CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT #2
But his glare darted, never settling. And when his fingers rubbed at his nose, coming away streaked red, my chest hollowed.
He caught my stare, quickly wiping it against his sleeve. No one else noticed. No one else could know.
The pixies didn’t believe in leaders. At least, not openly.
They danced, drank, laughed as though no hierarchy bound them. But even in places without crowns, there was always someone they turned to without needing to say it out loud.
Here, that was Maerin.
She appeared, slipping through the press of her people. Her ivory hair glowed, streaks of shadow peeking through where her burgundy shawl rested on her shoulders.
She stopped before Wells, her eyes misted white and searching his face, holding decades, maybe centuries, of life. But it was recognition that swirled in them, sharp, then soft.
She reached for his hand, curling her weathered fingers around his trembling ones. “The end matters less than the mark you leave along the way,” she said, voice low like the wind.
Wells froze, the words setting into him. His lip trembled, but he nodded. And for the first time all morning, he was still. He didn’t catch the weight in her tone. Didn’t see the sorrow in her gaze—
But I did.
“We’ve seen no heir,” she admitted. “Nor have any Brightwalkers passed through here.”
Her tone was certain, and I believed her. If the Brights had come here, there would have been nothing left.
No firelight or laughter.
She offered us our own tent, a place to rest if we needed. From the outside, it looked ordinary, barely wide enough to hold two people lying shoulder to shoulder. But when I lifted the flap and stepped inside, I stumbled back.
The space unfolded into something grand, a chamber large enough to hold twenty with ease. Trays of fruit were spread on a wooden table with dates, cheeses, warm loaves of bread, steam still rising from their crusts. The air fragrant and rich with honey and spice.
Rugs sprawled across the floor in a riot of color, each one woven with patterns so intricate they seemed to move if you stared long enough.
Above, a stained-glass orb hung low, catching light from a slit in the tent’s ceiling. When the faint sun broke through the clouds, it scattered the walls in dancing colors.
I drifted to a table where a collection of mugs waited, brimming with a familiar liquid. I raised one to my nose, the sharp fragrance of ripe berries fizzling in the air.
Ronan entered the tent behind me, his frame immediately filling the space. He mirrored my motion, sniffling the drink, his brow arching toward mine as one by one, everyone else filed in.
We shared a cautious look in agreement.
I set the mug down. “No one drink it before—Ford!”
Too late. The liquid was already streaming down his chin, his cup raised high, throat bobbing until the contents ran dry.
“Well,” Ronan exhaled, letting his weight drop across a heap of velvet pillows with little care. “Now, we wait.”
With her raven perched above her, Nezra eased herself into a corner, arms tucked across her chest.
Wiping the moisture from his face, Ford slammed his empty mug with the others still untouched. “Wait for what?” He plucked a bushel of green grapes, feeding himself straight from the vine.
Inessa and Kanoa stood by the tent flap, flanking either side, while Killian stretched out with a groan, boots kicked aside.
Ronan smirked, tipping his chin toward his infamous hound. “To see if it’s poisoned.”
Wells hesitantly approached the table, body vanishing and returning, as though he couldn’t keep hold of his own skin. His throat bobbed, stomach grumbling softly.
Elysian was already nose-deep in half the food, scenting it all like a predator. Not like it mattered. Poison rarely carried a scent.
I always counted on that.
“Oh my...” Elva’s voice broke in. She held up a small pear, its gilded skin catching the stained-glass glow. “Surely you don’t think they would?” She set it carefully back on the tray, her fingers brushing down the elegant line in her neck.
Elysian’s posture eased as he looked at Ronan. “I don’t smell anything.”
“You never know,” Nezra countered, a spark of mischief sparkling in her eyes. “I’ve known plenty who swore the same until their graves proved otherwise.”
The grapes tumbled from Ford’s hand, scattering across the rugs as his face went white. He clutched his throat, gasping. “Oh gods. Am I—Verena!”
I bit the inside of my cheek to smother the laugh, my shoulders trembling as I tried, and failed, to keep a straight face. “What would you have me do, suck the poison from you?”
His hazel eyes widened. “You’re a healer!”
It was a wonder he hadn’t fallen to his knees, begging Vivianna herself to spare him.
