Chapter Nineteen
Wynessa
The forest widened into a yawning canyon, its smooth boulders draped in moss and dappled with gold-touched mist. Wind whispered low between the stone crevices, weaving a melody that tugged at my bones. Jasira called it the Singing Stones.
We weren’t camping again; we were pausing for a rest, though no one said as much.
The path ahead still sloped down into the canyon’s belly, but the way behind was too steep to climb back.
The Vorrhounds and Mimics were gone, but the memories still stalked me.
Every shadow held a shape. Every breeze felt like a breath on my neck.
The air, though fresh, still carried the weight of something watching, as if the new land we’d trampled on had not yet decided if we were welcome.
Tension hummed within our group like a second wind song.
Gideon muttered under his breath about cursed echoes and ghost rocks.
Jasira busied herself with her tea satchel, but her hands trembled when she thought no one was watching.
Even Bran growled low at nothing. We were all on edge, and the Singing Stones seemed to listen.
Alaric inspected the perimeter with half-tired caution, reinforcing what little defense we could manage. Erindor was on the river’s edge, cleaning his hands in the water.
I watched him from the shadows of the canyon wall.
He didn’t move with the usual tension he carried, didn’t pace or glare into the trees.
Instead, he knelt by a patch of wild thistle near the bank, fingers brushing the petals without picking them.
For a man who could end a life with one blow, he was oddly gentle with small, defenseless things.
I needed space. Air. Silence. Something else.
So, I wandered.
Alone, I followed a narrow ledge deeper into the canyon, where moss softened the stone, and the wind’s song grew louder, humming like a lullaby beneath my skin.
The ground felt alive, every footfall stirring echoes not from rock but from somewhere deeper, older.
People didn’t name the Singing Stones simply for their sound.
They were a place of memory, and beneath our feet, the ground thrummed with a resonance of long-gone footsteps.
Suddenly, a jagged edge of the landscape revealed a sight that stopped me in my tracks.
It was a boulder torn in half, its face carved with strange fire-marked symbols.
They shimmered faintly, like the last embers of a dying flame.
The shapes were not of any language I knew.
More like memories burned into the rock, etched by a hand that didn’t need tools.
I held my breath as I reached out.
The surface pulsed warm under my palm.
A flicker of light danced at my fingertips, a golden flame, delicate as lace. It curled and vanished. A frantic rhythm began, as if a blacksmith was suddenly at work within my chest, striking steel with each pounding beat.
Then I noticed another stone nearby, smaller and weathered by time but unmistakably carved with the image of a fox.
The lines were simple yet elegant; its eyes were formed from smooth insets of glinting amber.
It sat as if waiting, its tail curled, its head tilted toward the canyon’s deeper reaches.
The divine messenger.
I crouched and traced the image with my fingers, awed with quiet wonder.
Had it been following me? Or was I following it?
I didn’t know. But something about the way its image lingered here, carved into stone as old as the gods, made my pulse stutter.
This was no mere coincidence; foxes never appeared twice without a purpose, especially not like this.
I sensed movement behind me, familiar. The hair on the back of my neck didn’t rise, and something in my chest settled.
“Alaric?” I called softly over my shoulder.
He appeared moments later, arms crossed, gaze already on the stone. “You found it, too.”
“I’ve seen the fox before,” I whispered. “Near the glade. And now here.”
He nodded. “It’s one of the oldest symbols left behind. Some say the fox is the one who guided the chosen to safety when the gods fell to war. Others believe it’s the only creature the fire goddess feared. Too clever to be caught and too quick to be burned.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“Watching,” he said simply. “Maybe waiting.”
He closed the distance between us, his hand a warm weight on my shoulder. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, saying, “They say the canyon remembers old powers. People come here to seek answers, but it gives them riddles.”
“What riddles?” I asked.
“Questions that sound like answers. Echoes that feel like your own voice.” He stepped closer, his face solemn.
“They say this place, the Singing Stones, is one of the oldest remnants of the gods’ first breath.
Before they fractured and fled. Before Vireya scorched the world.
Some say the ancestors come here to listen. Or to wait.”
I glanced down at the fox again, its eyes glinting in the canyon light.
