Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fourteen
Erindor
By the time we made camp that evening, the sun was already low, casting long golden slants through the trees.
We spent the better part of the day winding through Wildervale’s quiet groves.
The light shifted with a deliberate slowness, as the forest breathed around us. Thoughts of her consumed my mind.
Wyn.
She had said little after the grove and the fox.
She had vanished from our sight and returned an entirely different person. A newfound radiance clung to her, a brightness that shimmered around her like a halo. Something in her eyes had shifted, like someone had lifted a weight I hadn’t even known she was carrying.
Even the animals noticed.
Bran, normally so selective, followed at her heel like a knight sworn. Birds landed near her as she walked. A white moth clung to her hair for over an hour. It was subtle at first and easy to dismiss, but I saw it.
So did the trees.
We made camp beside a shallow bend in the river where moss grew thick between the roots of weeping willows. Their branches hung in veils, shifting enough in the wind to hide or reveal. It was quiet here, the quiet that left you alone with your thoughts.
And mine lately were a mess. All I could think of was her.
She was crouched now by the edge of the water, sleeves rolled, rinsing herbs she’d gathered.
The sunlight touched her hair in strands of amber and rose.
Every so often, she would glance back to check on Jasira or murmur something to the hound curled beside her.
It was a quiet sort of care. The kind you didn’t always notice until you couldn’t stop seeing it.
She caught me watching and smiled tenderly. My eyes darted away, desperately searching for a distraction.
Alaric had pulled out his lute and was quietly tuning it, plucking a few soft notes that floated over the camp like smoke.
Tyren sat nearby, carefully oiling his armor with a cloth.
He’d placed a small carved token near Jasira’s bedroll earlier, one of his “luck pieces,” he’d claimed, warding off evil spirits.
None of us mocked him for it, not after everything we’d seen.
Later, after the others had eaten and Jasira was dozing again, Wyn approached me while I was checking the edges of my blade.
“Would you show me again?”
“What?”
“How to use this,” she asked, holding out her dagger.
I blinked. “You want to train?”
She nodded, fingers intertwined in front of her. “If that’s alright.”
I hunched my shoulders. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to. Gods, no. It was because I did. Too much.
Something inside me pulled taut at the request. It wasn’t the way she looked at me, eyes wide and hopeful, or the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. It was what it meant. That she trusted me, wanted to learn from me, and wanted to be near me.
An insistent pulse screamed of things I wanted but were forbidden. The truth lodged like a shard in my throat: this shouldn't matter. Her safety was the only thing that was allowed to be consumed in my thoughts. Nothing more.
Still, I nodded. “Come on.”
We moved a short distance into the clearing, far enough from camp to be out of direct view. The air was cooler here, the grass soft underfoot. She took out the small dagger she’d bought at the market, the one I’d sharpened while she slept.
“Try to stay light on your feet. Don’t think about fighting, think about surviving,” I said softly.
She nodded and positioned herself in the stance I had shown her. I stepped behind her to adjust her, my hands brushing lightly over her shoulder, elbow, and wrist.
A subtle catch in her breath, almost imperceptible, was sensed whenever my fingers grazed her side to guide her posture. Her skin warmed beneath my touch, a transparent veil barely concealing the subtle tremors that betrayed her.
I tried not to think about how close she was. She moved like sunlight, quiet, warm, and always a little beyond my reach. She was beautiful, yes. Anyone with eyes could see that. But it was more than her face. It was the way she watched the world, as if it were still worth saving.
That gave me a bone-deep dread that surpassed every other fear I had combined.
I didn’t have feelings for her.
It wasn’t like that.
It couldn’t be.
“She’s your duty,” I told myself as I moved in front of her, “not your possibility.”
She lunged. Sloppy, but improving. I stepped into her space, catching her wrist, guiding the blade aside.
We were close. Closer than we should’ve been. Her breath stirred the air between us. Her skin was warm beneath my fingers.
I leaned in, closing the space between us, my voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her ears.
“If you’re that close,” I murmured, “it’s not about strength. It’s about conviction.”
She swallowed hard. “Right. Conviction.”
I circled her slowly, eyes like a hawk's, dissecting her every detail. “You hesitate. Don’t. The blade doesn’t care how kind you are. You move, or you bleed. Alright, Princess, again.”
She took a breath, reset her stance, then struck. I blocked, twisted, and nudged her off balance.
She growled softly. “You make it look easy.”
“It’s not. I’ve learned how to make the hard parts look graceful.”