I collapsed into a nest of pillows, their softness swallowing me whole, a groan of relief escaping my lips. “It’s a waiting game now.”
Elva caught Ford’s arm, tugging him down until she could raise onto her toes and press a light kiss to his cheek.
I nearly howled. Of course Elva couldn’t bear to watch anyone suffer. Even when the suffering was Ford’s melodrama.
“They’re teasing you, Ford,” she soothed. “Elysian smelled nothing. We’re safe.”
She gave his arm one last reassuring squeeze before drifting back toward the laden table.
The pear she had abandoned earlier found its way into her hand again, alongside a small loaf of bread.
She moved with that delicate grace she always carried, then stretched herself across one of the cots, hair spilling over the pillow.
Ford stood frozen, cheeks blooming crimson. Then he shook himself, tugged at his tunic, and grumbled under his breath, “Well, not the worst way I’ve nearly died.”
But the levity couldn’t mask the restlessness that had begun to settle among us.
“We can’t linger here,” I said. “Some of the pixies were whispering about the Bale drawing nearer.”
“That,” Callum added, “and the longer we delay, the more likely the Brights will find us.”
Ford popped another grape into his mouth. “Besides, pixies are mischievous and unpredictable. Cute, sure. But mischievously cute. Some of them have already tried to snatch my dagger, twice.”
Ronan stretched deeper into the pillows.
“That’s because they don’t want outsiders here too long.
Their freedom depends on staying unseen.
” He bit into a date, watching the way my teeth grazed my lip before holding up another and tossing it my way.
“We move before we become a liability,” he said. “To them, or ourselves.”
Callum cleared his throat, a map unfurled across his knees. “If the Bale is drawing nearer, we're losing more time than we predicted. Its trail has already cut through half the southern pass. If we head west, we risk walking straight into it.”
Ronan sat forward. “There’s a way through. A shortcut used before even my kind took to these mountains. It’ll take us around the Bale’s ruin.”
“It’s settled then,” Callum started, before his jaw tightened, just once. “Ford, I swear to every god—stop touching the map.”
Ford threw his head back with a sigh.
Handing me a full goblet of wine, Ronan said, “We leave before the sun.”
“What if we’re too late?” Wells’ voice cracked. “What if the Bale’s already destroyed the whole path?”
Callum rose, hand gripping Wells’ shoulder. “We’ll be good.” His voice was calm, his thumb brushing once against Wells’ arm before falling away.
The wine slid down my throat, smooth, but it didn’t take the ache with it. I used to feel that hand anchor me, used to lean into that voice when it was my world that felt like it was falling apart. When Callum was the one dragging me back from the dark, whispering promises I wanted to believe.
It broke me how badly I missed it.
I pushed myself upright, wine sloshing over the cup rim. “Don’t feed shadows with fear,” I told Wells, forcing the words to come out even when my throat just wanted to close. “The worst may come, but it isn’t here yet. Don’t meet it early,” My head shook in quiet demand. “Don’t invite it closer.”
He nodded, swallowing hard at the lie that slipped out too easily.
My eyes fell to the ground, to the shifting colors thrown by the light. I didn’t dare look at anyone, scared they would see right through what I hid. But when I finally did, when instinct pulled me—
It was Ronan who was watching.
His eyes didn’t mock, didn’t spark with fire or smoke, only held mine, seeing the war I waged against myself. I let the stare pin me in place until the world around me blurred and there was only him.
Gold shimmered in his eyes, and I wondered if they burned like that always, or only when he looked at me.
My gaze lingered too long on the scar arcing across his brow, the shadows bruising his skin. Was the darkness from fatigue or travel? Maybe battle? Or maybe it was simply his bloodline, dragons marked by smoke even in their rest.
The thought twisted something low in me. And that’s when the darkness reached for me. I could feel it clawing, restless, pulling me back to where I should have been, what I should have remembered.
Not the gold in his eyes. Not the mysteries written in scars.
But what he’d taken. What I was meant to loathe him for.
Every breath spent watching him was one stolen from the vow I’d made—to hate, to destroy. To make him kneel before me.
I could’ve fought it, the whisper that was like a lash, but it dragged me away from the blaze in his stare, clawing me back to the hunger.
Until all that remained in my chest was venom.