CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #2
A warm breeze swept across the road, stirring the tall grass in slow, sleepy waves.
I blinked up at the sky, at the way the light spilled through thick, dark clouds, smothering everything in gray.
We were finally moving again. Putting distance behind us.
Getting closer to the Kingdom of Alevé. Closer to Licia.
Naturally, a storm had to roll in and slow us down.
But I would see her again.
She wasn’t dead.
The seer had said that she was trapped, in a place with golden buildings, a serpent, and paintings. And I couldn’t help but wonder what being a seer really meant. How did she know what she knew?
Licia used to say that the gods whispered to her. She’d told me that she heard my voice the night I disappeared, said she followed it through the dark.
What else could she do?
What else could I?
I was so caught up in my thoughts I hadn’t even noticed how quiet it had gotten.
At first, I thought it was just us, lost in our own heads.
But then I realized the world had gone quiet too.
A small cluster of houses emerged ahead, and it should have been a comfort.
Maybe I’d finally dare to sleep at an inn again.
I had been sleeping better with the moon drops.
No more incidents.
And my back was starting to ache from curling up on floors in some of the less furnished windsheds.
A real bed felt like a distant dream. Like the one at Iria’s.
For a while, her guest room had felt like a prison—which was unfair, because I suppose I was the prison.
But still, sometimes, I wished we’d never left.
Especially after walking for hours and hours.
The closer we got to the town, the worse it felt.
“Something’s wrong,” I said.
The clouds hung heavy above us, darker with every step. The fields we passed were dead and brittle, scorched patches of earth stretching all the way to the treeline. No workers. No carts. No animals.
Just silence.
Will’s shoulders tensed as he looked up. “Storm’s coming. We need shelter.”
I brushed a single raindrop from my cheek. “We should’ve seen someone by now.”
Aran shifted beside me, his hand resting near the hilt of his knife. “Maybe they’re all at the inn,” he muttered.
Will nodded toward the empty fields. “Then where are the farmers?”
We walked deeper into the town, wind dragging dust across the road. The streets lay silent. Homes blackened. Roofs caved in. And ash drifted through dead gardens like dry snow.
“No one’s been here in a long time,” I said, my voice barely rising above the wind.
Will moved ahead, eyes sweeping over the hollow street. “It looks like—”
“Novil,” I cut in.
“The Eredians haven’t come this far south, have they? We would've heard something.”
“We would’ve?” Aran countered. He crouched down, ran his fingers through the ash, then flung it aside like it would settle the argument. “This was them. Something wrong with your eyes, Will?”
I turned to Will. “You were there. You saw the… the aftermath. Does this look the same?”
“I suppose.” His gaze dropped to the ash underfoot. “Except…”
“Except what?” Aran interrupted.
“There’s no bodies,” Will said, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug, like he wasn’t even sure he wanted to say it out loud.
He was right.
There were no people, dead or alive. No rotting corpses in the street, no blood dried on the cobblestones. No signs of a fight.
As if the entire town had slipped through the cracks of the world. As if they’d been warned. Or hunted. And they ran.
The ones who lived that close to the wall had probably packed what they could carry and left the moment King Devore took the throne. Maybe they’d known what was coming, and the village was burned just to make sure they never returned.
“They weren’t killed.” I kept my eyes on the ground. “They were forced out.”
“Or they were taken.” Aran said. “Killed somewhere else.”
Then the rain started. Cold, harsh, and without warning. The three of us broke into a run, boots slipping in the mud, the storm howling at our backs like it meant to swallow the whole world. Up ahead, a house stood alone at the edge of the field. Not a beauty, but still standing.
Will reached the door first. It creaked open without resistance, and we stumbled inside, soaked and gasping for breath.
Rain pounded the windows, the wind roared through the trees, rattling the cracked panes.
A ghostly haze lingered in the air, untouched for weeks, maybe months.
Coats still hung on the hooks by the door, and a half-finished knit was draped over a chair in the living room, the needles still threaded through the wool, like someone had only stepped away for a moment.
Like they’d meant to come back.
I stood frozen in the doorway, dripping, shivering, my clothes clinging tight to my skin.
The house wasn’t just a house, it had been a home. And no one left a home like that unless they had to.