Repeatedly, we ran the sequence. Each time, she got a little faster. Closer, her breath growing more ragged. Her hair clung to her neck. The torture was a steady thrum in my ears.
She spun too quickly, too committed, and her heel caught mine as her dagger arm swept low.
We went down in a blur of motion and breath.
She landed on top of me with a startled gasp, her palms splayed on my chest, my hand still wrapped instinctively around her waist. Her knees braced against my thighs, and the heat of her pressed close.
Her hair fell around us like a silk curtain. Her eyes, wide and shining, met mine.
Neither of us moved.
I sensed her pulse at her wrist; it was fast, like my own.
She looked at my lips.
Gods, she was beautiful.
But that couldn’t mean anything.
Not to me.
Not like that.
“I’m sorry—” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” I said hoarsely.
The moment pulled tight, a thread of something unspeakable trembling between us. She looked at me as if I could be something better. I didn’t know how to carry that, but I wanted to.
Her breath, a soft whisper of warmth, ghosted my cheek, sending a shiver through me. Her fingers, a feather-light touch, curled slightly against my chest, creating a spark that radiated through my core.
A low huff broke the spell.
Bran sat nearby beneath a willow tree, head on his paws but eyes alert, watching us like a chaperone. His tail thumped once in judgment.
Beside him, I caught a glimpse of Gideon standing at the edge of the trees.
Gideon grinned. “Shhh, Bran, I’ll wait ten more seconds.”
But Bran’s second huff was louder this time.
“Oh, am I interrupting something steamy?” came Gideon’s voice, bright and amused. “Should I pretend to have gone blind?”
Wyn let out a squeak and scrambled off me. I rolled away, swearing softly.
Gideon stood at the edge of the trees, tossing an apple into the air with a smirk that belonged in a tavern.
“We’re done,” I muttered, brushing off my shirt and walking back to camp.
Wyn didn’t follow right away.
…
Later that night, the fire was low, and the group had fallen into one of those rare, meandering conversations that happened only when the world was quiet enough to make room for them.
Gideon was comparing the court dances of Tharnhal, “so stiff even their bowing has a curtsy,” to the wild music of the coast.
Jasira snorted. “You like the coast because people there wear less.”
Gideon grinned. “Yes, but I also appreciate people who are proficient with a drum.”
Alaric leaned forward, plucking softly at his lute. “What about Vireth? Or Caerthaine? I’ve heard rumors of magic in their courts. Actual elemental gifts.”
“Rare,” Jasira said, suddenly more serious. “But not impossible.”
Wyn stirred. Her fingers twisted around her mug as she spoke, knuckles tight. “It’s said that gods give those gifts. They choose whom they bless based on their values. And even that kind of grace has a cost.”
The firelight flickered over her face. I noticed the faint line between her brows.
“The old texts say it feeds on the soul if wielded without balance. And some gifts...aren’t gifts at all.”
“False gifts?” Tyren asked, rubbing his hands together.
Wyn's head dipped, her gaze carefully fixed on the ground. “Magic born of grief, blood, or blasphemy. Power taken instead of given. There’s extraordinarily little written about them.”
A profound stillness descended, swallowing the chatter, leaving only the echo of what had just been said.
Alaric frowned. “So, it’s not only a tool?”
“It’s never just a tool,” I said.
They all turned to look at me.
I rarely spoke during these talks. Never felt like I had anything worth adding.
But Wyn met my gaze, quietly curious. And that was enough.
“If you shape wind or earth, fire or water, it shapes you back,” I said. “Even the strongest get hollow if they don’t know who they are.”
Gideon blinked. Jasira tilted her head. Wyn smiled.
“You read?” Alaric asked, half-mocking, half-impressed.
“Sometimes,” I muttered, before returning to sharpen my blade.
Jasira leaned forward, stirring the fire with a stick. “Caerthaine hides its magic behind gilded walls. All jeweled marble and velvet politics, but you bleed the same even if it’s on silk.”
Alaric added softly, “They may glitter, but they’re Vireth’s puppets now. Their power’s not in magic; it’s in appearances.”
Gideon chuckled. “And Elyrien? That place grows bread like it breathes. Not fancy, but they’d starve us out if we lost their alliance.”
“Elyria’s fields are sacred,” Wyn murmured. “They say the gods still touch the soil there.”
One of Alaric's eyebrows arched in a silent challenge, the curve sharp and pointed, “And Tharnhal?”