Chapter Eight
Erindor
Graymere emerged from the mist as we left Emberwood behind us.
Wyn shifted in front of me, her slight frame pressed against my entire front. Every time her hand brushed my thigh or adjusted her balance, it sent a jolt of heat through my skin, leaving a phantom sizzle where she'd touched. I gripped the reins harder, swallowing hard.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Her horse had vanished into the woods after the flare. We searched and whistled, but we had no choice. She had to ride with me.
She was quiet about it. Blushing, yes, her voice a murmur when she asked, “Is it all right?” But no complaints. Just her soft intake of breath when I pulled her up and settled her down before me.
Now she sat within my arms, and every movement of the horse shifted her closer. Her hair brushed my jaw, and her back pressed against my chest.
She fitted perfectly.
And that was the problem.
I told myself it was nothing, that it had been a long time since I’d ridden with anyone like this. Since I’d touched anyone with any softness to them. That the heat I experienced wasn’t from her, but from the proximity. Just the cold of the Emberwood wearing off.
But I knew better.
I wasn’t supposed to notice the way her shoulders tensed when she was nervous, or how her breath hitched slightly whenever the horse stumbled.
And yet.
There she was, all stubborn and warm.
Too close in every way that mattered.
Graymere crouched at the edge of the Emberwood, a town half-swallowed by its own decay. Worn stone and crooked roofs leaned into one another like drunkards clinging to old stories. The muddy road narrowed as we entered, flanked by shuttered houses with sagging porches and broken steps.
Lanterns burned low behind cloudy windows, their glow casting long shadows through the mist. Doors opened only an inch, long enough for someone to fetch water or chase a chicken, before slamming back into place with a sharp thud.
It was nearing midday, but the damp and haze made it feel like twilight.
At the town’s center, a cobbled square pulsed with movement.
Crates of root vegetables and smoked fish crowded the market, and hawkers shouted half-hearted deals under drooping canvas tarps.
The clatter of carts and clang of pans echoed in the stillness of surrounding streets, as though the town permitted joy only in one small corner.
Everywhere else looked starved of warmth, color, and hope.
I’d been here once before, years ago. It hadn’t been this cold. Or maybe I just hadn’t felt it then.
“Strange place,” Jasira said lightly as we passed a crumbling shrine covered in moss. “Does anyone else think a disappointed librarian is watching us?”
Wyn laughed softly.
The sound curled against my ribs like warmth that didn’t belong.
Alaric, ever the performer, raised his arms with a flourish. “Graymere!” he declared. “Land of ghosts, goblets, and goats. Bran, let’s find something cursed to sniff.”
The warhound barked once and padded ahead, tail high.
We followed, turning down a narrower street near the square, where an old inn leaned at a tired angle beneath a creaking sign that read The Hollow Hearth.
I dismounted first, boots splashing into the mud. Then I moved to help Wyn down, drawing out the moment longer than I needed to. Her hand found mine. She didn’t meet my eyes, but she lingered for a second too long.
We left the horses at the inn’s stables.
Alaric took Bran and wandered off toward the market’s far end.
A cacophony of good-natured negotiation began to swell, a clear indication that the day's commerce was well underway.
Lark took Kellen inside the inn for proper warmth and to find him a place to settle before we continued our trip at dawn the next day. That left Wyn and me alone. Together.
We wandered from stall to stall, her steps hesitant but growing bolder with each stride. Wyn pressed closer to me as we entered the fray. I could feel the tension in her as she hooked her arm around mine, fingers tight against my sleeve.
“Too many people,” she breathed, her voice barely audible above the insistent murmur of the crowd. “Too many eyes.”
I leaned slightly so she could distinguish my voice over the noise. “Then look at me.”
Her gaze, previously diffused by the swirling crowd, suddenly snapped into focus, locking with mine with an almost palpable force.
“Good, now breathe.”
She obliged willingly. For a breathless moment, the crowd faded. The noise, the smoke, the strange tension hanging in the air—now gone. All that remained were her wide, storm-soft eyes fixed on mine and the fragile trust in them.
Her hand didn’t leave my arm after that.
A current of nervous energy, like a faint electric hum, flowed from her fingertips, but her eyes lit with curiosity. She asked thoughtful questions about herbs, cloth dyes, and the meanings behind the little bone charms sold in bundles. I watched in awe as each answer steadied her.
Nearby, Alaric had gathered a cluster of village children and was strumming his lute with theatrical flair, weaving a song about a heroic hound and a goose that bit back. The children clapped along, shrieking with laughter whenever Bran barked in rhythm.
Close to him, Jasira and Gideon stood at a produce stall, mid-argument with a vendor over the price of dried pears.
Gideon insisted on a lower price and, after a few increasingly theatrical gestures, accepted a trade that left him holding a single, comically large root vegetable.
Jasira laughed herself hoarse, bent double with mirth as he held it aloft like a trophy.
The market briefly seemed safe. Almost normal.
A vendor with honeyed eyes waved us over, offering candied nuts and pastries dusted with cinnamon sugar, and Wyn’s face brightened.
“I’m getting you one,” she said, already fishing coins from her pouch. “For saving me from a crowd-induced spiral back there. And because you look like you haven’t smiled in years.”
