Chapter 12 West #2
Eira spread them carefully across a fallen log and spent several minutes studying the markings, tracing the road she had followed through the mountains, the river crossings, and the trade routes leading west. Eventually her finger settled on a small settlement marked near the edge of a crossroads.
According to the map, it was the nearest village and the last reliable place to find supplies before continuing toward her sister's lands.
A faint sense of satisfaction settled inside her because, for once, she wasn't following someone else's directions but finding her own way.
The village appeared shortly before sunset.
Smoke rose from dozens of chimneys and drifted above snow-covered rooftops, while stone cottages clustered around a broad central road where merchants, farmers, and travelers moved about their business despite the cold.
The sight brought her horse's ears forward immediately, and Eira suspected the mare had recognized the promise of a stable before she had.
For a long moment she remained at the edge of the settlement, watching and listening as life unfolded around her.
No one paid her any particular attention.
A pair of merchants argued while unloading barrels from a wagon, children raced through the snow beside a well, and an elderly woman scolded someone from a doorway.
Life continued without urgency, fear, or politics, and without anyone caring who her father was.
The realization felt almost surreal.
Eira pulled her hood lower and guided the mare toward the village.
The inn stood near the center of the settlement, larger than the surrounding buildings and warm with firelight spilling from its windows. Conversations drifted through the open doorway, accompanied by occasional bursts of laughter that made her hesitate briefly before stepping inside.
Heat wrapped around her almost immediately, and after days of cold wind and mountain snow the warmth felt overwhelming.
Several heads turned as she entered, but none remained interested for long because travelers came and went constantly in places like this, and she was simply another stranger passing through.
The innkeeper looked up from behind the counter.
"Room?"
Eira nodded.
"For one night."
The woman named a price, and Eira froze as an embarrassingly obvious realization struck her.
Of course, she needed money.
In Ironfang she had spent her time thinking about food, horses, routes, weather, supplies, and escape, but money had never crossed her mind because she had never needed it before.
For a brief moment uncertainty tightened in her chest before she reached beneath her cloak and retrieved one of the smaller valuables that had survived the journey: a silver hair ornament from Frostvein.
It was nothing extravagant by noble standards, yet it was worth far more than a night's lodging.
The innkeeper's eyebrows rose slightly.
Eira already knew she was overpaying, but she also knew she had little choice.
The woman examined the piece before nodding.
"It'll do."
Relief arrived immediately.
The room was small but clean, and more importantly the mare received a stall, grain, and a chance to rest, which alone made the exchange worthwhile.
Later, after a hot meal that tasted better than anything she could remember eating in weeks, Eira returned downstairs.
The common room had grown quieter, with only a handful of travelers remaining near the fire while others had already retired for the evening.
The innkeeper glanced up as Eira approached once more.
"Something else?"
Eira hesitated before nodding.
"Paper."
The woman looked surprised.
"And ink."
Her surprise deepened, but she disappeared briefly before returning with both items.
Eira thanked her and carried the supplies upstairs.
Night had fully settled outside by the time she sat beside the narrow window of her room. The paper rested before her while the ink remained untouched, and for a long while she simply stared at them.
The letter should have been easy to write. She had spent days thinking about her sister and imagining what she might say, yet now that the moment had arrived the words refused to come.
Outside, the village had begun settling into silence as snow drifted softly beyond the glass and somewhere below a door closed.
Eira dipped the pen into the ink and finally lowered it to the page.
The first words appeared slowly, written not to a noblewoman, a mother, or the wife of a neighboring lord, but to the sister she had not seen in years.
Maelin.
Eira woke to knocking.
For a brief moment she didn't know where she was as she stared at the unfamiliar ceiling while sleep slowly released its hold.
The warmth of the blankets, the distant murmur of voices downstairs, and the faint scent of woodsmoke all felt strangely disconnected from the mountains she had crossed only days before.
Then memory returned all at once: the village, the inn, and the letter.
She sat upright immediately as another knock sounded at the door.
"Message for you," a voice called from the corridor.
Eira was already crossing the room when she heard it.
The innkeeper's daughter stood waiting outside with a folded piece of parchment in her hand.
"No name," the girl said. "The rider only said it was for the lady staying upstairs."
Eira's pulse quickened as she accepted the letter and closed the door behind her.
For several moments she simply stared at it before finally breaking the seal.
The message was painfully short, but the handwriting was familiar nevertheless, and she recognized it instantly despite the years that had passed.
Tomorrow. Midday.
The old watchtower near Blackwater Hill.
Come alone.
— M.
Eira read the words twice and then a third time.
The message contained no greeting, no questions, and no explanation, yet she could almost feel her sister behind every line—careful, cautious, and afraid that someone else might read it.
A strange mixture of relief and apprehension settled inside her.
Maelin had answered, and that alone felt miraculous.
The rest of the morning passed in restless preparation, and by the time she left the village the sky had cleared completely.
The storm clouds had moved east during the night, leaving behind a pale winter sun and fresh snow glittering across the hills.
The road leading toward Blackwater Hill wound through open countryside where small farms dotted the landscape and stone walls emerged from the snow like weathered scars.
Several times Eira passed travelers heading in the opposite direction, but none paid her any attention.
The further she rode, the quieter the world became, until by late morning the road narrowed and began climbing.
Blackwater Hill rose ahead of her, isolated from the surrounding countryside, while the remains of the old watchtower stood upon its highest point and remained visible long before she reached it.
Time had not been kind to the structure. One wall had collapsed entirely, another leaned at an angle that seemed impossible, and dark stone protruded through snow and winter grass like the bones of something long dead.
The place looked forgotten, which was probably why Maelin had chosen it.
Eira dismounted at the base of the hill and led the mare upward.
The wind strengthened as she climbed, and by the time she reached the ruins her cloak was snapping softly behind her.
No one was there yet, and the realization disappointed her more than it should have.
She moved inside the remains of the tower and waited while the silence gave her far too much room to think.
Years had passed since she had last seen her sister—long enough for faces to change, for children to be born, and for entire lives to unfold.
Eira found herself wondering whether she would recognize Maelin immediately and whether Maelin would recognize her in return.
The thought tightened something beneath her ribs.
She crossed toward the broken edge of the tower and looked out across the hills, where the view stretched for miles over snow-covered fields, dark forests, and thin ribbons of road winding through the countryside.
At first she thought the movement in the distance belonged to another traveler, but then she saw the horse and realized it was a lone rider approaching from the eastern road with slow, deliberate purpose.
Eira's breath caught as the rider drew closer, then closer still, remaining far too distant for details and yet somehow familiar.
Something inside her already knew.
It was not because of the horse or the cloak, but because some recognitions survived time.
The figure crested the final rise below the hill, and for a moment sunlight caught pale hair beneath the hood.
Eira stopped breathing.
Maelin had come after all these years.