Chapter Fifteen #2
“Cold,” I stated. “But solid. They’ve got a fortress carved into the cliffs and a library older than any crown. They speak slowly and hit hard.”
“Sounds like my kind of people,” Gideon muttered.
Everyone laughed lightly. For a moment, the weight of the night lifted.
The fire crackled low. Alaric strummed a tune as Jasira began humming. I didn’t recognize this song. Tyren tossed another twig into the coals and leaned back with a sigh.
And then, Bran lifted his head in alert.
His ears tilted toward the trees.
We all followed his stare.
The laughter faded, and everyone quieted.
Somewhere beyond the veil of willow branches, something moved. Something not far enough for comfort. A rustle. The sound of weight shifting through the brush.
“Could be a deer,” Alaric offered, though his voice lacked confidence.
I stood slowly, brushing the hilt of my sword. Wyn rose too, one hand instinctively reaching toward the dagger at her belt. I noticed the way she scanned the dark with more awareness than ever before.
The rustling stopped.
Bran let out a quiet growl. Just once.
Then the forest returned to stillness.
We waited for a few moments longer, but nothing happened.
“I’ll take first watch,” Tyren muttered, already rolling his shoulders.
No one disagreed.
Wildervale might let you laugh, but it never truly enabled you to forget where you were.
Whatever was out there, it didn’t scare me.
Chapter Fifteen
Wynessa
The first snow stole into the world like an unbidden secret whispered from the sky. It settled, soft and sudden, muffling the edges of the day.
I woke in the dim light before dawn, my breath clouding the air inside my tent.
A hush had fallen over the woods, broken only by the distant burble of the river and the soft rustle of canvas as the others stirred in sleep.
I sat up slowly, tugging my cloak tighter around my shoulders, and peeked outside.
The world had changed overnight. A fine layer of powdery snow blanketed the earth, turning the gnarled roots and twisted bramble of Wildervale into something briefly beautiful. Frost clung to leaves like delicate silver veins.
I slipped out quietly with my satchel and sketchbook, boots crunching softly in the snow.
The cold bit at my cheeks as I crouched beside a cluster of frost-kissed flowers growing along the bank of the river.
I reached out, gently brushing snow from the petals of a sleepvine bloom, blue-white and trembling in the wind.
One could gather the shimmering frost from its leaves, a whispered secret for crafting calming draughts.
A draught Jasira desperately needed, for she had been thrashing through the long night, unable to find peace.
I plucked a few petals and uncapped a small glass vial. As I worked, I heard footsteps, light but sure, and froze.
A heavy cloak settled over my shoulders.
“You’re going to freeze to death over a flower, Princess,” Erindor murmured behind me.
I flinched, muscles locking instantly, then my head snapped up, my breath a sharp gasp. He was there, closer than could have been imagined, closer than he should be. The chill air turned his breath to mist, and there was a softness in his expression I hadn’t seen before. He knelt beside me.
“It’s for Jasira,” I said, recovering. “Sleepvines can help with dreams.”
He didn’t reply immediately. Then, surprisingly, he smiled, a faint, rare curve of his lips.
His hands moved to adjust the cloak, which had slipped too far to one side. Fingers steady and sure, he tugged it snug around my shoulders, brushing snowflakes from my collar. His touch lingered longer than it needed to.
“You tied it wrong,” he murmured.
I blinked. “I didn’t tie it at all.”
“Exactly.”
He carefully fastened the clasp under my chin.
Time seemed to slow, every heartbeat echoing in the hush between us.
I was acutely aware of the warmth radiating from his body, the gentle firmness of his touch.
He was so close, so careful, as though he was afraid to shatter something fragile and precious between us.
The world faded until there was only him, only this moment suspended in the crystalline morning air.
The silence between us felt fragile and full.
“There,” he said, stepping back, but only slightly. “Better.”
We stood together in the morning hush, strolling along the frozen bank. The snow silenced the world, giving the impression that we were the only two awake.
“I used to do this in the garden back home,” I said. “Sketch plants. Take notes. My mother said it wasn’t proper for a princess to have dirt on her knees.”
“She sounds delightful,” Erindor said dryly.
I laughed softly. “She was...practical.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then I felt him glance at me again.
“Erindor,” I said, stopping beneath a tree heavy with frost. “You don’t always have to protect me, you know.”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
I turned toward him, heart thudding. I felt my cheeks flush, and not only from the cold. Snowflakes dusted my eyelashes.
