Chapter Twenty
Erindor
Suddenly, we stepped forward and the forest changed.
One moment, the trees still bore the last bruises of winter. Next, we entered a silence so profound, it seemed to actively swallow the air, leaving a strange pressure in its wake. Even our boots seemed hesitant to disturb the moss-padded ground.
The trees here were different; stripped of bark and color, trunks as pale as old ash and smooth as bone. Their branches twisted skyward like brittle fingers. Light filtered through them in a sickly, washed-out haze. The air felt thinner. Pressed.
Gideon slowed his pace, muttering something under his breath.
“What is this place?” Jasira asked quietly, eyes scanning the skeletal canopy.
“The Bone Orchard,” he said after a pause. “Or so the maps call it.”
Alaric turned. “That does not give me any comfort.”
Gideon didn’t smile. “It’s not meant to be. Locals claim that a great battle took place here during the Forgotten Wars. Thousands fell, but no one buried them. The war moved on, and they left the dead behind.”
He studied the trees.
“They say the roots drank deep. Took the flesh, the blood, the memory. That’s why the trees grow so pale. Like they’re full of ghosts.”
Jasira shivered. “That’s a bit morbid.”
“That’s Wildervale,” I muttered.
The name fits. There was something wrong with this place. Not in the way of traps or predators, but in how everything still was, like the forest had gone hollow. Waiting for something to return.
Wyn said nothing. She slid between the bleached trunks, her hair swaying gently as she walked ahead of the group. I only wished I could read her expression.
I’d been watching her more closely since the light.
Something was changing in her. Untouchable almost. Like the gods had taken notice, and now she belonged to them more than to us.
Alaric veered off to scout the path ahead with Bran. Gideon stayed near Jasira. I lingered a few paces behind Wyn, keeping my hand on my blade even though nothing stirred.
She dropped to her knees suddenly, fingers brushing the moss near the base of one of the taller trees.
“What is it?” I asked, stepping closer.
A line creased her brow as she exhumed a glint of metal from the moss.
It wasn’t lost debris or a forgotten trinket; instead, it was a pendant.
Elegant in its simplicity, shaped like a teardrop of blackened silver, cool and ancient.
The chain had long since worn thin, but the pendant itself gleamed faintly despite the misty light.
On its surface, spun in lines so delicate they seemed to shimmer, was a wildflower whose petals curled upward like flames.
She turned it over in her palm. “It’s warm,” she whispered, raising her eyebrows.
I stepped forward, drawn inexplicably toward it. Like I’d seen it before in a dream I hadn’t known was mine.
She startled when I reached for it and let it fall into the moss. I crouched and picked it up. The warmth wasn’t sunlight—it was deeper. Like breath caught in metal. Like something old, and grieving, and waiting.
A sudden surge of adrenaline made the blood rush through my veins.
Cireth. A name rose in my thoughts like a whisper, unbidden.
I didn’t know how or why, but this piece of the past had been waiting for me.
Wyn stepped back, her voice shaky. “It sees us.”
I looked at the pendant in my palm, the faint warmth pulsing through the metal like a second heartbeat.
“No,” I said softly. “It remembers us.”
Her eyes blinked open in a flash of surprise.
I couldn’t explain it, but I sensed it. The pendant wasn’t just reacting to her. It had been waiting for me, too, sent here like a thread in a story we hadn’t told. The thread only made sense when the two pieces came together.
When flame met earth. When memory found purpose.
Her eyes flickered, but she said nothing more. She just watched my hand, where the pendant rested.
And though I was unsure why, I already knew its intended use.
Not as a weapon. Not even as a ward.
As a promise.
I slid the pendant into my satchel before I could think twice.
We moved on in silence, but the Bone Orchard felt different now. It had seen us and chosen not to interfere.
Far behind us, underneath the twisted roots and whispers of long-dead memory, an ancient power continued to radiate a faint, unsettling glow.
We collapsed into camp, most of us seeing proper rest as a distant, forgotten luxury. The campfire remained unlit, a flickering hearth of comfort denied. The weary silence between us was unbroken, each of us lost in our own shadowed thoughts.
