Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Twelve
Wynessa
The rain had finally eased, but the damp clung to everything.
The moss, the bark, the hair at the nape of my neck.
Fog drifted like low-lying breath between the trees, and the fire crackled weakly, struggling to stay alive in the heavy air.
The others slept in bundles of cloaks and blankets, their faces shadowed and still.
The night had remained quiet. But too many unknowns still lingered in the Wildervale for it to be peaceful for good.
That was when I heard it.
Jasira’s breath was too fast. I knew the sound before I even opened my eyes, the stuttering pull of lungs fighting against heat. Fever. I rolled over and reached for her instinctively, brushing her cheek. Her skin was hot, damp, and flushed far beyond what it should’ve been.
“Jasi,” I whispered, trying not to wake the others. “Can you hear me?”
She stirred, lips parched, murmuring something broken.
Despite the thick blankets, a tremor shook her body, a shiver that seemed born of the stormy night and the dampness still clinging to her cloak.
And now the cold had seeped in, beneath her skin, deeper than any blanket could reach.
Panic rose in my throat, but I forced it down.
I couldn’t risk losing control. Not now. Not with her depending on me.
I’d felt this kind of fear only once before, when the apothecary’s son fell ill from tainted river water, and nothing I did was enough. I remembered the heavy feeling of the mother’s stare, how her hope vanished behind her lips when I gave an uncertain answer.
That helplessness had hollowed me out.
I was determined to prevent its recurrence.
I was already moving, slipping from my bedroll and kneeling beside her with my satchel. I checked her pulse, too fast, and her breathing, shallow and sharp.
The fever wasn’t the worst I’d seen, not yet, but I knew that could turn quickly.
I tried to remember every page I’d ever read, every note I’d scribbled in margins late at night while the castle slept.
I had learned about healing long before I’d ever picked up an herb knife.
Books had been my first teachers, and in this moment, I clung to that knowledge like it was the only real thing in the world.
“I need feverroot,” I muttered to myself, my fingers scrambling around my satchel. “Pine bark, sun leaf. Something to heal her from the inside.”
“Tell me what to do,” came Erindor’s voice, low and steady at my shoulder. He didn’t flinch at my urgency and didn’t ask questions. Just listened.
“I need shelter, genuine warmth. Something dry to cover her. And I need time.”
He nodded and was gone in an instant.
Alaric stirred and was instinctively on his feet, eyes sharp.
When I told him what was happening, he moved without hesitation.
Gideon joined him. Together, they cleared a better path up the slope toward the shallow rock overhang we had passed the day before.
It was a space that promised shelter from the worst of the rain.
“It’s not perfect,” Alaric muttered, “but it’ll do. ”
Gideon didn’t wait. He crouched beside Jasira and, with a soft grunt of effort, lifted her into his arms. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he whispered, careful not to jostle her too much. “Let’s get you somewhere dry.”
Every step beside them felt like an eternity. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm of utter helplessness.
The new shelter, though cramped and barely large enough for all of us, was much better than our previous spot.
The stone above created a sloped ceiling that let the water slide off in thin rivulets.
Erindor returned with his own cloak, several long branches, and a bundle of oilcloth from Gideon’s pack.
Alaric and Gideon helped anchor the coverings, creating a makeshift tent that sealed out the worst of the damp and allowed us to build the fire higher.
Tyren stood outside the shelter’s lip, his sword unsheathed and resting across his knees as he kept a quiet watch.
His eyes scanned the dark tree line without pause.
Occasionally, he muttered a low prayer to one of the old gods, fingers brushing the carved token around his neck.
As we settled Jasira under the layers of blankets, he stepped forward, knelt briefly, and placed the small wooden charm near her side, an offering of luck. Then he resumed his post.
Only when the heat gathered around her cheeks again did I let myself exhale.
“Thank you,” I murmured, glancing up at Erindor.
His gaze, usually so guarded, lingered for a beat too long, a silent question in the depths of his unreadable eyes. Yet, his mere presence was a steadying anchor against the rush of my racing pulse.
I gathered what I needed quickly: a sun leaf, a strip of pine bark, a brittle twist of root I prayed was feverroot.
My hands moved automatically, sorting, preparing.
My breath hitched with each painful throb, a desperate struggle for composure as fear clamped its icy tendrils tighter around my chest.
