Chapter 18
She had bolted because of fear. And part of me understood that all too well.
With every step, guilt gnawed deeper. I should’ve remembered the spores and the warnings about them. The pages I had studied for hours on end, whilst bent over my desk with ink-stained fingers and just candlelight, were now useless. How did I miss something so basic, so critical?
Under my breath, self-directed curses formed an endless loop. My cheeks burned, not just from the cold, but from a flush of embarrassment. How foolish I was. How reckless.
I pictured their expressions: Erindor’s tight-lipped disapproval, Alaric’s forced calm masking worry, Jasira’s concern morphing into unspoken judgment. Out here was not where I belonged. I never had. And now I had proven it to everyone.
The mist thickened the deeper I went, swallowing the path behind me. The trees loomed taller here, closer together, their trunks dark and slick with dew. It was as if the forest had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it go.
My boots sank deeper into the moss, muffling every step. A branch cracked nearby, and I spun, heart thudding, but nothing moved. Shadows clung to everything. I imagined claws in the dark, eyes watching from the hollow of every tree.
Still, I didn’t turn back.
There was a pull now, subtle but sure. Not panic. Not instinct. Something quieter. A thread wound through the trees, tugging gently at my ribs, not quite commanding, yet pleading to be followed.
So, I walked on.
Beyond where the moss grew thick enough to drink sound, the hush deepened into something reverent. The world slowed. Every breath was loud. Every heartbeat, magnified.
Then it registered with me—a rustle too pained to be wind.
I parted the ferns with cautious fingers and saw it.
A stag.
The stag lay half-curled in a nest of twisted barbed wire and rusted iron teeth, a trap more fitting for war than wilderness.
Blood seeped into the moss beneath it, dark and slow, pooling like ink in the fading light.
The trap mangled one leg so severely that it was beyond recognition, with bones jutting where fur should’ve been.
Its sides heaved with shallow, rapid breaths. A visible tremor running through its weak frame.
And yet, even broken, it was beautiful. Its antlers rose like a crown, wide and sharp, catching what little light filtered through the trees.
But it didn’t thrash.
Instead, it watched me.
Its eyes, great liquid mirrors, held no fear. Only pain. And patience.
I stepped forward carefully, my boots meeting the earth with a slow, deliberate pressure, sinking into the saturated moss with a soft, sucking sound.
The air grew dense, pressing against my skin, thick with an unspoken weight that defied description, yet felt utterly real. The stag didn’t move or flinch.
My throat tightened. My fingers trembled at my sides. I was no threat, and it seemed to know that.
A wave of raw emotion, sharp as any physical blow, stole my breath as I fell to my knees. Something ancient hummed through the ground beneath me—older than gods, older than names. Smelling iron and bark, the bitter rot of old blood, mingled with a sharp wildness, like lightning before it struck.
“Shhh…It’s all right,” I whispered, though my voice cracked. “I’m here.”
I was unable to tell if my words existed for the stag or myself.
Beneath my knees, the soaked moss felt warm.
The snare bit into my fingers the moment I touched it.
I winced but didn’t let go. Slowly, I uncoiled the rusted wire, wincing with every metallic snap.
My palms shredded, mingling my warm blood with the cold, dark stains already coating the stag. It didn’t move.
“Almost there,” I breathed, tears slipping down my cheeks. “A little longer.”
The trap gave a final creak, and I eased it open. The stag let out a groan that reverberated in my chest.
I dug into my pouch, fingers frantic. Balmleaf. Marrowroot. Silk wrap. I crushed and mixed them with water from my flask, grinding the salve against a flat stone with the heel of my palm. Then I pressed the mixture gently into the wound, whispering apologies under my breath.
Through the haze of pain and blood, the stag's gaze held mine, liquid and impossibly mournful, a silent accusation.
And I sensed something observing through it.
Its gaze was too still, too ancient. I experienced no fear, only pressure.
Like the forest itself was breathing with me.
Like my blood pulsed to its rhythm. I had read once that the gods sent stags to those who had lost their way.
Or perhaps it was the stag who chose the lost. I could never recall which, but I believed it now.
The air shimmered faintly around us. The moss near the wound curled slightly as I pressed my hands down firmly, almost like it recognized me.
It didn’t see a princess. It didn’t see a pawn.
It saw me. Wyn.
I moved slowly, speaking in a whisper even I couldn’t understand, as I reached into my satchel. My hands worked on instinct, cleansing the wound as best I could, packing the worst of it with poultice, and wrapping the leg in linen strips soaked in sap and tincture.