The bone-white trees stood like silent sentinels, and no one dared speak above a whisper. Even the breeze here was brittle, threatening to shatter if we moved too quickly.
The ground was too hard for proper tents, and too soft for comfort; slick with moss and brittle roots. Gideon muttered while unrolling his blanket, calling the place “cursed deadwood” and giving every pale tree a sideways glance like it might breathe.
Wyn sat beneath the tree with her knees drawn up, staring into the distance.
The last rays of the sun skimmed the edge of her hair, making it glow faintly gold against the sickly white backdrop.
She possessed an otherworldly beauty, seemingly crafted from a dream, delicate yet vibrant with suppressed energy.
I touched the pendant nestled in my pocket.
It was still warm.
Then I turned my attention back to camp.
“What the hell are you doing?” Alaric’s voice came low but sharp, breaking the silence like a splinter under the skin.
I looked up to see him marching over, his jaw a rigid line. “You didn’t scout the ridge like we agreed,” he snipped. “We were able to push farther today, to make it past the orchard. Instead, we’re wasting time.”
“We’re resting,” I replied evenly, standing with my arms crossed. “You think your sister can keep walking on sheer will alone?”
His eyes flicked to Wyn. “She’s stronger than you think.”
Alaric’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching near his temple
“You’re not her commander, Erindor,” he said. “You’re her guard.”
“And you’re not a general,” I snapped back. “You’re a prince with no map and too much pride. I’ve crossed this stretch twice before; you haven’t. You want to run us into a trap? Be my guest, but don’t pretend you know this land.”
Alaric took a half-step closer, closing in on my face. But I didn’t move.
“Don’t forget your place,” he hissed.
I met his stare. “I haven’t. I just know when to speak, and when I should keep my mouth shut.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but I interrupted him before he could say anything further.
“Wyn’s doing her best, but she’s not trained for this. She’s exhausted, and it’s showing—she hasn’t said a word in an hour, and she’s barely keeping pace. And Jasira just recovered from being sick. You want to run us harder, that’s fine, but know who you’re running with.”
“Enough,” Jasira’s voice broke in. She stood with her arms crossed, glaring at both of us. “You two want to swing your egos around, do it when we’re not sleeping next to death trees, alright?”
Alaric exhaled hard through his nose and stomped away in the opposite direction.
I didn’t follow.
Instead, I sat down on the edge of the clearing, back against a pale root.
Alaric’s words pressed on my chest. Not because he was right, but because I hated that it was coming to this. With every step we took away from the palace, civility frayed. We were unraveling slowly but surely.
The pendant was still in my palm, faintly pulsing. I stared at it in the dying light.
And yet, it had drawn me to it.
What is happening to you, Wynessa?
The fire, animals, and dreams. Her eyes seemed to glow when she forgot anyone was watching.
The way the Veilfire had flickered when she stood beneath.
The burden would have crushed most, let alone her, yet she carried it with a quiet fortitude, possessing a grace for which there seemed no name.
And I had absolutely no idea how to protect her from it.
I closed my eyes and the slow breath of the forest filled the silence again. Instead of the usual sound of wind, it was replaced with voices pressed between bark, as if it were waiting for a name.
Something ancient, possibly.
And her. Right in the middle of it all.
I looked over at the small pouch tied to my belt.
Inside, the frostbloom that she’d given me days ago remained pressed between folds of cloth.
I hadn’t looked at it since. Now I opened it slowly, letting the folded petals catch the pale light.
Even wilted, it was still beautiful. For a long moment, I stared at it, feeling the tightness in my chest ease, not gone, but quieter.
I closed the pouch gently and patted it once,
Darkness descended, heavy and absolute, swallowing the sky without a single star.
We took shifts through the night. Gideon paced the edges of the grove like a caged beast. Alaric sat apart from the group, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on nothing, Bran at his side.
Even Jasira had grown quiet, rubbing her thumb in circles over a worn pendant of her own, not magical, just a treasured gift her mother had given her.
And Wyn lay with her back to the group, curled beneath her cloak like a question that hadn’t yet found its words.
I wanted to say something. Just to her. To tell her again that she wasn’t alone in whatever was happening to her, that I, too, felt the shifting ground beneath my feet.
