Chapter Thirteen #2
His gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment the world contracted to nothing but the sudden intensity in his eyes. “You remind me of her,” he said.
I blinked. “Because of bread?”
He huffed, a ghost of a laugh. “Because you care. Because you didn’t flinch when she needed help.”
The sound of his voice, low and rough with memory, threaded straight through me.
Something in my chest swelled until it was too big for my ribs to hold, an ache so fierce it stole the air from my lungs.
It was tender, but sharp, like something blooming in a place it shouldn’t be able to grow. Like fire sprouting roots.
“She asked me to keep something alive. To still plant something, even after...” His fingers twitched, curling tight as if he was holding onto her ghost. “You do that. You plant things. Even in people like me.”
The words hollowed me out and filled me in the same breath. I wanted—gods, I wanted—to reach for him, to press my hand against his and tell him he wasn’t as ruined as he believed. The urge was terrifying in its strength, dangerous in the way it threatened everything I had been taught to want.
Instead, I sat frozen, my throat tight, the ache inside me burning bright and unbearable.
He went quiet again, and I let him. The silence between us was companionable. And when he finally glanced at me again, I knew he was remembering more than he said.
Whatever storm still lived in him, I hoped briefly that I could be a quiet place where it passed.
Chapter Thirteen
Wynessa
The path was gone.
Seraph Arch had washed out overnight, reduced to a churning mire of broken stone and white water.
The roar of the river below was louder now, more aggressive—as if the land itself was angry.
Mist rose from the shattered gorge in damp curls, and the morning sun did little to cut through it.
Alaric looked uncertain as he stared at the collapsed ridge, his jaw tight with the silence that meant calculation was underway.
“We could cross it,” Alaric said finally, gesturing to where jagged stone and crumbling ledges still jutted out across the chasm. “If we’re careful, we might climb down to the waterline and ford across.”
Gideon barked a short laugh. “And drown halfway through? That current could snap a horse in half. You saw what it did to the bridge.”
“We’re losing time,” Alaric shot back, eyes narrowing. “We’ll have to go around the entire ridge to reach the high trail. That’s a full day, maybe more. And we already lost a full day. I’m sorry, Jasi, but it’s true.”
“I’d rather lose a day than a life,” Erindor said evenly, his voice cutting through the rising tension like steel. “If we go down there, we won’t all make it.”
Tyren grunted in agreement, turning to me. “The river’s too fast, Your Highness. And too deep. It would wash us off the rocks before we found footing.”
Alaric exhaled sharply, running a hand through his rain-damp hair. He didn’t argue again, but the frustration in his stance said enough.
Jasira slumped against my shoulder, a fragile balance of weakness and stubborn will.
Even on her own feet, her weight felt like a dead load, pressing down on me.
Erindor turned his gaze eastward, toward the tangle of shadowed forest past the broken trail.
“There’s another way. In the old groves, we passed an entrance earlier, barely visible from the main path.
If we follow the groves, we can meet the road again after the cliffs.
It’ll take time, but it’s safer than trying to cross that. ”
It was settled.
We turned off the main trail shortly after dawn, heading east into a grove no one recognized.
I felt it the moment we passed under the first arch of trees.
The air changed.
There wasn't a temperature shift, but a palpable switch in the very fabric of the air, as if the world itself had slowed to a crawl, its breath held in a heavy silence.
The wind was still. The scent of damp moss became sweeter, and twisted trees arched toward each other like hands folded in prayer, leaning in strange, deliberate ways.
We moved beneath them like trespassers in a cathedral. Each step seemed heavier, but not with dread. The deeper we walked, the more the hush pressed in. Not oppressive. Just watchful.
My heartbeat slowed here, or maybe the gentle pace of everything else made it seem as if time stood still.
My fingers twitched at my sides, not out of fear, but from the weight of something unspoken.
The stories I’d read in the castle library—the old ones, barely preserved, spoke of places like this.
Sacred groves, thinned from mortal memory, where gods once whispered through bark and breeze.
The membrane that separated the living world from the echoes of the past was gossamer-thin, almost transparent, as if it threatened to tear at any moment.
I glanced at Erindor. His hand lingered near the hilt of his sword, but did not draw it.