The master bedroom waited at the end of the hallway. It was too big, and too clean, the bed perfectly made. Waiting.
But not for me.
I didn’t sleep in the bed that night. I couldn’t even bring myself to touch it.
It felt like stepping into a life that wasn’t mine, like someone might return at any moment and find me curled up where I didn’t belong.
So I sank down onto the bench at the foot of the bed instead.
My legs hung limp over the edge, the fabric of my clothes still clinging cold and wet to my skin.
My hair dripped onto the bench, leaving dark spots on the fabric.
Will and Aran had already fallen asleep in separate rooms, worn out after combing the house for supplies, for food.
I didn’t sleep.
My thoughts wouldn’t stop. What had happened in that town?
Why did it feel like Vestance was vanishing, village by village?
How many were gone already? Were we safe there?
Had someone seen us? Were they already on their way?
Would the shadows come back? I barely noticed how long I’d been drifting in circles, until a sound broke through.
I jolted upright, eyes scanning the room.
Had I imagined it?
Then it came again, a cry, louder that time. High-pitched and desperate. Barefoot against the cold floorboards, I crept downstairs. Paused by the door for just a second, before opening it, bracing for the rain that slammed into me, soaking the floor behind me in seconds.
And there, just beyond the step, stood a cat.
Black as soot, her fur matted to her thin frame, drenched and trembling.
Two yellow eyes blinked up at me through the dark, glowing like embers in the storm.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out again.
Just stared. Like she’d been waiting for me.
Like I had taken too long. And behind her, barely visible, were two tiny shapes.
One white, so bright against the mud and rain it almost looked like snow, and the other was speckled gray, like cinder in a hearth.
Their fur stuck to their sides in wet clumps, little ears flat against their skulls, legs shaking as they tried to stay upright behind their mother.
My chest cracked open at the sight of them.
“Oh, gods,” I whispered. “You poor things. Come inside. Come on.” I dropped into a crouch, holding the door wider with my free hand. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
The mother cat hesitated, just for a second, before bolting inside.
The kittens scrambled after her, their paws slipping on the wet boards.
The cats were drawn to the hearth and the fire we’d gotten going earlier to warm ourselves, and heat some soup we’d found.
A shivering pile of fur and tiny bones, the mother curled around them fast, wrapping her body and tail around her kittens like she could still shield them from the cold.
From the world.
Strangely, it brought tears to my eyes, that unconditional, instinctual motherly love. Gods I missed my mother. My innocence. Feeling safe in her arms, sheltered by her love. Protected from all the horrors of the world.
Now I was the protector.
“Okay,” I murmured, glancing over the cats. One of the kittens gave a little shake, flinging droplets everywhere.
“We need a towel. Just a second.”
I slipped into the hallway and dug through a storage closet until I found a few.
“You first,” I whispered, reaching for the mother. She didn’t flinch. Just let me wrap her in the warmth like she trusted me. “There we go. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Her fur was ice-cold. I dried her as gently as I could, then reached for the kittens. The gray-speckled one gave a soft sneeze, shaking water from its ears. Then the white one took a step forward and stumbled. It let out a small, broken cry and limped across the floor.
“Oh no.” I was already moving. “Come here. Let me see you.”
I crouched low and scooped it carefully into my hands. It didn’t struggle. Just trembled against my palms, soaked and hurting. Its hind leg was swollen, bent at an odd angle.
“No wonder you’re crying,” I whispered. It mewled again, trying to pull away. “Shh. Please. Let me help.”
I cupped it gently in both hands. And then came the warmth, a flicker of gold beneath my skin. It didn’t feel forced that time. I didn’t have to think or reach for it. It was just... there.
The kitten stilled, and I felt it—the shift. The slow mending of bone easing back into place, the swelling retreating. She curled into my lap and let out a long, shuddering breath. The other two followed without hesitation.
I was still glowing. Not burning. Just warm, and they purred, loud and steady, so I stayed there, listening to the storm outside as the cats pressed into me like I was sunlight.
Tufts of fur floated through the firelit air, catching in the glow like dust motes. The gray film clung to the baseboards, the windowpanes, the edges of every forgotten surface. Cobwebs drifted from the ceiling beams, gray and delicate, and something about it made my skin itch.