But the words stayed where they always did, buried beneath duty, beneath doubt. So, I stayed near. Not beside her, but within a heartbeat's reach, ready to respond should she stir.
I was close enough to hear when she cried out.
A fragile breath, barely audible, escaped her lips, but I was on my feet before she moved again. Her sleeping face was etched with a deep furrow in her brow, her limbs tense. Her lips moved as if she were whispering to an unseen entity.
Then: a full-body jolt, and a scream.
She bolted upright, gasping, hair clinging to her face, eyes wide with fire and fear.
I was at her side.
In the dark, her hands scrambled aimlessly for something. Her skin glowed faintly in the moonlight, with sweat and fear. Her eyes didn’t see me at first. They saw something else. Something far away.
“Wyn.” I kept my voice low. Gentle. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”
She blinked rapidly, then focused on me. “Erindor?” Her voice quavered, each word thin and unsteady.
“I’m here,” I said, crouching down closer to her. “You’re alright.”
“No,” she breathed, gripping her cloak like it might fly from her shoulders. “I saw…gods, I saw fire. A throne of flames. And a crown that was black and burning. It—it was on my head, Erindor.”
Her final words shattered into a raw sound in her throat. She wrenched her head, as though trying to erase what she’d just recalled. One hand clamped onto her temple. My hand hovered over her shoulder, unsure, then settled gently. She didn’t flinch. “You were dreaming.”
“It didn’t feel like a dream.” Her voice was small now.
We sat in silence, while the others were still sleeping. I brushed a strand of damp hair from her face, letting my knuckles linger a fraction of a second longer than I should have. “You don’t have to face any of this alone, you know.”
Her eyes met mine, wide with fear. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispered. “The fire, the mark, the animals. And now this? A crown made of ash? What does it mean?”
I hesitated before answering her. Not because I didn’t believe her, but because I had no answers. Only worry and a gut-wound ache that deepened every time she looked scared.
“I don’t know,” I said at last. “But I believe you.”
A moment passed between us, quiet and threaded with something unspoken. I let it settle, didn’t run from it. Didn’t lean into it either. I was too good at walls for that.
Wyn’s breathing slowed. Her shoulders slumped, losing their stiff posture.
“Will you stay here for a while?” she asked. “Until I fall asleep again.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured.
She shifted slightly, then leaned into me, resting her head against my shoulder.
The contact was gentle. Natural. But it sent something sharp and indefinable straight through my chest.
I stayed still, barely daring to breathe, afraid I might ruin it somehow. Her warmth soaked through my sleeve. Her hair smelled like rain and crushed herbs.
She was asleep within minutes.
I stayed by her side long after her eyes closed, watching the moonlight shift across her face. She looked peaceful. Touched with fear but resting now despite it.
And gods help me, I didn’t want to move.
The silence was absolute; the grove stood breathless, every rustle hushed.
Wyn stirred beside me, her forehead knitted, with a visible sign of her concern, but she hadn’t cried out again.
No more whispers, no more visions, simply the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath her cloak.
I stood before her, brushing dirt from my knees and quietly tucking the pendant back into my belt.
Around camp, the others emerged from restless half-sleep. Gideon muttered about curses and morning stiffness, his jokes thin and brittle. Jasira brewed tea with fingers still pink from the cold. Bran pawed at the dirt, agitated. The bone-pale trees cast long shadows, and none of us spoke much.
Alaric paced. He always paced when he didn’t want to show how shaken he was.
“We should have crossed the river,” he said eventually, not looking at me. “Back where the bridge collapsed.”
I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong. We should have. Yet, a chilling unease clung to the river, whispering of a price far greater than any toll. “We’ll make better time today,” I said instead. “There’s an open trail ahead. If we keep east, we’ll clear the ridge before nightfall.”
Suddenly, Wyn woke up, rising with her cloak wrapped tightly around her, eyes shaded but steady.
“I’m ready,” she declared, her voice firm and unwavering.
We moved as one, boots crunching over brittle moss, breath steaming in the cold. No one looked back at the trees. In the Bone Orchard, there were no farewells.