44. Willow
Chapter 44
Willow
T he third day of our journey feels off. We continue our routine, checking for signs of Nightmare activity and fae creatures, but the lack of results is unsettling. Each scouting group returns empty-handed, the disappointment palpable in their faces. Even the dragons grow restless and return to their hosts more frequently.
Last night, only three from our troop projected dreamscapes, including Max. I managed to wake him before anyone saw his nude teaching escapade, but the incident leaves me uneasy. Why only three? Are we all too exhausted to dream, or is something else at play?
As we trudge through a rocky valley near Heliodor, the memory of Legion’s map, dotted with sighting pins, haunts me. This doesn’t add up. I make a mental note to find out at the first opportunity.
Suddenly, Heliodor emerges from the mist, a vision of gleaming white stone and intricate carvings. It’s breathtaking, but the beauty can’t mask the underlying sense of danger. Claw marks on the walls and crumbled turrets serve as reminders of the Baleful Hunt’s presence—or should, at least.
Intricate carvings adorn the city’s boundary wall, telling stories of ancient battles and long-forgotten magics. One particular deity takes the forefront. Dagda is a towering figure with a beard resembling a cascade of pebbles. He carries a great hammer that shapes mountains and a cauldron carved from a single, massive boulder. It’s easy to tell he’s a god because two polished gems are inserted into his eyes every time he’s depicted.
What’s stranger is the sound coming from the wall—whispers and the occasional song pitched too low to understand.
“It’s . . . incredible,” Colin breathes, his eyes wide with wonder.
Geraldine nods. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale . . . if fairy tales had teeth and claws.”
I grip my sword’s pommel, its weight comforting. “It’s odd how decorative it is when the House representatives dress so boring, don’t you think?”
Max snorts. “Maybe they save all the flair for their architecture.”
As twilight descends, we’re instructed to camp outside the city gates while the Radiants decide what to do next. The looming walls cast long shadows over our camp, the intricate carvings now eerie in the flickering firelight. I shiver whenever I pass near them.
Suddenly, a screech pierces the air. I whirl around, heart pounding, and for a split second, I swear I see a Nightmare flitting between the trees. But as I blink, I realize it’s only Styx, his dark form melting into the shadows as he walks the perimeter.
Geraldine sidles up to me, her voice low. “I don’t like this, Willow. It feels like we’re being watched.”
“We probably are,” Max murmurs, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. His hand rests on the hilt of his weapon, mirroring my stance. It’s remarkable how much he’s grown on this journey alone.
I catch Bodin’s worried expression as he enters his tent, the furrow between his brows deeper than ever. The desire to go to him, to seek comfort in his arms, is almost overwhelming. But I can’t. Not here, not now.
As I help set up a campfire, my mind wanders to Emrys back at the castle. What is he doing? Is he taking care of Fox and Varen? Or has he forgotten without Styx there to remind him? The thought of the Six not remembering their true selves, their history with me, sends a pang through my chest.
Crouching to light the kindling with a flint, my eyes dart to Ignarius and another Radiant, their heads close together in conversation two camps further down. A chill runs down my spine as I consider the political implications. If we return empty-handed, both the Earl and Legion will look foolish. And what about the whispers of martial law?
A terrifying thought occurs to me: what if someone intercepts the Nightmares before we can find them? Goodfellow couldn’t manage that alone. He’d need help—perhaps from someone in our very camp.
My gaze lands on Styx again, now done with his perimeter check and approaching Ignarius with a deceptively casual stride. The tension in his shoulders and his gaze darting around the camp seem off. No, I think. Not Styx. He wouldn’t betray us . . . would he? What would he gain? I dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it forms. If it was Styx, why would he have erased the S-word from everyone’s minds back at the Nexus?
Our meal’s rich, savory scent lingers in the crisp night air, mingling with woodsmoke from the campfire. I scrape the last vestiges of gravy from my bowl, savoring the unexpected treat. Finally, someone passed down scraps of the Fever Hunt’s latest charred carcass for our stew. Bodin’s overprotectiveness chafes; he won’t even let me hunt. Earlier, I spotted a plump rabbit during our scouting mission, but I knew chasing it would earn his disapproval.
We’ve been waiting outside Heliodor for hours, but we’ve made camp, eaten, and swept the perimeter multiple times. It’s a far cry from the chaos of three days ago. Now, we’ve settled into a natural hierarchy. If Bodin isn’t barking orders at our troop, it’s me. If I’m not directing, it’s Geraldine or Becky. The rest of our eclectic band are first-timers in the exhibition, each bringing unique skills from their former lives.