He reached out without thinking and brushed one off my cheek. His fingers lingered for a breath.
“I—” I began, but a voice rang out from the trees.
“Breakfast, snow fairies!” Gideon called. “Come get it before it freezes solid!”
We pulled apart, a silent, almost reluctant severance. My eyes closed briefly before opening to blink back the present. Then, with a heavy heart, I turned toward the smell of the camp.
As we walked back together, he looked over at me and asked, “Is that why you can’t swim?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Because it’s not ‘princess-like’?”
I stared at him, cheeks flushing again. “Perhaps. I always had tutors for music, diplomacy, and lineage. No one ever thought of throwing me into a river.”
He grunted. “Might’ve done you some good.”
While saying, “Not all of us were raised by wolves,” I playfully glared at him.
“Not wolves,” he said. “Worse.”
He didn’t elaborate any further.
I rubbed my hands together and glanced down. A strange warmth pulsed in my palm.
I opened my hand.
There, glowing faintly against my skin, was a single ember, no larger than a spark from the fire. It flickered once. Then faded.
But it didn’t burn.
It had felt like a single, reverberating heartbeat, slow and profound, stretching out of time.
I closed my fingers over the spot and said nothing.
At breakfast, Jasira gave me a long, sly look over her steaming tea.
“You’re blushing like a girl who got wrapped in a hero’s cloak and didn’t hate it,” she said, voice low and teasing. “What did he do—whisper something noble while fixing your buttons?”
A sudden heat crept up my neck, stealing my breath and making my face feel strangely tight. Fingers trembled, struggling to maintain a grip on my cup, rattling the delicate ceramic against the plate. “I didn’t—he didn’t—it wasn’t like that.”
She laughed and leaned in. “Wyn, you’re allowed to want.” Her voice was low and gentle. “You’ve lived your whole life being what others needed. Let yourself desire something that seems like it belongs to you.”
Hesitation washed over me, holding me captive. Guilt, raw and bitter, climbed into my throat, a slow, suffocating burn that mimicked my own pulse.
“It…feels like something I shouldn’t want. I’m promised to someone else. I shouldn’t be thinking about anyone else, much less feeling…”
“You’re only human,” Jasira advised. “You’re not betraying a duty by feeling it, Wyn. And you have done nothing wrong.”
I nodded, eyes low. “It still feels like I’m breaking something.”
Jasira’s teasing smile softened, melting into something so tender it made my throat tighten. “It’s not wrong to want something gentle. Something that looks at you like you’re worth protecting.”
I looked down. My eyes fell to the sprig in my palm. “Do you ever feel that way?”
Jasira was quiet for a moment, then her voice dropped slightly. “Gideon sometimes. He makes everything loud, but when he’s kind, it’s like the world listens. It surprises me. And I think that’s why I noticed it.”
Our shared silence spoke louder than words.
I glanced at her then, and for a heartbeat I forgot we were nearly the same age. She laughed like we were still girls, but her eyes…her eyes always seemed older than mine.
I looked at her. She looked at me.
And then we both choked on silent laughter, breathless and giddy, like children with a secret too big to hold.
The sound bubbled up between us, cutting through the tension of the day like sunlight through mist.
The soundless mirth frothed between us, cleaving the day's tension like a sunbeam cleaves through morning mist.
That afternoon, as we moved deeper into Wildervale, the air shifted. The wind shifted, sighing through the branches, but a strange undercurrent hummed within it.
…
The deeper we went, the more unnatural the forest became.
Tree trunks bowed in on themselves like bones trying to curl inward.
Moss crept too far up the bark, clutching branches like fingers.
And though snow clung to the earth, the air had a wet, stagnant feel that didn’t match the cold.
Like something unseen was breathing under the surface.
I was the first to feel it. A prickling sensation at the back of my neck, like we were being watched.
My pace slackened, a growing unease making me drag my feet. Finally, I stiffened, unable to move a muscle.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Erindor.
He turned toward me sharply. “What did you hear?”
“My voice,” I whispered, pointing my finger. “Calling from the trees over there.”
A moment later, my voice echoed again. Exactly. A perfect mimicry, but wrong in cadence. Cold. Mocking.
Erindor didn’t hesitate. He moved between me and the voice, blade in hand.