Alaric said nothing. None of us did. Jasira continued to lean against me, still struggling to balance herself as we walked. So, I adjusted my steps to match hers.
I wanted to say something. Anything. But every word I thought of felt too loud for this place.
Then, the animals appeared.
A fox, sleek, russet-furred, its paws silent on the moss. Eyes bright and tail flicking, it stepped from the brush as if we were unwelcome visitors in a forest that clearly belonged to them. It didn’t run. It merely observed.
I stopped walking. Something stirred in the back of my mind—a page from a book I’d once read, its corners torn and its ink faded with time. Not all creatures in Wildervale were simply beasts. Some were signs.
“Messenger beast,” I murmured softly, not really meaning to say it aloud. “They say foxes walk closest to the old gods. They appear only when the divine is paying attention.”
Jasira’s breath caught beside me. I didn’t need to look to know she’d remembered the same stories.
Then, a red-breasted bird landed on a branch above my head and chirped once, softly and clearly.
And then a deer with velveted antlers and moss-touched, one of its eyes glowing faintly blue. It stood across the grove, perfectly still, gazing not at the group but at me.
I stopped walking.
Wynessa.
The name whispered across my spine like wind without breath. My mind wrestled with the sound, unable to classify the creature as real or an illusion. The fox swiveled, its eyes holding a lingering spark before it began to prowl away, its steps silent and unhurried.
Suddenly, I noticed my friends weren’t following.
Alaric, Jasira, Gideon, Tyren, and Erindor all stood still, frozen in place mid-step or mid-turn. Not rigid with fear, but paused. It was as if someone had stopped time for them.
But the animals were still moving.
Ahead, the fox walked. The bird shifted on its branch. The deer’s breath steamed faintly in the air.
“Wynessa,” my name was called again.
I stepped forward toward the voice with Bran padding quietly after me.
He didn’t hesitate. The massive hound followed each of my steps as if the pull of the place beckoned him too. When we reached the edge of the deeper grove, he gave a small chuff and pressed his body against my leg. Then, without prompting, he trotted ahead.
I followed.
The grove deepened, the trees forming high arches overhead, so perfectly curved it appeared to be a place designed by thought, not nature. The light was golden and dappled, filtering through leaves that shimmered with a faint silver tint.
The fox led me to a small clearing, at the center of which stood a moss-draped shrine.
Stone cracked and leaned. Vines crawled up its sides, thick with golden blossoms I didn’t recognize. The scent was warm, floral, and strange.
Behind the shrine, nestled in the dappled green, was a small cabin.
Its roof blossomed with wild herbs and tiny white flowers, a vibrant contrast to the walls of weathered wood, furrowed by age and carpeted in moss. Plants spilled from every windowsill with long-stemmed blooms, curling ferns, and potted vegetables that looked recently tended.
A narrow footpath led around toward the back, where a garden bloomed in quiet defiance of the wild. Rows of medicinal herbs, flowering vines, even a gnarled fruit tree heavy with pale gold pears. It smelled of earth and rain and sun-warmed leaves.
It was a haven, a place so ancient its age was a physical comfort, a deep-rooted security felt to its roots. The weight of countless seasons settled there, a soothing blanket woven from centuries of quiet stillness.
And in front of it, standing calmly as if he’d always been there—
A man.
His presence was ageless, like river stone or old roots.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of dark honey and a well-kept beard.
Cloaked in faded green and brown, his clothing seemed a part of the forest itself.
When he turned toward me, his pale eyes seemed to skim over me, not truly seeing, but perceiving something more profound, as if his vision didn't require the need to look.
Bran bounded up to him, wagging his tail. The man crouched with a soft laugh and scratched behind his ears as though he were greeting an old friend.
“Oh, you’re here!” he exclaimed, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he added, clapping his hands together, as if continuing a conversation we’d already started. A wave of paralysis swept through me, seizing my limbs and tightening my chest.
Light filtered in through the trees above in long, golden shafts, casting a radiant glow over the clearing.
Bees hummed lazily among the flowers. The air here seemed softer, thicker, like something divine had kissed it.
Peace spread through me like a slow, warming tide.
Even Bran, usually so alert, rolled onto his side near the shrine and let the man rub his belly, tongue lolling in delight.