Chapter 72 Food
Food
By the time I reach the outer trees near the Baron’s estate, the palace has disappeared into the dark.
The scent turns to damp leaves, bark, and the faint mineral edge of the ravine, replacing polished floors and perfume.
My boots find the path without thought. I used to run this way as a child, when the walls pressed too close, when I was sent away and expected not to return until called.
Just beyond the garden wall, the trail begins in false order, packed earth, trimmed undergrowth, the illusion of control. Farther in, it breaks. The trees close in, roots split the ground, and the soil softens beneath each step. I leave the path and cut toward the ravine.
I am not here to hide. I am hungry, angry, and done asking permission to survive.
My stomach growls, and only then do I realize how little I brought.
In the rush of anger and humiliation, I brought only the small knife tucked into my cloak, no bow, no arrows, no sword.
Oh well. Fishing will be quieter anyway.
The river is not far from the cave, narrow but deep where it slows and pools, bending around a rise that hides it from the path.
I turn toward the water, where the trees thicken and the ground dips before the ravine.
The air smells of wet bark and moss, the canopy heavy overhead.
I walk without haste, thoughts turning over themselves in low, simmering loops.
Anger at Sevrin. Anger at the Threns for dragging Colsar toward whatever horror waits beyond the mountains.
Anger at myself for bleeding so easily when I lose control.
A branch snaps somewhere behind me. I do not slow. If it is a Thren, then so be it. The sound comes again, closer now, a shift through underbrush, and I turn only when the trees part enough for a figure to step through.
He is beautiful in that unsettling way that makes him unmistakably Thren. White blond hair pulled back from an angular face. Skin dark and luminous as polished obsidian. His eyes catch what little light slips through the canopy. He smiles as if we are meeting at court.
A second figure moves from the opposite side of the path, pale where the first is dark, hair black and loose around his shoulders, mouth curved in something that is almost amused.
“Good evening, beautiful,” the first says lightly. “Do you care to die tonight?”
The words are delivered with such casual elegance that it almost makes me laugh. Instead, I slide the knife from my pocket.
The pale one tilts his head as if disappointed by the lack of gratitude, but they move at the same time, circling, closing the distance between us with the predatory ease of creatures who think the outcome is already decided.
They are wrong. The first lunges. I pivot and drive the blade upward beneath his ribs, twisting hard enough to feel resistance give way.
He hisses, more offended than injured, and strikes back, his hand catching my shoulder, but I roll with the force and use his momentum to drag him to the ground.
The second comes at me from behind and I duck, slicing backward without looking, feeling the blade catch skin. He curses.
They are faster than men, stronger, but I am not untrained and I am not afraid. I move low, controlled, forcing them into each other’s reach, letting their impatience work against them.
The pale one’s hair is dark enough to let me pretend he is Sevrin. When he charges again, I step aside at the last second, driving my knee into the back of his leg before shoving him into a tree hard enough to make bark splinter.
The blond one recovers more quickly, striking with a speed that nearly catches me across the throat, but I catch his wrist and rake the knife along the inside of his forearm, forcing him back with a snarl.
They both go down within moments, stunned and bleeding, breath ragged as they try to understand how a human girl with a pocket knife has bested them.
For a second I expect them to rise again with true intent to kill, but instead they hesitate, exchanging a look that is far too irritated for men who nearly had their throats opened.
“You rushed it,” the pale one mutters, pushing himself up onto one elbow.
“You hesitated,” the other shoots back. “He said not to hesitate.”
They both glance, not at me, but past me. Into the trees.
“He said test her, not kill her,” the pale one adds under his breath, annoyed.
Who the fuck is he? Before I can ask aloud, the forest shifts again.
A third presence moves through the trees, unhurried, as if he has been watching long enough to grow bored.
He steps into view and the air changes. He is taller than the other two, built lean, with dark red hair falling past his shoulders in waves the color of dried wine, thin braids threaded with gold woven through it.
His eyes are deep and unreadable, his olive skin is smooth, flawless in the way that Thren skin always is.
He looks at the two on the ground and clicks his tongue.
“Pathetic.”
His voice is smooth and familiar, brushing against my memory before I can place it.
He looks up at me and smiles, slow and knowing. “Well, well, well,” he says, stepping closer, boots silent, “When I told you to take a nap and wait to be found, I never thought you’d come looking for me. I must be charming.”
The voice clicks into place in my memory.
“You,” I say, staring. “You’re the one from that night.”
