Chapter Sixteen
Erindor
The cliffs fell away behind us.
We had descended from Stonespine Crossing in tense silence; the sun rising pale and uncertain through low clouds.
A light frost still clung to the rocks in places, catching the morning light in sharp glints.
Wildervale opened again below us in a vast hush.
It was less jagged here, but no less strange.
The trail snaked deeper into a forest that predated the very mountains themselves, where ancient trees with trunks like weathered monuments stood in silent, watchful ranks, barked like cracked stone, and moss hung from their branches like faded banners.
The air smelled of damp earth and crushed lichen, with a faint trace of old smoke that lingered low in the underbrush.
We walked with more precision today, keeping our voices hushed.
The mimics had shaken us more than anyone would say aloud.
Jasira walked beside Wyn, steady but pale, still recovering from her sickness.
Alaric led up front with Bran pacing ahead, ears alert.
Gideon was behind him, though, looking back at the Princess and her friend more often than not.
Tyren flanked us loosely. I took the rear.
It let me watch them.
Let me watch her.
Wyn had spoken little since we broke camp.
But her eyes flicked to the tree line often, her fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger every so frequently, like she needed to be reminded it was there.
I couldn’t blame her. The memory of the river, raw and unforgiving, haunted her waking thoughts as it did mine.
There was something about her walk today.
It was more measured, cautious, and sure.
She loosely braided her hair, and strands escaped, brushing the collar of her cloak with each step.
She walked like someone waiting to be called back by something unseen but still choosing to move forward.
It wasn’t a strength I recognized in her initially.
It was persistence. And I admired it more than I knew how to say.
She didn’t look back at me, but I watched the way the sunlight struck her. The way animals moved slightly toward her. Bran lingered closer when she spoke. A sparrow had landed on her shoulder earlier and stayed there for a moment longer than made sense. Wildervale was paying attention to her.
And so was I.
It was midday when we decided to take a break.
We found a clearing ringed with old stone pillars, worn down to stumps and lichen-crusted.
Something about them felt purposeful. Some had fallen sideways or cracked in half, but a few still stood, leaning slightly as if bowed by time.
Vines coiled at their bases, and faint carvings marked their surfaces: weathered spirals, sunbursts, and long-faded glyphs.
The moss underfoot was thick and springy, and the filtered light fell in long gold shafts like columns, striking only the stones.
It was a silence that felt like breath held.
The clearing felt inhabited by history. A place where the earth itself recalled names no longer spoken. The hush of moss and memory. The light slanted through the trees in shafts like columns, touching only the stone as if nature itself dared not intrude.
Tyren passed through the ring first and muttered, “Creepy place,” under his breath. He didn’t stop moving, but he gave the pillars a wide berth.
Unpacking was a silent ritual, each item placed with care, every offering food with a wordless acknowledgment.
Wyn settled against the cool stone, carefully unrolling a small parcel of dried fruit, and Bran instinctively curled close, a silent testament to the fragile intimacy of the moment. I didn’t sit. I couldn’t.
My eyes stayed on the woods.
Eventually, Wyn rose and walked to me leisurely. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She raised a brow and held out a slice of pear.
I shifted my weight for a moment, then took it. Our fingers brushed. Her touch didn’t linger, but my awareness of it did.
“I’ve always wanted to come to Wildervale,” she said softly. “It feels like the world’s thinning.”
I glanced around. “It is. The gods lived here once. Places like this, they remember.”
She turned to look at me. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Remember.”
Her voice held no accusation, only a tender curiosity that frayed my defenses. The air became too thick, too revealing, and my gaze darted away, unable to meet hers.
“I remember the things that matter.”
She stepped closer. “And what matters now?”
My jaw flexed. “Getting you to Caerthaine alive, Princess.”
She didn’t argue.
But she didn’t leave either.
Beside me, she remained, a soft, insistent warmth that sparked both comfort and a frustrating ache for more. I felt a sensation of being both filled and left wanting more at the same time.
She wandered along the ring of ancient pillars. Her fingers brushed one and paused. “There’s a mark here,” she murmured.
I stepped forward. Someone had scorched a spiral into the face of the old and distinctive stone.
The pillar itself leaned slightly toward the riverbank, its surface marred with soot and ancient fire scoring that had blackened the glyphs into ghostly relief.
