18. Ashes and the Rabbit Holes
Chapter eighteen
Ashes and the Rabbit Holes
Arley every heartbeat a reminder of how close they had come to death.
The Spade soldiers had been relentless, their blows brutal, precise, meant to finish what they had started.
“We’re… alive,” Arley whispered, voice hoarse and rough with exhaustion. He knew the first words Maddox would speak, the first curse, but he held himself back. Survival, for now, demanded silence.
Maddox groaned, attempting to lift his head, only to be pulled down again by Arley’s steady hand. “Not… yet,” Arley said quietly. “If we make a sound, we’re done for. Just—stay still.”
Every muscle burned. Every breath seared. And yet, Arley’s mind raced, calculating, mapping, planning. The rabbit holes—small, hidden passages hidden within Underland. They would need safe passage into the Verdant Wilds, known only to his kind—it was their only chance.
“Can you… move?” Arley asked, testing Maddox’s strength. “Good enough,” Arley muttered.
He whispered the incantation under his breath, a soft vibration of magic that barely stirred the cold air. The edges of reality shimmered around them, the air warping, bending, stretching. Maddox blinked, confusion and fear clouding his features. “What…?”
“Rabbit holes,” Arley said grimly. “And… a little more.” His eyes darkened as he murmured another charm, weaving time and glamor together.
“I pulled us from that moment… suspended it, then dropped us back seamlessly. To everyone else—Scarlett, the Spades—it looked like you, and I died. The bodies she saw? Not us. Guards that looked like us, killed in our place. She believes we’re gone…
and that’s exactly what we need right now. ”
Maddox’s jaw dropped, disbelief clouding his pain. “You… pulled us from time? And she—she saw us die?”
“Yes. But she doesn’t know it. Spade military is none the wiser. We appear to have never left, as if nothing happened. That’s the trick in time manipulation and glamor. The world thinks the scene is over, finished… but it isn’t. Not for us.”
Maddox let out a long, ragged breath, trying to process both relief and the lingering terror of near-death. “So… we’re alive. Truly alive.”
Arley’s lips twitched with a grim, bitter smile. “Barely. But yes. Alive. And now we survive. Heal. And Plan, when the time comes… we find her again. And we make Cyrus regret ever thinking he had her.”
He glanced toward the opening he created in the brush—the air itself shimmered with rippling distortion. “Hold on,” he warned softly. “This part isn’t gentle.”
Before Maddox could respond, the ground beneath them fractured like glass, revealing a spiraling abyss of roots and light. The world folded inward—gravity bending, color bleeding into motion—as Arley dragged them both through a tunnel that smelled of crushed clovers.
The rabbit holes weren’t made for men of flesh and blood; they twisted through the ley lines beneath the realm, humming with the heartbeat of the magic above.
Shadows of other places flickered by, a thousand stolen moments from the in-between—until, with a final lurch, they spilled out into the green.
The small clearing was bathed in the soft, verdant light of the Wilds.
Arley guided Maddox to a bed of moss, lowering him carefully, every movement deliberate.
The Verdant Wilds greeted them with a rush of scent and sound.
It was alive with muted magic, the air thick with the earthy aroma of moss and rain-soaked leaves.
Maddox lay on a moss-covered stone, the bruises and burns on his torso slowly fading under Arley's hands, though every movement still made him wince.
The lingering ache was a constant reminder of how close they had come to death.
“Move slowly,” Arley murmured. “Every shift could tear what’s left together or break it completely.”
Maddox’s core ached with every breath. He began to regain enough strength to sit, then lean against Arley.
His mind churned as he planned their next moves—but he could not ignore the deep, gnawing ache of guilt.
Scarlett believed them dead. She was alone, in Cyrus’ grasp, and every second they remained alive, but absent, was another second of her torment.
Every breath still carried a reminder of the mountain, the blades, and the Spade’s cruelty. “Scarlett…” he whispered, voice ragged, eyes shadowed. “She… she thinks we’re really dead?” He asked, not believing what had actually happened and delirious from the pain.
Arley’s jaw tightened. “She does. And she has to. That illusion keeps her alive a little longer. We’ll return—whole, alive, stronger. And when we do… it’ll hit harder than anything Cyrus expects.”
