Chapter 27
Ellie
At the end of our second full day of riding, Taran finds a spot alongside a small river to make camp for the night. Today would’ve been the first full day of classes Reid and I missed. Has the faculty realized we’re gone? How long will it take for them to organize a search and inform my parents?
I suppress those questions as I hand Willow off to Taran.
It won’t do me any good to dwell on them.
Even if my roommates revealed everything, the odds of anyone catching up at this point are slim.
The only real worry is if we come across one of the Order’s outposts or border patrols.
It’s a little surprising we haven’t stumbled upon any—but our path seems deliberate, almost as if Taran knows where they are.
In desperate need of some alone time, I set out in the nearby forest to gather some firewood.
I’ve struggled with keeping my head up after Taran’s revelations yesterday.
All my sins, slowly flooding my chest. But I need to be strong—this isn’t about me.
It’s about helping Taran, so I can fix things, even if the uncertainty of how I’m supposed to do that is chipping away at my resolve.
My body’s quaking from within, emotions pushing against my skin, trying to break free. I sit among the ferns, close my eyes, and try to breathe, but there’s no room in my lungs. Tears tremble free.
With no one around to see, they burst out.
My chest jolts and heaves, ragged breaths barely escaping. I can’t let myself succumb to this. I can’t. I need to push through.
Arms shaking, I pull the little button from my pocket, the mother of pearl reflecting the dappled sunlight. So smooth, save for where my skin catches on its holes. Why does this bring me so much calm? Shouldn’t I be able to find that within myself?
Regardless, it does, my inhales slowly settling. I wipe my eyes, then tuck it away. I need to focus on what I can do, and right now, that’s supposed to be gathering firewood.
It’s silly, but every stick found in the leafy shadows builds my confidence as I add it to my collection, calming the tremble in my hands. I can live without incanting; I simply need to train myself to stop relying on it.
With a final, deep breath, I return with a pile of sticks so generous they threaten to fall from my arms. Emlyn’s nowhere to be seen—he must have gone hunting—and Reid sits by the creek, his boots off and his sleeves rolled up as he splashes water on his face. Possibly shaving?
I head straight for Taran, who’s almost done settling the horses. Willow’s golden coat reflects the warmth of the setting sun as he packs up his brush.
“I collected firewood,” I say, announcing my presence.
Taran bites back a chuckle, his eyes glittering with amusement when he spots the considerable stack I carry. “Yes, you did.” His expression softens into an almost wistful smile. “You’re really intent on changing your ways, aren’t you?”
I press my lips together, fighting back against the reminder of my wrongdoings. “Of course.”
He holds my gaze, as if considering me, and my weight shifts as heat rises to my face. One of the smaller sticks slips off the top of the heap, but Taran gracefully catches it before it hits the ground.
“Can you teach me how to start a fire?” I hold my breath as he sets the wayward stick back on the pile.
Taran promptly steps back and glances toward the tree line. “Emlyn can show you when he gets back.”
My brow furrows. “Why are you always having Emlyn teach me everything?” It’s not as if I’m a difficult student.
“He’s better at it.”
“Well, he’s not here, and you’re done with the horses.” I move into Taran’s line of sight, carefully balancing the sticks as I do. “The sooner we have a fire, the sooner we can eat.”
He doesn’t look away again, but clenches his jaw, obviously weighing his options. The more time I spend with him, the clearer it’s become that the warnings about the deceptive nature of fae don’t apply. With Emlyn, maybe—he’s difficult to read. But Taran? Something’s definitely bothering him.
“Have I done something to upset you?” I ask.
“Why would you think that?”
“It’s just… I want to help, but I’ve never made a fire without incanting.”
He shifts his gaze to Willow and scratches behind her ear.
What’s the issue? He should be glad I’m so motivated. Unless that somehow interferes with how I’m supposed to help him?
“Please?” I say. “I don’t want to rely on that anymore.”
With a heavy sigh, he gives Willow a final pat. “Fine, I’ll show you.” Not the enthusiasm I was hoping for, but maybe he just dislikes teaching. He leads me to a spot that’s clear and fairly level, and I drop my stack of firewood, stretching out my arms. “Reid, you should learn, too,” Taran calls.
He pulls his boots on and joins us as Taran sorts the sticks. I plop down next to the pile and wait, like the excellent student I am.
About half a bell passes, and Reid has started a fire.