Moss and faint golden lichen framed the spiral, as though nature itself remembered its shape.
Wyn traced it lightly. “I read about this in one of the temple records,” she spoke softly. “It’s called the Flamebite Mark. Supposedly left by Vireya’s chosen when they fled the god’s wrath. It only appears before a death.”
Her voice dropped lower, her fingers trembling against the scorched stone.
“I told no one I read Vireya’s lore,” she added.
“People called it dangerous nonsense. Said I was wasting time with stories meant to frighten children. But the texts didn’t feel like warnings.
They felt like memories someone didn’t want forgotten.
I think she was the first to break. And everyone else called her dangerous because she didn’t stay small. ”
My eyes widened, and my muscles suddenly locked, a stiffness seizing at my limbs.
I knew that mark. I’d seen it before. On a cliff. In fire. Burned beneath Riven’s feet.
Smoke. Screams. Blood. Riven’s eyes light with something not entirely human.
My grip on the hilt of my sword tightened.
“Where did you say you read that?” I asked too sharply.
She looked at me, startled. “A temple text in Elyrien. Why?”
I shook my head, forcing calm. “Doesn’t matter.”
But it did. Gods, it did. I stared at the spiral again, my stomach knotting. Knowing what this meant didn’t require me to believe in every myth. I’d seen the mark appear before someone died. I’d seen it glow.
I looked at Wyn’s face; earnest, curious, unaware. She didn’t know any of it. She didn’t understand what Riven was. What I used to be.
She turned back to the stone, thoughtful. “We weren’t supposed to study Wildervale lore. They deemed it too speculative. But I always found myself drawn to it. The pieces scattered throughout the old temple archives felt like secrets left behind intentionally. Even after exile.”
“You studied more than they intended you to? ” I asked.
She gave me a small smile. “Books were easier to face than most people. And the gods…” She paused, searching the trees. “The gods never asked me to be anything I wasn’t.”
Something in me tugged at that. The way she said it. Like it meant more than she was letting on.
I said nothing for a long moment. Then, surprising myself, I muttered, “I never had access to temple texts. Or any library.”
Wyn's gaze found mine, a bewildered crease appearing between her brows. “Never?” The word was a bare whisper, loaded with disbelief.
I shook my head. “I used to sneak to the edge of the scribe’s hall in the city, to hear lessons. But I’d get kicked out. Too dirty. Wrong clothes. Wrong everything.”
She didn’t speak for a moment. Then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “You didn’t build the walls. You walked through them.”
We stood there in the hush of ancient stone and soft wind.
A breeze stirred, and a leaf caught in her hair. I reached forward before I thought twice and gently pulled it free.
She looked up, surprised, lips parting slightly. Her eyes locked on mine.
I opened my hand to show her the leaf, then let it drift away.
A beat of silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken things, before she finally uttered, “Goodnight.”
Her voice was soft as dusk.
She turned and walked back toward the others.
I didn’t follow.
My chest felt as though it was caught in an invisible vise, a suffocating grip of emotions too new and too potent to be easily labeled. Whatever left that mark, I thought, we’d be ready.
But I wasn’t sure if I meant the gods or myself.
The more I watched her, the way she looked at the world, the way she touched it with courage, the more I wanted to believe in things I’d buried long ago.
The gods weren’t what scared me.
It was the quiet ache of wanting something gentle.
It was hope.
And I didn’t know how to survive that.
As the camp settled into quiet and the fire burned low, I noticed Gideon helping Jasira adjust her blanket. She grumbled something at him but didn’t push him away. He nudged her flask toward her with the toe of his boot.
“Drink it. You’ll sleep better.”
“Only if you promise not to snore again.”
Gideon grinned. “No promises.”
Their banter was low but familiar. They seemed to fall into a rhythm of it effortlessly.
I turned slightly and caught Alaric watching me.
He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I’ve seen you, you know. Careful,” he murmured. “She’s promised to another.”
I grunted and turned away, jaw tight.
Alaric’s tone softened. “Don’t let your guard down, Erindor. You’re here to keep her safe. That’s all.” He paused for a moment before uttering. “I’m sorry.”
I nodded, but the words sat heavy.
Was I sure that’s all I wanted to do?