“Did they love each other, our parents?” I asked softly.
His eyes fluttered open, a momentary confusion clouding his features.
The unexpected question seemed to catch in his throat, and after a beat, a soft, almost reluctant 'Yes' emerged. “In their own way. Duty bounds them, but I remember the way Father looked at Mother when she wasn’t watching. Like he’d die before letting her fall. That kind of love doesn’t need poems. Even if she is terribly strict. ”
I smiled a little; the memory softening my chest. “You were always good at sneaking me things when Mother was cross. Do you remember when she locked me out of the library wing?”
Alaric grinned. “You mean the time she found you reading that scandalous romance hidden in a history tome?”
“I was studying!” I protested.
“With characters named after herbs and kissing behind waterfalls?”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I let out a laugh and immediately buried my face in my hands. “Oh gods. Stop. I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
Alaric chuckled harder, and I peeked at him through my fingers, still blushing.
He laughed, heartily and genuinely. “I snuck you pastries that night, remember? Hid them behind the curtains so she wouldn’t see. And that book.”
“You did,” I said warmly. “You always looked out for me.”
“I still do and always will.” He grew quiet again. “Even when you scare me half to death.”
We sat in silence after that. The kind that settles between two people who don’t need to fill every space with sound.
“Do you think…do you think the prince and I will fall in love?”
Alaric didn’t answer right away. “I think you could. But only if he earns it.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then don’t pretend you did, Wynnie.”
I looked down at the ground, twiddling my fingers. “And what if I already feel something for someone else?”
He looked at me carefully. “Then be careful. And be honest with yourself first. You’ve always had a soft heart, but that doesn’t mean it’s fragile.”
I looked up at him, searching his face.
“Alaric,” I said, twisting my hands together, “have you ever been in love?”
He raised a brow, smirking. “What, now you’re asking the older brother for romance advice?”
“Be serious,” I pleaded.
Something shifted in his expression. The teasing fell away.
He sighed. “No. Not yet. But I’d like to be one day.”
I tilted my head. “How will you know?”
He looked back at the canyon. “When I choose them over purpose. Over duty. In every life. That’s how I’ll know.”
“What if love makes me lose control? What if I’m dangerous?” I whispered. I wasn’t sure I wanted to say the thought aloud until I already had.
Alaric stepped even closer and pulled me into a gentle yet firm embrace. He kissed the top of my forehead. “You’re not dangerous, Wyn. You’re the only one of us brave enough to feel everything fully.”
The light thinned as we walked back to camp together. When we arrived, Alaric glanced at the group huddled around the fire and smiled sideways at me.
“Do you want me to play you something? Like when we were little?”
My eyes widened. “You still remember the lullabies?”
He gave a mock gasp of offense. “Wynnie. Please. I’m a man of many talents.” He grinned, putting his hand across his chest.
He pulled out his lute and strummed softly. The moment the tune started, everyone groaned.
“Oh no, not this again,” Jasira muttered.
Gideon groaned dramatically, flinging himself backward. “Have mercy!”
Then he lobbed a small stick at Alaric’s head.
Alaric ducked and pointed the lute at him like a weapon. “Ungrateful! All of you!”
I burst out laughing, warm and genuine.
Erindor, sharpening his blade a short distance from the others, let out a long breath through his nose. He didn’t look up, but the movement of his hand slowed for a moment.
“Of course,” he muttered to himself. “The lute.”
But when Alaric struck a softer note, the kind that lingered in the air like a memory, Erindor’s sharpening resumed, rhythmic and steady. As if he were pretending he wasn’t listening to every note.
The wind whispered and sighed through the canyon, winding between stone teeth and hollow chimes. The song that rose was soft, haunting, and somehow familiar. I felt it in my ribs, in my spine, like a memory I hadn’t lived yet. My voice seemed to echo inside the hum.
One must give it freely.
One must believe it.
I curled tighter in my blankets, the warmth in my palm pulsing once more before fading. In my dreams, the golden fire returned, not to burn but to bloom. Like a promise. Like a choice.
And for the first time, I wasn’t running from it. I was walking toward it, even if I stumbled.