The fire burned low in the center of the shelter, casting gold and amber light across the stone walls.
I dropped to my knees beside it, arranging the herbs on a flat rock, and began grinding them together with the butt of my knife.
The scent was sharp, bitter, and piney, with the faint sweetness of sun leaf.
I poured water into the blackened tin kettle and set it over the fire. As it warmed up, I scraped the herb paste into the bottom of a cup. The bark needed longer, so I added it to the boiling water first, letting the scent fill the air.
Oily steam enveloped my face, its humid warmth a sticky caress that promised the slow burn of healing. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the rhythm, the careful measure of each motion, the ancient practice of tending to someone you love.
From behind, a choked sound tore from Jasira's throat, a tiny, broken noise that barely reached the ears over the wind.
When the tea was finally ready, I knelt beside her again. Her lips were parted, skin slick with sweat, but her lashes fluttered as I touched her shoulder.
“Jasi,” I whispered, gently sliding an arm beneath her shoulders. She was burning. “Try and take small sips,” I said softly as I propped her against me, tilting the cup to her lips.
Her throat worked slowly. She didn’t swallow easily, but she drank.
I whispered to her while she did; nonsense things, comforting things, stories about when we were little, about garden games and secret rooms behind the library shelves. The first time we tried to make soup without help, we nearly burned down the kitchen as a result.
She smiled weakly and lopsidedly.
“I remember,” she mumbled.
“So do I,” I whispered, brushing damp curls from her temple. “Stay with me, Jasi.”
Her eyes, clouded with pain, fluttered to stay open. “I’m trying,” she rasped,
And, gods help me, she was.
…
The shelter had gone still. Jasira’s breathing had settled. Alaric dozed beside Bran, and Gideon’s soft snores filtered in from the far side of the fire. The smoke drifted in soft spirals.
I sat curled against the stone wall, wrapped in my blanket, but sleep would not come.
Across the fire, Erindor sat quietly, his sword across his knees. His eyes flicked to mine briefly, then away.
I hesitated, then reached into my satchel and pulled out a small bit of honey bread I’d kept hidden since Greymere. I crossed the fire and held it out to him.
“Thanks.” He looked surprised but took it with a nod, murmuring, “Are you alright?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.
He nodded again. “Me neither.”
We sat like that for a while, two shadows in the firelight. Then he spoke, voice low.
He turned the bread over in his hands, then broke it in half and held a piece out to me. I took it without hesitation, grateful for the gesture.
“My mother used to make sweet rolls like this,” he said, his voice softer now, almost distant. “She’d use whatever she had: dried cherries, flower syrup, even crushed mint once. She claimed sweetness mattered more when the world turned bitter.”
There was something raw in his voice. I didn’t press, but I didn’t leave it either.
“She sounds kind,” I whispered.
“She was.”
He stared into the flames, as if each flickering dance was a silent echo of a forgotten past.
“She was brave,” he added, almost as if the words tumbled out before he could stop himself.
“Not the sword kind. She never touched a blade. But when I was ten, she stood in front of a man once, armed and angry, with nothing in her hands but a wooden spoon. And she told him to leave.” He paused.
“She did it for me.” His eyes lingered over the fire once more.
My lungs refused to expand, suspended in a moment of utter stillness.
“She died protecting me.” His voice cracked. “And I stood there. Too young. Too slow.”
I didn’t move or dare to take a breath.
His voice, quiet and blunt, hit me with the force of a punch, and my chest constricted.
He wasn’t the type to talk to fill the silence. Every word cost him as if he were carving it out of stone.
As he stared into the fire, jaw clenched tight, posture rigid, the truth of his revelation hit me.
He screamed not loss, but a crushing weight of self-blame.
Erin sat as if he were still ten years old. As if he had never left that moment, like part of him still believed he should’ve done something, anything.
And I hated that. A suffocating weight pressed down on me, every muscle tense, knowing I was utterly incapable of changing the past for him.
The boy he was should have known no such burden, yet the shadow of the shield clung to him. Even as a man, its spectral weight bent his shoulders
I wanted to reach for his hand and tell him he wasn’t alone.
But I whispered the only truth I could find. “You didn’t forget her,” I said. “That matters.”