The stag didn’t fight me; only breathed. Watched. Trusted.
When I finished, I sat collapsed onto my heels, my breath shallow, a hollowness echoing the tightness in my chest. Blood and resin glued my hands together, a gritty, cold mess. The damp moss clinging to my knees, offering no prisoners.
The stag rose.
It moved slowly with deliberate grace and stood despite the wound. Its legs trembled, but it held. It shouldn’t have been able to, and yet, there it was. Alive and enduring.
A hard lump formed in my throat, burning with the bitter realization of its suffering. I hated that the world could hurt something so beautiful without hesitation. It deserved to remain untouched in the wild. It deserved more than rusted teeth and silence.
Its gaze stayed on mine.
Then it bowed.
The motion was deliberate, slow. One leg folded beneath it, head dipping in a movement too graceful to be a coincidence, as if in recognition.
My heart thudded once, hard. I didn’t breathe, as if I’d forgotten how to for a moment.
Then the stag turned, limped to the edge of the glade, and vanished into the trees.
I remained frozen in place. What did it mean, that bow?
Why me? I wasn’t brave. No one chose me.
I was a girl who stumbled through every expectation placed on her.
The Stag hadn’t feared me, hadn’t fled. It had seen something and honored it, but I didn’t know what.
And that terrified me more than anything.
A warm breeze brushed my cheek.
Yet, nothing stirred the leaves.
I returned to the camp dazed. Blood and moss streaked and tore my skirts. My hands trembled as I peeled them open, raw with scratches. My knees ached, and my scalp itched where twigs and leaf litter had tangled in my loose hair. Strands clung to my face, damp with sweat and forest air.
I smelled of smoke, loam, and crushed herbs, like something newly unearthed.
But it was as if...
I was weightless.
Inside, I sensed a change. Something had settled.
“Wyn,” Jasira said, standing. She thrust a waterskin at me, brow knit with worry. “Where the hell were you?”
“Eat something,” Gideon called. “Or I’ll feed you myself.”
Alaric glanced up from polishing his blade, froze, then tossed it aside and hurried toward me, his expression twisting between relief and exasperation.
“Wyn, are you hurt?” he asked, eyes scanning me from head to toe.
Before I responded, Erindor rose.
“Someone could have killed you,” he snapped, stepping forward. “This isn’t a garden, Princess. You don’t wander off.”
I flinched at the heat in his voice.
“I was fine.”
“You were gone for an hour,” he said through gritted teeth. “We thought someone had taken you.” His jaw was tight, a silent tension of anger in his shoulders. It was a controlled storm, simmering beneath the surface, a bitter tang of scolding laced with a surprising thread of worry.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have the words.
He stepped closer, and for a moment, the tension held.
Then, something in his eyes shifted. The hard lines in his brow softened slightly as he took in the dirt on my skirt, the dried blood, the scratches on my hands.
He exhaled quietly and long, as if releasing a breath held captive for far too long.
His gaze flicked to mine, expecting another retort.
But I didn’t speak. I didn’t have the energy to.
That’s when he saw it, really saw it. I wasn’t the disobedient princess or the reckless girl, but a trembling body in borrowed strength that was barely holding it together. His mouth tightened, then released.
“You’re not fine,” he breathed quietly, like it hurt to admit it. “Sit,” he said gently. “Rest. We’ll sort it out.”
I didn’t meet his eyes.
I couldn’t
Something in me was too raw. Too bright.
I sat near the fire, it burned low and cautiously now. There were no sparks or warmth beyond its borders. But enough light to keep the dark from swallowing us. Jasira acted at once; she knelt beside me and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.
“You scared us,” she whispered. “Next time you decide to do something foolish, at least take me with you; that way, we can do it together.”
A shaky breath left me. I didn’t trust my voice not to crack, not yet.
Erindor’s gaze stayed steady.
I thought of the stag. Of the blood and the way it bowed in front of me.
I thought of the warmth still humming beneath my skin like golden light.
And I thought—
Even in the stag's wounded state, he still fought to live. Why shouldn’t I?
…
Far above, almost impossible to see, a pale owl watched from the branches. Its feathers shimmered like mist in moonlight, eyes reflecting not the fire but the girl beside it.
It only observed, still as bark, old as the hush between heartbeats.
He had watched many pass beneath his perch; knights, wanderers, wild things with teeth and flame. But no one like her.
The glade had seen many things, but it had not seen this.
Not a spell. Not a prophecy.
Only a beginning.
The seed of fire the owl had long waited for began, at last, to glow.