Sarah, a former paramedic—some kind of traveling healer, I’m told—has already proven invaluable. Her steady hands deftly tended to Ji-Soo when she sprained her ankle on an exposed root. Jack, once a high school gym teacher, now leads our physical training. I catch snippets of his nostalgic chats with Max about their old vocations. Lena, an ex-librarian, has become our unofficial lore keeper, absorbing every scrap of information about Avorlorna with voracious curiosity. She and Geraldine have bonded over their shared thirst for knowledge. A former chef, Miguel has elevated our camp meals from bland rations to something almost resembling cuisine. I suspect he sweet-talked someone further up the line to score us tonight’s smoked carcass.
As I watch them chatting around the campfire, their determination to survive—to thrive—in Avorlorna is clear. I almost believe in the certainty of their return to a happy life. But then Miguel’s words to Colin make my ears twitch.
“You know,” Miguel sighs, his eyes reflecting the flames, “as much as I appreciate being alive again, I can’t help but wonder if it would’ve been better to stay frozen.”
Becky winces, her face a mask of barely concealed pain. “I keep thinking about my kids,” she says.
“You have children?” Lena gasps. “Where are they? Wait. Are they . . . even alive?”
My gaze catches Becky’s across the campfire. Once filled with suspicion and fear, her eyes now hold gratitude and uncertainty.
She answers, “We were separated after we awoke in Avorlorna, so I don’t know.”
Her voice breaks on the last word. I guess because it’s true. Even though we saw her children yesterday, anything can happen to them.
“Or worse,” Maggie chimes in, her tone bitter, “what if they’re in that subterranean hellhole beneath us?”
Colin tosses his empty bowl at her. “Read the room, Maggie.”
She gives Becky a guilty look. I stare mindlessly at my bowl, guilt coiling in my stomach like a serpent.
Geraldine clears her throat. “Come on, you lot. It’s not all bad, is it? We’re alive, aren’t we? And we’ve got each other.”
Max nods enthusiastically, though I can see the strain in his smile. “Geraldine’s right. We’ve got to focus on the positives. We’re in a magical realm! Who would have imagined that?”
“You were both Nothings a few weeks ago,” Becky reminds them, acid in her voice. “Have you forgotten already how you were almost down below, too? Luck can change in an instant.”
I know my friends were trying to lift the mood, to defend me without revealing my secret. But their words ring hollow against the weight of the other’s loss.
Colin leans in, his voice low but carrying clearly in the night air. “I overheard something interesting earlier. Lord Ignarius was talking to Lord Styx.”
The group falls silent, all eyes on Colin.
“What did you hear?” Ji-soo asks, her curiosity piqued.
His brow furrows. “Lord Ignarius said Legion was wrong to think Titania’s power is waning just because the watergates are thawing.”
“What does that mean?” Sarah interjects.
“Well, here’s the kicker,” Colin continues, his voice dropping even lower. “Ignarius said Titania was never strong enough to wake the dead in the first place. She can only make us slumber, dream.”
A murmur ripples through the group. I feel my heart begin to race, my palms growing clammy.
“But if Titania didn’t wake us . . .” Miguel trails off, the implications hanging heavy in the air.
“Then who did?” Maggie asks, her eyes narrowing.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Finally, Becky breaks the silence. “Whoever it was, if I win the trials, I’ll wish that person dead. Life has been nothing but heartache since we woke.”
The words pierce me like a dagger, twisting in my gut. I struggle to keep my face neutral, desperately trying not to let the horror and guilt show in my eyes. This secret, this burden I carry, isn’t just a ticking time bomb anymore—it’s a wildfire, ready to consume everything I’ve built here. And when it explodes, the fallout will be more than devastating. It will be apocalyptic.
My mind races with terrifying possibilities. They’ll all hate me. No, it’s worse than that. They’ll want me dead. The very people I’ve come to care for, to protect, will turn on me instantly if they know the truth. The warmth of their companionship suddenly feels like ash in my mouth.
Bodin ducks out of his tent, his broad shoulders stretching the canvas as he emerges. He calls me over, his deep voice carrying across the camp. I’m grateful for the distraction, anything to pull me away from the murderous wishes being casually tossed around the fire.
“After I speak with him, I’ll take the first watch,” I tell Geraldine, my voice low, trying to keep the tremor out. I place my empty bowl in her offered hand.
“Good.” She smiles at Max, where he’s drawing something in the dirt and explaining to Colin. I catch random words like “force” and “saber.” The young boy’s face is rapt with attention. I think they’re discussing a famous battle.
“Tonight’s the night I’m making my move,” Geraldine says quietly, a mix of excitement and nervousness in her voice, “and I need to build up my confidence first.”