“And who saved you from that horse you couldn’t handle,” he adds pleasantly.
I blink. “You’re a Thren? That makes no sense.”
He arches a brow, offended in a way that feels almost theatrical.
“I was going to be kind and indulge in a bit more conversation,” he says, “but you, my dear, are remarkably rude. First the horse. Then the tavern. And still no thank you.”
I hesitate. “I barely remember what happened,” I admit. “But I know enough.”
I meet his eyes. “So… thank you.”
He studies me for a moment, as though weighing whether the effort cost me something. Then he exhales softly. “Well,” he says, almost disappointed, “that ruins half the fun.”
I fold my arms. “As for the horse, what was a Thren doing at Rathmor palace?” I demand. “Are you following me?”
He regards me for a moment, the hint of amusement unmistakable.
“Do not flatter yourself.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Speaking of Rathmor, that was only half a thank you.”
I say nothing.
“Well?” he asks.
“You startled the horse,” I reply. “That hardly warrants a thank you.”
He sighs as though deeply burdened by my character.
“You should have begun with something along the lines of thank you, handsome sir, for saving my life not once but twice and preventing my soul from being siphoned out of my body like cheap wine.”
I open my mouth to answer.
“Ah,” he says lightly, lifting one finger. “Now I do not feel like talking.”
He moves before I can brace. The attack is not clumsy or eager like the others.
It is controlled and almost amused, each strike placed with intent rather than force.
I meet him head on, knife flashing, magic threading into my muscles, sharpening my reflexes, but every time I think I have an opening he is already elsewhere, already laughing softly as my blade cuts through nothing but air.
He catches my wrist once and twists hard enough to make the knife fall, then releases me as though it no longer interests him. I swing low and he steps over it. I drive forward and he slides aside, fingers brushing my shoulder in a mockery of gentleness.
“You fight like you are angry at the wrong people,” he murmurs.
I reach for my magic, pulling it hard this time, letting it flood outward in a violent surge that sends leaves scattering and the two fallen Threns scrambling to their feet in alarm, but when the force hits him, it disappears.
He laughs. “Is that all?”
My vision blurs at the edges. Blood clouds my sight as warmth spills from my nose, streaking down my lip. I cough and copper floods my mouth. My chest tightens as if my ribs are too small to contain the energy I just forced through them.
He watches, head tilted slightly, expression curious. “You will kill yourself before I need to,” he observes.
I stagger but refuse to fall.
Behind him, one of the other Threns groans and wipes blood from his mouth. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Arven,” the pale one snaps. “She’s about to die, and unless you are planning to let us eat her, I do not feel like dealing with the cleanup.”
Arven. So that is his name.
Something changes in the forest. The air grows colder, darker, as if the night has drawn a curtain tighter around us.
Arven’s expression drains of amusement and turns into something far more ancient and severe. His voice, when he speaks again, carries through the trees in a tone that is not loud yet feels inescapable. “No one touches the girl,” he says quietly.
When I look at him, his eyes are wrong. The pupils are gone.
“No one eats the girl.”
“But—”
Arven sighs. “Always talking, always eating.” Then he exhales, almost casually, as though mildly inconvenienced.
Before either of the other Threns can so much as glance at him, the sword at the obsidian skinned one’s belt shudders.
There is no warning, only the sudden, violent wrench of metal tearing free from leather without being touched.
The blade lifts into the air, hovering for a single suspended instant before driving forward with ruthless precision.
It pierces straight through his chest. The sound he makes is short and stunned, more confusion than pain, and then the sword rips free in a spray of dark blood and arcs sideways without slowing.
The pale one barely has time to register what is happening before the blade draws a clean, brutal line across his throat.
His words die in a wet gurgle as he drops to his knees, fingers clawing uselessly at air.
The sword hangs there for a moment, slick and gleaming in the dim light, then falls with a dull thud to the forest floor.
Silence folds in around us.
I am still breathing hard, blood warm beneath my nose, when I understand that Arven has not moved an inch.
He stands exactly where he was, hands loose at his sides, expression thoughtful rather than strained.
I notice now the air around him feels charged, threaded with something unseen, something that hums against my skin like a low current.
He did not touch the sword. It moved at his will, or something close enough that the distinction does not matter.
When I glance at him again, his eyes are brown, the pupils restored, the darkness gone as if it was never there.
He turns his head slowly toward the two bodies as if assessing the mess, then looks back at me.
“Now,” he says lightly, as though we are resuming an interrupted conversation rather than standing over fresh corpses, “where were we?”