Ash
The next day was a tactical catastrophe. If anything, day one had been the golden age of our journey.
We’d barely doused the campfire—literally, the ashes were still warm—when the first halt was called. Then another. And another. Claire Briarwood possessed the bladder of a terrified, highly anxious field mouse.
Our entire strategic timeline had devolved into a series of petty negotiations, emergency roadside conferences, and outrageous demands, occasionally occurring within three hundred yards of each other.
The sacred rhythm of the road was dead, hacked into bloody pieces by a woman who apparently thought travel was a series of brief intervals between sitting down.
Start. Stop. Start. Stop.
My jaw was clenched so hard I was pretty sure I’d ground my molars down to dust by noon.
Even Esther was entirely done with this charade; her ears were pinned back so far they were practically flat against her skull, her muscles bunching beneath me in a shared, silent prayer for a rogue thunderstorm to end our misery.
Caspian was trying to pretend he was handling it, but I’ve known the kid too long.
I saw the telltale flare of his nostrils.
I saw the tiny, rhythmic twitch in his left eyelid.
He was losing his mind, too—he just had too much pride to admit it.
Instead, he maintained his nauseating “chivalrous gentleman” facade—helping her down, offering encouraging nods, and speaking to her in that calm, steady tone you used with a toddler that was seconds from a meltdown.
At this rate, bandits or wild animals wouldn’t even have to hunt us down; they’d just have to wait at the border until we finally made it through.
My shoulders went rigid as Claire’s voice called out again. Don’t say it. The words sat right there on my tongue, ready to cut through the situation like a blade.
Something about holding her damn bladder. Something about not being made for the road. Something about how this wasn’t a leisurely countryside stroll.
I bit down hard instead. The leather creaked beneath my grip as I stared straight ahead, forcing my attention back to the road stretching out before us.
Long, endless, and moving far too slowly for my liking.
If I was entirely, brutally honest with myself, none of this was really Claire’s fault.
Claire didn’t know any better. She was a product of living in a small town for her entire life.
And really, we weren’t breaking any rules.
Garrick hadn’t given us a strict timeline; he’d only given a single, unyielding directive: Bring Briarwood to Norwich untouched.
But every time Garrick’s name crossed my mind, a dark, hot surge of red flooded my vision.
This was my final ticket out—my last debt paid.
I had spent years buying my freedom one dangerous contract at a time, and now I was exactly one safe delivery away from washing my hands of his bloody business forever.
I didn’t want a leisurely stroll through the countryside.
I wanted to gallop, deposit the high-born baggage, collect my freedom papers, and never look back.
But instead of a straightforward ride, Garrick had saddled me with a person I genuinely didn’t know how to handle.
I had escorted hardened criminals, paranoid merchants, and tight-lipped wealthy merchants.
I knew how to deal with threats you could swing at.
I did not know how to deal with someone as entirely flighty as Claire Briarwood.
She didn’t look at the horizon for ambush spots; she looked at it to admire the damn cloud formations.
Every bounce of the carriage felt like another second trapped under Garrick’s thumb.
I loosened my white-knuckled grip on the reins just enough to keep from breaking them, staring at the winding dirt path ahead.
If I didn’t find a way to speed this circus up, the road wasn’t the only thing that was going to snap.
We crested the rise just as Thornell came into view. The road dipped gently downward, and Thornell unfolded beneath us. The buildings sat close together here, wood worn and weathered. Thornell was the last place that still felt like civilization before the world beyond began to unravel.
Smoke curled from chimneys, voices carried on the breeze, and people went about their lives filling the air with a steady hum.
Children darted through the streets, weaving between adults carrying baskets of bread and bundles of produce.
The scent of fresh loaves, roasted meat, and sugary baked goods hit my nostrils, drifting from somewhere I couldn’t see.
My gaze landed on the tavern named Journey’s End before anything else. Finally.
The familiar shape of the crooked sign silhouetted against light spilling warmly from within felt like a promise of food and drink.
A stable boy no older than fifteen rushed forward the moment we rolled in, eager and wide-eyed. He took the reins without hesitation as I swung down from the saddle, boots hitting cobblestone with a satisfying thud.
Behind me, Caspian was already at the carriage, offering his hand. Claire took it like she’d done so her entire life. When her feet touched the ground, she wobbled.
I narrowed my eyes, watching her steady herself. Seriously? There was no way sitting in a carriage could leave someone that unbalanced.
Right?
I studied her for a moment, trying to see it from her side, but it was difficult.
She’d been raised in a village, on a farm.
She should’ve had some kind of endurance, some kind of tolerance for this.
But the way she moved was so careful, uncertain—like her body wasn’t used to being pushed that way.
I exhaled through my nose, dragging my attention away.
It didn’t matter. We all needed rest and food.
Journey’s End was warm when we stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of ale and food left to burn over the fire. Voices overlapped, and in the corner, a bard plucked a lute that had seen better days.
We grabbed a table. Our food came quickly: bowls of stewed vegetables and potatoes with bread on the side.
I ate mine in minutes. By the time I looked up, my bowl was empty, and Claire was still picking.
She nudged a piece of potato around, took a few small bites of vegetables, and then after a polite pause, she pushed the bowl away, barely touched.
I frowned. She wouldn’t survive long out here wasting food like that. But she just sat there, hands folded neatly, eyes drifting toward the bard. He was off-key, uneven, missing notes entirely and yet Claire watched him like he was remarkable. She was almost entranced.
I followed her gaze for a moment, then looked away. I didn’t get the fascination. Caspian and I ordered ale. One turned into two. Maybe three. The burn of it settled in my chest, the familiar warmth grounding me in a way the rest of the day hadn’t.
Claire didn’t drink; she just listened and watched like this was an evening worth remembering.
Eventually, we stood, paid, and went up to our rooms. Tomorrow, we’d be back on the road.