16. Chapter 16 #3
“Here.” I cupped some in my hand and brought it to Eryndor's mouth. He held my gaze as his lips went to my hands and I tilted the liquid down into his waiting mouth. Water dripped from his chin and he looked—
Beautiful, I thought. He looks beautiful.
The thought came and settled without resistance. So did everything else.
The sun was setting by the time we dragged ourselves out of the spring.
My skin felt new. Scrubbed clean of more than just gore—like the water had washed away layers I hadn't known I was carrying. I felt light. Loose. Good in a way that made everything seem possible.
We wandered back toward the path, wet clothes clinging to us as we moved, weapons gathered loosely in our hands, our steps easy and unhurried.
Dreadscale had made camp.
A fire crackled in a ring of stones. Bedrolls were laid out in a neat circle. And on a flat rock that served as a makeshift table, he'd arranged our rations: hardtack, dried meat that looked like leather, and shriveled lumps that might have once been fruit.
It looked miserable.
“You’ve been busy,” Serenya said, sinking onto a log near the fire.
Dreadscale grunted. "Someone had to be."
I settled next to Eryndor, our shoulders brushing, the tether humming quietly between us.
Maxx picked up a piece of hardtack and stared at it with profound disappointment.
"This," he announced, "is tragic."
"It's food," Dreadscale said.
"It's a crime." Maxx turned the hardtack over in his hands like it had personally wronged him. "We just survived a monster. We bathed in magic water. We're having a moment. And this—" he waved the hardtack, "—is what we celebrate with?"
"We're not celebrating. We're surviving."
"Surviving should taste better than this."
He stared at the food a moment longer. Then his eyes lit up.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, I have an idea."
Serenya brightened immediately, clapping her hands once in delighted anticipation. I smiled into Eryndor’s shoulder.
Maxx was already moving, hands raised, glamour magic shimmering at his fingertips. The air around the flat rock rippled like heat rising from stone.
And the food changed.
The hardtack became fresh bread—golden-crusted, steam rising from its center. The dried meat transformed into roast pheasant, glazed and glistening. The sad, shriveled fruit became a cascade of grapes, apples, pears. Goblets appeared, filled with wine so red it looked like liquid rubies.
The smell hit me next. Warm bread. Roasted meat. Spices I couldn't name but remembered from somewhere deep—a feast day, maybe, from before everything went wrong.
"Ohhh, I didn’t know you could glamour scent! How wonderful!” I inhaled the heady aromas and groaned. Eryndor stiffened for a moment and gave my hand a squeeze.
"I'm not done." Maxx was grinning now, that manic light in his eyes. "If we're doing this, we're doing it properly."
He waved his hands again.
My wet, clinging clothes shimmered—and suddenly I was wearing a gown. Deep green silk that pooled around my feet, embroidered with gold thread that caught the firelight. My hair was dry, somehow, falling in soft waves down my back.
I looked down at myself and giggled. "Maxx....a gown?"
"You look lovely. Don't argue."
Serenya gasped. The glamour had put her in a backless silk one-piece the color of midnight, with loose, floating panels that trailed like skirts when she walked. Flowers were woven through her hair. Real ones or glamoured ones—it didn't matter. She looked like a painting.
"Maxx," she breathed. "This is—"
"I know." He swept into a bow. He was wearing a velvet doublet now, midnight plum, with matte burnished gold buttons. "I'm a genius. You're welcome."
Even Eryndor hadn't been spared. His mud-stained clothes were gone, replaced by a fitted black coat with black silk lining at the cuffs. He looked... noble. Like a portrait come to life.
He looked down at himself. Back up at Maxx. His expression hardened.
"It's not real," Dreadscale said. He hadn't changed—still in his worn leathers, still holding a piece of actual hardtack. "Lies don't fill the belly, illusionist."
"The belly doesn't know the difference." Maxx dropped onto a log with exaggerated grace, reaching for a glamoured goblet. "Only the soul does. And my soul wants wine."
Dreadscale stared at him. Then, deliberately, bit into his hardtack.
The crunch was very loud.
"Your loss," Maxx said, and drank deep.
We ate.
Or pretended to eat. The food tasted real—warm bread that melted on my tongue, pheasant that fell apart at the touch, wine that bloomed sweet and complex across my palate. My brain knew it was hardtack. My mouth didn't care.
Serenya had closed her eyes, leaning back against a log, chewing slowly. Savoring the lie.
Maxx was refilling goblets that never actually emptied, narrating the feast like a court herald. "And for our next course, we have... more pheasant. Because this is my fantasy and I like pheasant."
I laughed. Everything was funny. Everything was warm.
Eryndor sat beside me, eating in small, precise bites. Between each one, he reached for a glamour cloth napkin and wiped his fingers. Methodically. Automatically. Like he didn't even know he was doing it.
Maxx noticed.
"Were you raised by priests or something?"
Eryndor went still. Something flickered across his face—there and gone.
"Something," he said flatly.
He shoved the cloth away. Picked up the bread with his bare hands and tore into it. Crumbs scattered across his perfect black coat.
I watched him and felt a dangerous softness bloom in my chest. An urge to smooth the crease between his brows. A need to tell him he didn't have to pretend.
Instead, I leaned against his shoulder and stole a grape from his plate.
"Hey," he said.
"You weren't eating it fast enough."
"I was savoring."
"You were being slow. There's a difference."
A smile spread across his face and he snatched the grape right out from between my teeth and stuffed it in his mouth. “Too slow.” He said between chews.
“Hey!” I slapped his shoulder laughing.
“Now, now children! There's plenty more where that came from!” Maxx waved his hand and my plate was filled to the top with grapes. I grabbed the plate and hugged it to my chest sticking my tongue out at Eryndor. He chuckled and shook his head, folding his napkin and putting it away.
Across the fire, Maxx had convinced Serenya to dance. There was no music—just the crackle of flames and the distant trickle of the spring—but they swayed together anyway, her head on his shoulder, his hand at the small of her back.
Dreadscale sat with his hardtack, watching them. He didn't say a word. But he didn't look away either.
The glamour held. The fire burned. I leaned into Eryndor's shoulder and didn't count the minutes until I'd have to move.