Chapter Ten
Erindor
The rain began as a hush against the leaves. It was soft, steady, almost gentle as we slipped into the forest.
The Wildervale did not welcome us.
The others sensed it too. Alaric pulled his cloak tighter and glanced over his shoulder more than once, his usual banter silenced by the weight of the air.
Jasira muttered something under her breath about the silence being too loud, her hand drifting toward the dagger at her hip.
Gideon, trying to lighten the mood, cracked a joke about ghost squirrels planning an ambush, but no one laughed.
Not even he, really. The three additional guards, Corren, Lark, and Tyren, rode in uneasy silence.
Corren made a quiet blessing motion with two fingers over his chest, and Lark kept fiddling with his reins like they might suddenly snap free.
Tyren muttered a silent prayer in a tongue I didn’t recognize.
We all felt it.
Like the Wildervale had opened its mouth and swallowed the sound whole.
The towering, enigmatic forest embraced the narrow trail, its air a dense, damp veil rich with the scent of moss and wet bark, underpinned by a subtle, almost melancholic floral hint, like crushed violets slowly fading into the earth.
The silence wasn’t true silence, but a layered hush filled with distant drips of rain through branches and the soft rustle of unseen creatures moving in the underbrush.
Every hoofbeat felt louder here, swallowed not by space but by something older, something listening.
The chill of Wildervale was not only in the air, but in the way the light moved, reluctant and fragmented, as if it were trespassing.
Its trees were impossibly old; their trunks split with time and slick with moss that shimmered faintly in the mist. Vines hung like braided ropes from crooked branches, some trailing into the underbrush as if they had minds of their own.
The light barely touched the forest floor; what sunlight broke through the canopy came in filtered shards, painting the path in watery gold and green.
Here and there, crumbled stones jutted from the earth, the remains of something ancient, half-swallowed by vine and root.
Wyn sat in front of me again in the saddle, her cloak damp and clinging to her shoulders, her posture quiet. Her mare still hadn’t turned up, and no one argued when I helped her onto my horse again that morning. Least of all, me.
She didn’t speak. Neither did I.
And yet, I was too aware of her. Too aware of every breath she took.
I told myself it was duty. Just vigilance. She was a princess, and I was her shield. Nothing more.
She wasn’t a woman to whom I was drawn to. Too trusting. Too easily hurt.
But no court lady I’d guarded had ever sketched flowers with such a quiet purpose. No noblewoman I’d trained beside had ever looked at the world like it could be both beautiful and broken.
She was different. Not because she was royalty.
She looked at the moss-covered stones and tried to understand their language.
And that terrified me more than any blade ever could.
Every shift of her weight.
Every time her back pressed a little more into my chest with the rhythm of the ride, I had to fight the instinct to close my arms around her. To keep her safe. To have a sense of stability in an unstable world.
She had said little all morning. Her steps had been careful when we broke camp; her eyes distant. I told myself it was exhaustion, but I knew better.
She was still thinking about the day before.
So was I.
I cleared my throat. “Wynessa.”
She startled slightly. Her head turned, her eyes meeting mine—wide, wary, and searching.
“I...about yesterday,” I said. The words came harder than I expected. “I didn’t mean what I said. Not all of it.”
Her gaze held mine for a breathless eternity, plumbing the depths of my fear. Until finally, a slow, knowing nod followed. “I know. You were worried,” her voice soft with empathy.
“I still am.”
A breath escaped her. Her voice was softer this time. “Me too.”
I hesitated. She sounded more than tired…Hollowed out perhaps.
And I didn’t understand why.
I shifted in the saddle behind her. “You don’t have to be,” I offered awkwardly. “We’re through the worst of it. No more raiders. No more storms. This forest might be cursed, but even curses eventually run out of energy.”
She gave a faint smile but didn’t turn around. “That’s not why I’m worried.”
I didn’t press her. We left it to rest there and rode in a comfortable quietness together.
By the time the temple revealed itself through the trees, half-swallowed by moss and time, the rain had deepened, soaking through my cloak and dripping steadily from the brim of my hood.
Alaric rode ahead, sword drawn, scanning the perimeter like he expected the stones themselves to rise and challenge us. He didn’t speak. None of us did.
The temple appeared ancient. Not dangerous.
Old in a way that demanded silence. I’d heard rumors about places like this.
Temples left behind by the godmarked, where the veil between worlds was thin and spirits wandered, still waiting for prayers that never came.
I’d never put much stock in stories. But standing before the vine-choked stone, I suddenly didn’t feel like a soldier, but an intruder instead.
There were markings carved into the stone that didn’t match any language I knew. Twisting symbols and spiral suns that made the back of my neck prickle. One statue stood intact near the entrance, a tall, hooded figure with antlers rising like blackened branches. His eyes gouged out.
Corren took one look at it and muttered a curse. He refused to sleep with his back to the altar and set up his bedroll facing the entrance, blade within arm’s reach.
I found no fault with him.
We cleared a dry patch under one of the larger arches and set up to rest. As we unpacked, Gideon muttered something about stopping for ‘an hour or two’ to dry out and shake the rain from our bones.
