Chapter Twenty-Two #3
Her voice followed, low and real and full of breath.
“Erindor?”
I looked up.
Wyn lowered herself beside me, her eyes wide with worry. “You saw something.”
“I…No, it’s fine.” I looked down, realizing I’d cut my palm on the glassy stone. Blood welled slowly from the gash.
She reached into her satchel and began pulling out a small cloth and some dried herbs.
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up and give me your hand,” she gestured, her hand outstretched.
I obeyed.
Her fingers were gentle. Too gentle. I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve her.
She wrapped the cloth with precision, but her touch lingered. I watched her lips part slightly in concentration. A rose-colored dust coated her cheeks. The wind pulled a few wisps of her hair free, and they danced like silk threads in the frigid air.
And then the words slipped from me before I could stop them.
“You’re…not just beautiful, you know. You’re…good. All the way through.”
Her hands stilled. She looked up, stunned.
I coughed. “I mean—I meant—Forget I said that.”
“No,” she breathed, the single word a quiet vow. “I won’t.”
Silence stretched between us. I could feel my face burning.
She returned to wrapping my hand, this time more slowly.
I watched her.
She glowed, not with magic, but with something older. Truer.
“Well, well,” Alaric drawled, leaning against a crystal outcrop like it was a stage prop. “And here I thought you were allergic to compliments, Erindor. Was that…praise? In the wild?”
Gideon let out a low whistle. “Quick, someone writes it down before he takes it back.”
I stiffened. “You lot have nothing better to do than eavesdrop?”
Alaric grinned. “Not when you’re providing the entertainment. Honestly, I was half-convinced you were going to explode before saying something honest.”
Wyn buried her face in her hands.
“I hate all of you,” I muttered.
“Aw,” Alaric said, clapping me on the back as he passed. “He’s blushing. This is the best day I’ve had since we left the capital.”
…
I scrubbed my palms against my cloak as we moved away from the ridge’s edge, the sting of the cut across my hand grounding me more than it should have. The others murmured in uneasy tones, glancing at the glass now and then as if it might blink.
Alaric was the first to speak. Of course, he was.
“You alright, shadow boy?” he asked, brows raised with mock concern. “Looked like you saw your own funeral back there.”
I tried to reply, but my throat seized, a knot of silence where words should have been. Wyn walked ahead of me, completely unaware that I’d watched her die.
Gideon gave a low whistle. “This place feels worse than that one tavern in Greymere. And that place had a murder harpist.”
“No one was murdered,” Jasira muttered, adjusting her pack. “Just…emotionally scalded.”
“I’ll take scalding over mirrored death wishes,” Gideon replied, glancing warily at the ridge.
Wyn looked back, catching my eye. Her smile was faint, tentative, the kind she gave when she wasn’t sure whether to be brave or quiet. I nodded once to reassure her. Lying with my eyes, I’ve always been good at that.
We set up camp at the base of the ridge, where the ground leveled out in a hollow of shale and dry moss. The wind had picked up, ruffling cloaks and hair, but none of us spoke of what we’d seen. Some wounds didn’t want salt or curiosity.
I kept to myself, tending the fire, letting the others arrange bedrolls and shift nervously in the growing dark. Wyn crouched beside Jasira, whispering about food stocks. Alaric was nearby, polishing the hilt of his blade as if it had offended him.
I felt the heavy silence stretch between us.
Eventually, she came to sit near me.
“Hey,” she said softly. “How’s the hand?”
I held it up. The cut was thin, but deep. Red blended into purple around the scrape. “It’s fine.”
She reached into her satchel and pulled out a salve, unscrewing the tin with practiced fingers. “Let me see.”
“I said it’s fine, Princess.”
“I heard you, but I’m choosing to ignore it.”
Before I could object again, she took my hand gently into hers. Her fingers were small and soft but steady, sure, like someone who’d spent her life learning how to heal the broken things others left behind.
She didn’t speak, just uncorked the small tin of balm with one hand and dipped her fingers in. The scent of crushed herbs and pine resin rose into the air, clean and sharp.
Then she touched me.
Not the way most people did. Her fingers moved with care—all slow, deliberate, and tender. She smoothed the balm over the gash, working it in with a touch that didn’t just treat pain, but noticed it. I acknowledged it.
Pain flared from the raw flesh, but the instant her hand brushed my skin, a soothing calm washed over the area.
It was warm. Not from the ointment, but from her. From whatever lived inside her now. Whatever had whispered to her in the thorn maze. Whatever made her skin glow in the firelight, even when she didn’t realize it.
That warmth moved through her fingers into mine, slowly, like a promise I didn’t know how to name.
And I gazed at her face. A soft furrow was visible between her brows. How her eyelashes glimmered in the light. The gentle press of her lips as she focused.
I didn’t pull away.