I’ve been here the entire time, listening to all the same instructions, but for some reason, Taran only actually helped Reid. I sit back with my arms crossed, my irritation steaming beneath my ears.
Reid warms his hands by the fire with a smug look on his face. “I’m sure you’ll light the next one.”
Taran sits on his other side, silently watching the flames as the flickering light dances across the shadows of his face. In a blink, he perks up, glancing toward the trees.
A few seconds later, Emlyn emerges, holding a couple of hare carcasses. “I got lucky, found two of them.” He sits down next to Taran. “And you’ve already got a fire going. Perfect!”
“Reid did it,” I grumble.
Emlyn’s eyes widen. “Learning to start fires the normal way? I was hoping to teach you myself.” He smacks Taran’s shoulder playfully. “How dare you rob me of that.”
“Just give me those.” Taran takes the hares from Emlyn, then goes over to his pack, probably to get whatever he needs to skin them.
A shudder runs down my spine, and I quickly focus my attention on the others. The sight of blood has always turned my stomach.
Emlyn scoots closer to Reid, questioning him about the technique Taran showed us, so Reid grabs a couple of sticks to show off.
Emlyn inches even closer, adjusting Reid’s hands to make barely perceptible changes in how he places the sticks, and within seconds they erupt into bickering, resulting in even more small taps and shoves between them.
They just need to kiss already and be done with it.
Dismissing the pang of envy in my chest, I roll my eyes and lie back, taking in the idyllic oranges and purples of the evening sky.
Taran settles down a respectable distance away from me and hangs the meat over the fire. I roll my head in his direction to watch. Something about him… Despite being fae, he puts me at ease, as if I knew him in another life. It’s a little frightening.
The more I think about it, the more my heart twists, as if winding a coil beneath my skin. While I can’t deny some brief moments of connection between us, falling for a fae would only complicate things. I need to stay focused.
“What kind of knife is that?” I ask, noting the small white blade Taran set down next to him. I’ve never seen anything like it. “It looks… brutal.”
I wince at my description, hoping he won’t take offense, but there really isn’t a better word for it. It lacks a uniform shape, with rough serrations down one edge.
“It’s bone.”
My horror must be clear on my face, because he glances in my direction and lights up with a laugh.
“We don’t use metal,” he explains, offering it to me.
I push myself up, sitting closer, and carefully take it. The smooth sides are well polished, its edges quite sharp. “What kind of bone?”
“I believe this one came from a sheep. Though I’ll warn you not to ask about my sword.”
I hand his knife back. “I don’t see how I couldn’t now.”
Taran slides it onto his belt, and his face softens with a boyish grin that wraps my heart in the warm feeling of home.
Why is his presence so comforting?
He goes over to his pile of things, and I briefly watch Reid and Emlyn, still sitting on the opposite side of the fire. They’re likely discussing hunting, as Emlyn’s miming shooting a bow. A moment later, Taran returns with a white blade laid out across his lap.
For a sword, it’s definitely on the short side—the sabers I trained with were almost twice as long.
Like the knife, its bulky handle is wrapped with leather and lacks a hilt.
The blade smoothly transitions from thick near the handle to a sharp tip, and despite one side having a slight edge, it’s clearly intended to stab, not slice.
I run my fingers along the intricate carvings of leaves that decorate its side. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s my grandfather’s thigh bone.”
My hand recoils in a flash, and I grab his shoulder to keep from falling over.
“Your grandfather?” I sputter. “You—you make weapons from your dead?”
“It’s considered a great honor.” He lifts the blade and turns it over, showing me the other side. “He died fighting Gareth Arandur. My mother had this made so our family would never forget. It passed to me when she was exiled.”
That’s… morbid. But strangely captivating.
“May I?” I straighten up as he hands it to me. The weight’s awkward, completely unbalanced compared to the swords I trained with. “It doesn’t seem very practical.”
“It’s not—it’s mostly ceremonial. A symbol of the throne.”
He takes it from me, tracing its carvings absently with his fingers as he sets it in his lap. A gentle smile fills his face as his head tilts toward mine. At some point, I must have leaned into him, his solid presence building a steady heat where my shoulder presses into his.
Panic flares in the green of his eyes. His body tenses, and I barely keep from losing my balance as he scoots away, setting his sword on the grass between us. He grabs at the stick holding the cooking hares.