“That’s unnecessary—”
She pressed a honey-glazed cake into my hand before I could finish. Its warmth immediately radiating through my palm. The air around me seemed to thicken with the sweet, spicy promise of cloves and the delicate perfume of orange blossoms. I took one bite. Then another. And another.
Wyn giggled. Quiet at first, then louder as I devoured the rest in three quick mouthfuls.
“You have a sweet tooth,” she teased.
“I do not,” I muttered, licking honey from my thumb, savoring the taste.
“Uh-huh.” She grinned, already buying more.
She handed me another and walked beside me for a beat in companionable silence. Her fingers brushed mine as she pressed another honeyed cake into my hand.
Then she was there.
Beside me with the quiet woven of a comfortable closeness that needed no words.
“Was that your first proper meal today?” she asked.
“Depends on what you count as ‘real.’”
“You count battlefield rations as cuisine, don’t you?” she said, a prim line to her lips that barely masked the glint of mischief in her eyes.
I didn’t answer.
“You’ve done this before,” she added. “Escorting people. Was that your job?”
“For a while.”
“What about before that?”
I looked straight ahead. “Different work.”
She didn’t push. Merley nodded, as if that answer still told her something.
We drifted onward. Near the edge of the square, a low wall curved behind a cluster of wooden booths. Children had scrawled it with chalk pictures of flowers, animals, and looping shapes. Wyn reached out to touch a crude sketch of an herb sprig. Then we both saw it.
One figure stood apart. Drawn in black.
Its limbs were too long. A sword slashed across its back. And where the face should’ve been, two white circles stared out like empty moons.
In the depths of those eyes, there was no spark, no reflection. Just empty ash.
I stopped, the air around me suddenly felt starved of oxygen, thin and biting.
Wyn followed my gaze and tilted her head. “Erindor?”
I gave a quick submissive shrug. “A child’s drawing.”
A cold dread had already begun its insidious crawl, seizing my heart and numbing my entire body.
She didn’t press. I didn’t elaborate. She might have already known I wouldn’t tell her, even if she had questioned me.
She lingered by the wall a moment longer, back at the black figure.
“I don’t require that information,” she whispered, lost in thought. “But I’ll listen if you ever decide to tell.”
Somehow, that struck harder than any demand would have.
I motioned for us to move on.
At a weapons cart near the back of the square, Wyn lingered over a rack of polished daggers. She frowned thoughtfully, fingers grazing the hilt.
“I should carry something,” she said. “Just in case.”
The merchant handed her a slim, silver-hilted blade. It was narrow and light enough to conceal beneath her cloak. She assessed the grip, then tucked it into her belt with quiet resolve.
Then, a moment later, a sharp, sudden yelp tore through the quiet, making us both jump.
The blade had shifted, jabbing her in the thigh.
“Blast—”
She tried to fix it, flustered, tugging at the strap with one hand.
I couldn’t watch any longer. “Here,” I said, stepping in. I knelt and adjusted the belt, tightening the leather until it sat flush.
“Still dangerous,” I murmured, “though not to your enemies.”
A flush of pink rose to her ears, and she smacked my arm. But left the blade as it was.
We continued to walk. Wyn’s fingers curled back around my arm, saying nothing.
And neither did I.
We returned to the inn before sunset. The place was old and drafty; the floorboards creaking beneath every step like old bones groaning in their sockets.
They had hung dried lavender, mint, and yarrow as herbs above the lintels, seemingly to ward off mildew or misfortune.
The hearth crackled low, throwing flickers of gold against the scarred walls.
Travelers hunched over chipped bowls of stew, muttering in low voices, eyes flicking toward the windows with a kind of habitual dread.
Near the fire, Kellen was curled beneath a woolen blanket, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his brow.
Jasira sat beside him, brushing damp hair from his forehead.
She had coaxed a few spoonfuls of broth into him, though he mainly remained quiet.
The boy had spoken little since the attack.
I wasn’t sure if it was the pain in his leg or the terror at losing his family in the way he did.
His kin slaughtered beyond the trees, their wagon ransacked and left to the crows. Sometimes grief was louder than fear.
A bard sang near the hearth, voice low and lilting.
“Ash for eyes, a blade for breath—He walks where whispers feed on death. Beware the man with a bloodless grin, for where he treads, the end begins...”
My stomach sank. I didn’t need to ask who the song was about.
Wyn glanced at me, her expression pale. Wary. “That song…”
“Rumors,” I said quickly, in a bid to comfort her, before looking away.
...
Night fell like wet wool.
I took a walk to clear my head. The fog curled through the streets like smoke. Lanterns glowed faintly behind shuttered windows.
Then I saw him across the square.
A man in a dark cloak. A bone-hilted blade strapped casually over one shoulder like it belonged there, like it had always been there. His hood was low, but I would have recognized him anywhere.
Riven.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He stood there in the mist, as if he’d been waiting for my arrival.
Our eyes met. And though he stood yards away, I sensed it. The familiarity, the challenge, the memory of ash and ruin.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a grin, but the promise of one.
And then—
He was gone.
Like smoke, or memory, a whisper of something that had never truly existed outside of my mind.
But he did.
And he wasn’t finished with me yet.