Chapter Nine #2
We rode in silence for hours, the forest pressing close on either side of the narrow trail.
No one spoke of the fight. No one spoke at all, really.
The mist returned as the sun sank, curling low around the hooves of the horses, brushing the hems of our cloaks like it was meant to follow us all the way to sleep.
By the time we found a clearing large enough to make camp, dusk had bled into near dark. The light was dim, silver, and strange, like the forest had forgotten how to be warm.
We made camp under the limbs of an old cedar tree. The mist still clung to the edges of the clearing, curling over the forest floor like smoke. The air was thick with everything unsaid.
Gideon built the fire with more force than finesse, stabbing kindling into the pile like the flames had offended him.
Alaric sat with his back against a stump, one leg stretched out, absently running a whetstone over his sword while Bran dozed at his feet.
Corren checked the perimeter twice before finally resting.
Lark busied himself mending a torn satchel with trembling fingers, and Tyren watched the dark with his usual, unsettling calm.
Jasira stirred the stewpot with slow, methodical motions, humming a soft tune I didn’t recognize, her eyes occasionally flicking to me as if she wanted to speak, but never quite did.
Erindor sat apart.
I could feel his gaze on me.
I sipped my tea, pretending not to notice, cheeks still warm with the ghost of that argument.
His words echoed in my mind, a relentless clamor that drowned out all other senses. They circled, an endless, tormenting loop: Do you think any of this will mean anything if you’re dead?
Perhaps he was correct. It was possibly reckless rushing in like that. But how could I have left someone to die when I had the means to help?
Still, his words struck something deeper than frustration. Not because they were cruel, but because they weren’t. He hadn’t been only angry.
He had been telling the truth.
That shook me more than his anger.
My fingers traced the rim of my mug; the tea within lay inert and cold, a mirror to the chill that had settled in my bones.
No matter how much I’d scrubbed my hands earlier, the scent of iron-rich blood and the sweetness of the salve still clung to my skin, stubborn as a stain.
I was aware of the wounded man’s pulse beneath my hands.
The flash of fear in his eyes, the resignation. No one else would have helped him.
But I had.
What did that make me? Brave? Or foolish?
I didn’t know.
Jasira leaned in, voice low and full of amusement. “He’s still watching you,” she whispered. “Either he’s planning your execution, or he’s completely bewitched.”
I choked on my tea, coughing hard as I turned a shade that would’ve made an apple proud.
Gideon looked up from his bowl. “Did I miss something? Should I be blushing, too?”
Jasira grinned but said nothing.
I dared a glance at Erindor.
His eyes, no longer shadowed by rage, instead held a quiet, steady flame that ignited a warmth deep within. A warmth that drew me in closer.
…
That night, the dream opened in silence.
I stood barefoot in a field of wildflowers beneath a sky without stars. All around me, the earth glowed faintly, as if lit from within.
A pale-gold fire flickered at the center of it all, breathing slowly and steadily like a heartbeat. There was no smoke. No heat. Only light. It swayed with the rhythm of the wildflowers, casting long shadows over stone and root.
I walked toward it. Every pace became a deliberate, leaden effort, the weight of sudden recognition pressing down with each footfall. As if my body remembered this place, even if my mind did not.
The fire leaned toward me.
I knelt, uncertain. My hand trembled as I reached out.
When my fingers touched the flame, it wrapped around them like silk. It didn’t burn; it welcomed. It pulsed against my skin with purpose, as if it recognized me.
A whisper stirred the air, soft as breath.
“Speak it. And be worthy.”
But I was uncertain of what response to give. My throat closed. I wanted to name something, anything, but the truth lodged behind my ribs.
The wind rose, curling through my hair, through the petals at my feet. The fire flowed into my hands, tracing the lines of my palms, as if reading a story I hadn’t yet written.
And at that moment, I felt—
Seen. Entirely.
Not for who I pretended to be. Not for the girl fumbling through diplomacy or the healer trying not to shake when holding a blade.
But for something buried deeper.
It felt as if the very fabric of the world drew tight, as though it had paused, waiting for me to name what I feared most: that I wanted to matter. To burn bright without breaking.
Until suddenly, I woke with a gasp.
The fire had burned low and the forest was still.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest. The warmth of my dream lingered beneath my skin.
Like something ancient had stirred.
And it was waiting.
I sat near the edge of the trees, knees drawn to my chest, cloak tugged tight. The others were sleeping, or pretending to be. Even Jasira had left me alone tonight.
I deserved it.
I opened my satchel and pulled out the little leather-bound journal. Although the charcoal nub wore nearly flat, it would do.
I made a mistake.
I thought I was doing the right thing. The bandit was bleeding out. He was human; scared, dying, alone. I saw a person, not an enemy. So, I moved toward him. I wanted to help. Like I always do.
But I forgot something important.
I’m not just a healer anymore.
I’m a target. A symbol. A liability, if I forget the world we’re walking through.
Erindor yelled at me. He’s never yelled like that before. His voice was sharp, wounded. I think I scared him because I didn’t think it through. I think…he expected me to be wiser.
Or, I expected that of myself.
He didn’t speak to me again after that. He kept pacing the perimeter, jaw tight, cloak snapping behind him like it was angry too.
I hated that I hadn’t listened.
I don’t want him to think I’m reckless.
But I’m unsure how to end my desire to help, even if it proves deadly.
-W