I couldn’t, even if I'd wanted to.
A deep sadness tinged her murmur. “You flinch as if no one has ever cared for you.”
I tore my gaze away. “I haven’t.”
She was quiet for a long moment, then said, “You’re good at hiding it.”
“And you’re not good at hiding it,” I said without thinking.
She blinked, surprised. “Hiding what?”
“That you’re the strongest one here.”
That silenced her. She looked down at my shoulder, at the spot where the Vorrhound wound was still healing. She placed her gentle hands there. Her thumb brushed near it, not quite touching.
“That’s not true,” she whispered. “I’m surviving.”
I turned to her then. Her face was close, too close, and every inch of me wanted to memorize it. The way her hair curled slightly near its ends, the freckles beneath her eyes, the way her bottom lip trembled when she was uncertain.
“You survive like a flame survives a storm,” I said before I could stop myself. “You shouldn’t still be burning…but you are.”
She gulped in a slow, trembling breath, fighting for control. Her eyes glistened with a fragile vulnerability, a shimmering veil holding back a storm.
Erindor, you fool.
I looked away, then cleared my throat. “That’s…not what I meant to say.”
“No?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“No. I mean, yes. But not like that.” I cursed myself silently. “I’m bad at this.”
“At compliments?”
“At—” I gestured vaguely. “People.”
She smiled faintly but didn’t let go of my hand. “You’re not as bad as you think.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but her fingers brushed the back of mine again, and the words dried up.
Our eyes locked, a connection forged deeper than mere sight.
In our depths, a steady warmth pulsed, a quiet promise that I wasn't prepared to confront.
The fire crackled between us, but it wasn’t the heat I felt. It was her.
Behind us, Alaric coughed pointedly. “Well, I, for one, feel blessed by this emotionally stunning moment. Gideon, fetch the lute.”
“Do not fetch the lute,” I snapped, half rising.
Wyn giggled. The sound scraped the bottom of my chest and left something tender in its wake.
I sat back down.
I didn’t look at her again, but her presence filled the quiet.
That night, the others slept.
Gideon snored in short bursts. Jasira rolled over, murmuring something about rabbits.
Alaric had somehow fallen asleep with his lute balanced awkwardly across his lap, one arm slung protectively over Bran.
The warhound’s massive head was resting against his ribs, both snoring in different registers like a mismatched duet. I almost smiled. Almost.
But I didn’t sleep.
I couldn’t.
The ridge wind chafed against the mirrored stone, a dry whisper that clung to the memory. Wyn, consumed by a fiery throne, wearing a crown that blazed with unbearable heat. Her eyes condemning.
The words echoed. “You didn’t help me. You were too late.”
I clenched my jaw and pressed my hand to my chest, reminding myself. It was a vision. Just the glass playing tricks. But that didn’t stop my bones from freezing when I saw her covered in blood. It didn’t stop me from believing her.
I’d failed before. What made me think I wouldn’t again?
I stood and drifted toward the edge of the firelight, not too far but enough for the wind to find me.
The stars were veiled; the moon thin. The ridge shimmered faintly in the dark, each crystal catching what little light remained and fracturing it like fragile memories. It was like standing in the breath between worlds, neither awake nor dreaming.
Behind me, the fire popped.
I turned.
Wyn shifted in her bedroll, her hands twitching, possibly grasping for something unseen.
Then I saw it.
A thread of golden light curled from her palm.
It was soft at first, like dawn’s first glimmer on still water. Then it grew, delicate ribbons of flame that didn’t burn, but shimmered.
My mouth dropped open, transfixed.
It licked gently up her wrist, a shy flicker, before fading again. Her breathing evened out, and her face settled into a peaceful expression.
I exhaled.
She didn’t know how much she glowed. Literally and otherwise.
Closing the space, my posture shifted into a silent vigil beside her. The fire inside her was not like mine. It wasn’t rage or destruction. It was a belief.
She wasn't dangerous in the way a weapon was, but in the way she ignited a spark of something far grander than anyone ever imagined was possible. The feeling that I could rise beyond the known limits was both intoxicating and terrifying.
She turned slightly, the blanket slipping from her shoulder. Her cheek rested on her arm; her lips parted a little.
She looked…
“Don’t say it,” I muttered to myself.
But it came anyway. The word. The thought I kept swallowing back.
She wasn’t beautiful—no, that word felt too shallow, too fragile for what she was. She was luminous. Like something forged from kindness and wildfire, soft and steady, but dangerous to look at too long if you hoped to keep your footing.
I raked a hand through my hair, then muttered under my breath, “You’re not supposed to matter this much.”
She stirred again, murmuring something I couldn’t catch.
I stood and backed away slowly, returning to the fire. But I didn’t sit. I didn’t close my eyes.
I stood there watching her and wondering what it would feel like to matter back.