Arley carefully tended to his own injuries with gloved hands glowing faintly with verdant magic.
His chest rose and fell in measured breaths, red eyes darkened with the storm brewing inside him, scanning the canopy beyond the clearing.
Every rustle, every shifting shadow, kept him alert.
He had learned long ago that the Verdant Wilds could heal the body, but vigilance was required to survive long enough to make use of it.
Once healed enough to move on, they followed a narrow trail through the forest until the trees thinned and the faint glow of lanterns appeared ahead. A crooked sign swung from a post, its lettering worn by time: The Stag Hallow.
A tavern clung to the roots of an enormous oak, smoke curling from a crooked chimney.
The windows were stained glass, each showing a different quadrant depicted in art.
The age of the tavern could be seen in the crusted-over dirt on the windows, the shift of the foundation by the twisted roots.
It wasn’t much—just a refuge for travelers on the Wild’s edge—but to two half-bleeding men on the run from Spades, it was a sanctuary.
Inside, the air was thick with herbs and the scent of woodsmoke and stewed meats.
A few scattered patrons nursed their drinks in silence, eyes lowering as Arley and Maddox entered.
At the far end of the room, behind the counter, stood an older man with dark silver-shot hair and eyes the color of old moss.
He stood taller than the top rack of potions mounted behind the bar.
His skin sunkissed golden, with white hair on his chest peeking out of the V in his green linen shirt.
His apron was adorned with small vials on dainty chains. He looked up—and froze.
“Arley Hallow?” The man’s voice was soft but weighted with years. “By the roots, it is you. I thought you’d gone the way of the ghosts.” He said with a soft chuckle.
Arley’s stiff composure faltered for just a moment. “Elder Rowan.”
The man’s expression melted into a smile, lines deepening at the corners of his eyes.
“You’ve been gone long enough. And now you come stumbling out of the rabbit holes looking half-dead.
Come, both of you, sit. You reek of smoke and shadow.
” He waved them in. “You and your friend both look like you’ve danced with something nasty. ”
Rowan ushered them toward the hearth, muttering under his breath. Arley sank into a chair, fatigue momentarily catching up to him. Maddox stayed standing, restless, his gaze flicking toward the tavern windows where the forest pressed close.
Rowan’s sharp eyes didn’t miss it. “Still jumpy, I see.” He turned to Maddox. “You can relax, lad. No one here’s going to turn you over to the Spades.”
“Forgive him,” Arley said quietly, his tone softening for the first time that night. “He’s not built for peace.”
“Few of us are anymore,” Rowan said, pouring a cup of steeped herbs. He began gathering bowls, herbs, and a small glass vial filled with glimmering green liquid. Maddox sank into a chair near Arley, every movement stiff, his hand still hovering near his sword hilt out of instinct.
“Drink this,” Rowan said, handing him the vial. “Don’t ask what’s in it. You won’t like the answer.”
Arley gave half a grin. “Still mixing Wilds remedies, I see.”
Rowan grunted. “Still saving fools.” He pressed his palms over Maddox’s ribs, and a faint green light bloomed beneath his hands.
The air thickened with the scent of rain and crushed mint.
The glow spread through Maddox’s chest and side, sinking deep into the wounds.
The torn flesh knitted, the bruises faded, and his breathing steadied—though when he shifted, he still hissed in pain.
“That’ll hold,” Rowan said, straightening. “You’ll feel like a herd of iron stags trampled you come morning, but you won’t die.”
“I’ll take it,” Maddox said, rolling his shoulders experimentally. The ache lingered, deep and stubborn, but the bleeding had stopped.
Rowan turned to Arley next. “You’re no better off, boy.”
“I’m better than I look,” Arley muttered.
Rowan arched a brow. “Liar.” He laid his hand against Arley’s chest, murmuring in the old tongue. Verdant light spread like vines, crawling across his skin. When it faded, Arley looked marginally less pale—but exhaustion still shadowed his face.
Arley exchanged a look with Maddox. The warmth of the tavern settled around them like a balm, broken only by the crackle of fire. But peace was short-lived.
The door swung open, spilling in a draft of cool night air. A courier stepped inside—mud-splattered, out of breath, cloak bearing the sigil of the Verdant Council. He clutched a scroll sealed in green wax.