CHAPTER 3 #3
“It could very well be,” Rena replied with calm patience. “But before we march toward an all-out war, perhaps we should hear them out first.”
Faelith folded the parchment, the burden of the message settling heavily on her shoulders. The solstice festival had promised new beginnings, just not the kind she expected.
She looked to Rena, the parchment trembling slightly between her fingers. Her voice was steady despite the storm building in her chest.
“Then I will head to the capital. Send me as your emissary, and I will find out what they want.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Tyr’s expression darkened. His jaw clenched, and he stepped forward with a sharpness that made several nearby knights and elves glance over.
“That’s foolish!” he said, anger simmering beneath his features. “She would be defenseless by herself. Send me. I will take five of our best fighters in case their hospitality runs out.”
Faelith felt heat rise in her chest — irritation, indignation, and resentment all burned inside her. Tyr had always done this, even as a child. He always assumed she needed protecting.
Assumed she was the one who needed to be sheltered.
Tonight, she would be the one running.
Before she could snap back, Rena gently placed a hand on her arm and turned Faelith to face her fully. The Elder’s touch was soft, but her eyes held a depth of sorrow Faelith couldn’t ignore.
Rena cupped her cheek, her finger brushing lightly across a few stray hairs. “I knew you would do whatever it took to protect our people.” Her hushed words were solemn. “But Tyr is right.”
Faelith’s breath caught, and her heart sank. She hated how those words stung.
“A small group of fighters will travel with you to the capital,” Rena continued. “Tyr will stay here and prepare the army just in case.”
Tyr stiffened beside them, clearly unhappy with the arrangement, but Rena didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed on Faelith, warm and resolute.
“Be strong, Fy nghalon,” she whispered. “You will be the voice for our people.”
The tenderness in her mother’s voice nearly undid her. Faelith reached up, grabbed Rena’s hand, and pressed a kiss to her palm. A silent promise. A vow.
She would make her mother proud.
Without another word, she turned and strode away, her steps quick and purposeful. She did not look back. Not at Rena. Not at Tyr, whose shocked expression she could feel burning into her spine.
Let them argue. Let Tyr rage. She had her mission.
The festival clearing had thinned, but the remnants of celebration lingered. Lanterns still glowed. Crickets had replaced the music. The scent of roasted venison clung to the air.
The knights had wasted no time helping themselves to the banquet table, piling their plates high with whatever food remained.
Faelith ignored them and headed straight for the man she assumed was the captain. He was broad-shouldered, weathered, and carried a casual arrogance that radiated from him like heat.
He ate cheese and venison as though he were in his own hall rather than a guest in someone else’s home.
“Five others and I will accompany you to the city,” Faelith said, her voice cool and formal.
The captain looked her up and down, his eyes lingering a moment too long on her dress before he scoffed. “We leave at first light,” he said around a mouthful of food. “It is a three-day trek, so pack light.”
Faelith offered him a tight, sarcastic smile, the kind that suggested she was two breaths away from knocking the plate out of his hands. Instead, she inclined her head and turned to leave.
A sudden clang rang out behind her. Her head swiveled sharply.
One of the knights had dropped a metal plate at the feet of the hooded figure sitting apart from the others, hunched against the massive trunk of an ancient oak. The knight kicked at him and muttered something crude.
Faelith’s eyes narrowed.
The captain noticed her attention drifting toward the commotion and smirked.
“Careful around him, Missy,” he said, wiping his greasy fingers on his trousers. “That one is a murderer. Caught him last evening, drunk and puking his guts out after killing a guardsman. Tried to flee in these very woods. Good thing we were nearby, on our way to your pretty little home.”
He popped another piece of cheese into his mouth, chewing loudly as he picked up a stray sword and examined the carving on the pommel. A circle with a phoenix in the middle, its wings spread wide as though rising from ash.
“Hard to believe he was once an Arcane Knight,” he added with a derisive snort.
Faelith kept her gaze fixed on the hooded figure. Something about him tugged at her attention. Not pity. Perhaps curiosity. But there was something deeper, something almost familiar.
As if sensing he was the topic of discussion, the figure lifted his shackled hands and pulled down the hood.
Sandy blonde hair fell messily around his face. A short reddish-brown beard shadowed a strong jawline.
His features were sharp, worn, and undeniably human.
But it was his eyes that struck her—piercing gray.
Cold. Haunted. And yet something else.
Her heart felt as though it had stopped.
He looked directly at her, unflinching.