“Sure,” I say, far too interested in Max’s burgeoning battle recap. But then her words soak in. “Wait, what? Tell me everything.”
“Shadow!” Bodin’s impatient bark cuts between us like a knife.
“Hold that thought,” I point to Geraldine, fighting a grin that feels more like a grimace. “I want to know everything when I get back.”
I jog over to the tent.
“Get inside,” Bodin grumbles, his eyes darting around the camp.
The instant the flap closes, he wrenches me around and crushes his lips to mine. The kiss is so sudden and passionate that I’m thrown off guard. He pins my head with his large hand, calloused fingers tangling in my hair, holding me at his tongue’s mercy. I heat. I ache. I need more. But the moment I gather my wits enough to kiss him back, the bastard pulls away. My lips chase his but come up short.
He breathes through his nose, nostrils flaring, and holds me at arm’s length. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated in the dim light of the tent.
“What was that for?” I breathe, my heart racing.
“The Radiants are heading into the city for the night.”
“Okay,” I reply, still a little dazed. “All of you?”
“Just the heads of houses.” He pauses, his jaw clenching. “And their Shadows.”
“So . . . not you?”
He shakes his head, his braids tinkling. “Nor Styx.”
“Why do you look worried?” I ask, studying the tense set of his shoulders.
A wry, disgruntled look slides my way. “Because, Calamity, I’d prefer you be within watching distance so when disaster inevitably strikes, I will be there.”
Did he hear the words around the campfire? Trying to hide my nerves, I fold my arms. “Are you expecting something to go wrong?”
After a moment, he concedes, “No. It is a diplomatic activity. Nothing more.” But the furrow between his brows doesn’t ease.
He tells me, rather grumpily, to get my things. When I emerge from his tent and pass on my news, the disappointment on my friends’ faces is noticeable. I feel it, too. Spending time with and watching them grow has been the best part of this trip.
“Bring us back a souvenir,” Geraldine says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. I give her a salute and return to the tent with my bag.
“Do I have to go?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. Bodin’s scowl deepens, his fists clenching at his sides.
Heading into a triple-fortified city after days in the wilderness holds little appeal. Diplomatic discussions? Boring.
“Yes,” he growls, closing the gap between us. His scent—leather and something uniquely Bodin—envelops me. “You’ll be back tomorrow morning. Then we return to the Nexus.”
His eyes flash with an unspoken promise: Then you’ll be mine.
I sigh, rolling my shoulders. “You do realize we’re mortals, right? Three days of marching equals blisters, sores, aching muscles.”
“Would you prefer to sit idle while you recuperate?” One eyebrow arches in a challenge.
Three days. My heat approaches fast. I’ve stifled it before, but out here? The breeze might carry my scent. And who knows how potent it is in Avorlorna? At least Cait’s pink elixir might help.
“Why not use portal stones?” I shake my head. “Seems obvious.”
“The Folk cling to tradition.”
Legion bursts in, startling me. He meticulously seals the flap, fingers lingering on the canvas. As he turns, the tent shrinks, his presence filling every corner of the already cramped space.
Lantern light glints off his brass spectacles, casting eerie shadows across sculpted features. Where Bodin exudes raw, primal strength, Legion’s power is honed to a razor’s edge—evident in his squared shoulders, tilted chin, and piercing gaze.
Legion’s gaze flicks between us. For a heartbeat, I glimpse longing—or is it frustration?—before he clips, “Wait outside.”
I blink. “Um . . . okay?”
“ Now , Willow.”
Still avoiding me. Fine. I need air anyway.
Outside, I tilt my face to the sky. Their muffled voices drift out:
“She has no idea how she smells,” Bodin growls.
“Indeed.” Legion’s rich baritone drips with disdain. “I’d prefer to be anywhere else.”
His words sting. I sniff my armpit and wince. Yeah, I reek. There are no showers out here, just icy river splashes. The Dread Hunt lurking in the depths doesn’t encourage lingering.
“Leave her with me, then,” Bodin demands.
“I would, but Puck insists all Shadows attend. For diplomacy and education.” Legion sighs, heavy with . . . resignation? Regret? “I will endure.”
Endure . The word slams into me. But as I process their exchange, I realize there’s more to Legion’s reaction than simple disgust. His rigid control, his insistence on distance—a male fighting his own desires?
Could Bodin mean my pheromones? Are they detecting them this early?
My ability to shift might not be the only wolfish trait they absorbed. The urge to mate, to guard one’s partner, can turn aggressive when rivals approach a wolf’s new mate. Mom once let slip that Dad nearly brawled with a bartender for merely serving her the morning after they first mated.
Maybe Heliodor is a blessing. One night away from judging eyes.