Alaric agreed, saying we wouldn’t make it far, soaked to the skin and with visibility like a drawn curtain.
Bran flopped at Alaric’s feet with a groan, already half-asleep.
Jasira shook out her cloak and began unpacking rations.
Gideon climbed atop a cracked statue and declared himself “high priest of the conveniently dry pedestal,” which earned him a sharp look from Jasira and a muttered, “You’re going to fall and chip your other shoulder.”
Despite the tension, a fragile chuckle broke through, a little strained, yet undeniably welcome, softening the sharp edges of the moment.
I didn’t join in.
I kept my eyes on Wyn.
She sat alone on a low stone near the fire, her legs tucked beneath her, sketchbook open.
Her fingers moved with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times.
She was tracing the carvings on the walls—the old spirals, rivers, beasts made of wind and flames.
Her brows furrowed in concentration. A smudge of charcoal streaked her face.
I didn’t think. I crossed the space between us.
“Hold still,” I said.
Her head snapped up, eyes widening in a sudden jolt of surprise.
I crouched beside her and brushed the smudge gently from her cheek with my thumb. The fire painted her skin with a rosy, warm hue. She stilled under my touch.
“Th-thank you,” she murmured.
Her voice was barely there.
I sat down beside her, forcing my attention away from the ache in my chest. Her head lowered again, and she returned to her drawing. For a moment, we sat in silence, warm and still. I didn’t know what to say. So, I said nothing at all.
I looked up and caught Alaric by the fire, watching me with a furrow between his brows that didn’t ease. He wasn’t subtle. He never was. But the way his gaze lingered when I brushed the mark from Wyn’s cheek made my spine stiffen.
Jasira didn’t miss it either. As I stepped back from Wyn and sat beside her, Jasira’s eyes caught mine across the fire.
Her silence was punctuated only by the slow, deliberate arch of one eyebrow, a gesture that spoke volumes and seemed to peel back my own unspoken thoughts.
Then she looked at Wyn with something like concern, or curiosity, or maybe a warning.
I couldn’t be sure. Nonetheless, it made my chest tighten.
Then Wyn passed the page to me.
Before I could speak, she gestured to the carvings on the wall.
“That symbol there,” she whispered, pointing, “is a sun spiral.” It’s old—pre-God wars, probably. I think it means rebirth, or maybe convergence. This one with the teeth might be a warning symbol. Some texts suggest people used them in marking boundaries between sacred and forbidden spaces.
I blinked. “How do you know all this?”
She flushed. “I spent a lot of time in the castle library. Reading. Mostly when I didn’t want to be seen. Books don’t care if you’re too quiet or too much of something else.”
I didn’t know what to say. So, I looked back down at the page.
I stared at it longer than I should have. Her lines were clean, careful. The carvings had come to life under her hand.
“This is incredible. You’re not only clever,” I said, not looking at her. “You notice things others don’t.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers worried at the stitching of her dress like she needed somewhere to put the nervous energy.
“I just pay attention,” she said at last.
“That’s rarer than you think, Princess.”
The corners of her lips softened into a slow, gentle curve that reached her eyes, crinkling them at the edges. It wasn’t the polite smile she wore in court, or the brave one she showed her guards. It was unguarded. Fragile. And for the first time, I wanted to be the reason she smiled again.
I held out her journal for her to take.
She extended her hand, and our fingers touched. Just barely. A brush of skin, warm and fleeting, but enough to make my pulse stumble. She hesitated a heartbeat too long before taking it, as if the space between us wasn’t so easily bridged.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes not quite meeting mine. But I saw the faint flush along her throat, the quickening of her breath.
I could’ve stayed there longer. Watching her. Letting the firelight paint her shoulders in gold and shadow, tracing every line of her face until I could memorize it. Letting myself imagine what it would be like if duty didn’t bind my hands.
The ache in my chest pulled tighter, dangerous.
“You should rest,” I said finally, though my voice was lower, rougher than I intended.
She glanced sideways. “I’m afraid I’ll miss something.”
“You won’t,” I said. “Not while I’m breathing.”
She didn’t answer, but she stayed beside me.
For a while, neither of us moved. The fire snapped softly. The temple walls whispered things in languages long lost.
Then she smiled at me.
Quiet. Real. Like something rare and unsought.
She stood, brushing her hands over her skirts, and walked back to the others to sit down and eat—tucking herself into the circle of warmth and conversation like she’d never left.
But I stayed where I was.
I watched her laugh at something Gideon said, her head tilted just slightly, her hair catching the firelight. I watched the way her shoulders finally loosened, like a weight had slipped from them without her noticing.
She walked as if the world was something to be healed.
And I followed her as if it might save me.
I remained where she drew, sharpening my blade out of habit more than need. The scrape of stone against metal steadied my breathing, gave my hands something to do while my thoughts refused to still.
A sound stirred in the trees.
Soft. Too soft for the wind.
I paused mid-motion.
Possibly an owl. Or not. I couldn’t be sure. The Wildervale held more than animals in its boughs.
I looked toward where the trees thickened into something impenetrable and was aware of something watching.
The blade in my hand stilled.
And though the fire behind me crackled warmly, I couldn’t shake the chill pressing at my spine.