CHAPTER 7
Cian woke to birdsong and the faint glow of dawn pressing through the trees.
For a moment, he did not know where he was. The forest canopy above him blurred into a wash of green and gold, and the cold earth beneath his back felt too familiar, too much like the nights he had spent sleeping under open skies as a boy while training until his muscles ached.
Then the scent of smoke reached him. The soft murmur of elven voices. The rhythmic breathing of horses nearby.
Memory snapped back into place.
He sat up slowly, his muscles protesting. Someone had draped a blanket over him during the night. He could not say who. He vaguely remembered being relieved from watch sometime after midnight, a quiet figure approaching with a nod and a murmured, “Rest. I will take watch from here.”
He had not argued. Exhaustion had dragged him under like a tide.
Now morning light filtered through the branches and caught on the edges of the camp.
Faelith’s men were stirring, moving with purpose to see this journey through.
The fire had burned low, little more than embers.
Faelith herself stood near the tree line, her cloak wrapped tightly around her, her hair braided back with a precision that spoke of discipline rather than calm.
She looked tired. Haunted. But steady.
Cian watched her for a moment, something tightening in his chest. After last night’s conversation, he still questioned why he had stayed.
He kept turning it over in his mind like a stone he could not put down.
Why had he not run the moment the Changelings fell?
Why had he not taken the clean road out, the same as he always did?
He told himself it was duty. A debt owed. A promise he meant to keep.
But every time he looked at her, something old and buried twisted inside him, sharp as a thorn. Something he had thought long dead. And the lie he kept leaning on, the one that claimed he was only here to settle a score, was starting to crumble in his hands.
He rose and brushed dirt from his palms. The forest was quiet. It was the hush of early morning, the world holding its breath before the day began.
As he stood there, the sound of the river in the distance tugged at him. It pulled him under, into memories he had tried to bury so deep they would never surface again.
But memories were stubborn things.
Across the camp, Faelith turned toward him, her expression unreadable in the morning light. For a heartbeat, their eyes met.
And he wondered, just for a moment, if she could sense it.
If she could feel the truth buried beneath his skin.
If she could hear the echo of that long-ago growl in the silence between them.
He looked away first.
Some truths were too dangerous to speak.
And this one could destroy them both.
The fields of Talcana unfurled before them just as the sun dipped low enough to stain the horizon in shades of rose and ember.
After three days of hard riding, the sight should have filled Faelith with relief.
Instead, she felt only the tightening in her chest. Within those distant walls, the Council awaited her decision on the treaty, the outcome of which could decide not only the fate of her people but whether peace or war would spill across these lands.
Once they reached the capital in the morning, everything would change.
Her role. Her responsibilities. Her future.
And Cian’s.
He rode a short distance behind her, silent as always, but she felt him like a shadow pressed against her spine.
This shadow was not Tyr. Faelith knew when Tyr was near, but it was never with this much awareness.
It was as if she could feel Cian’s warm breath brushing the back of her neck.
Three days of travel had not eased the tension between them.
If anything, it had sharpened it, whittled it down to something taut and fragile, ready to snap at the slightest touch.
The fields were quiet at dusk, the tall grasses swaying in the breeze like a sea of gold. Fireflies blinked to life along the edges of the forest, their soft glow drifting lazily through the air. In the distance, the white spires of Talcana rose like pale fingers reaching toward the sky.
“We will camp here,” Faelith said, pulling Lleuad to a stop near a cluster of ancient oaks. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled slightly on the reins. “The gates will be closed by now.”
Her men dismounted with weary groans, grateful for the chance to rest. They began setting up camp with practiced efficiency, though their movements were slow with exhaustion. The past three days had been grueling, physically, emotionally, spiritually.
Cian dismounted last. He tied his horse to a low branch, then stood for a moment, staring toward the distant city. His expression was unreadable, but something in the set of his shoulders made Faelith’s stomach twist.
He was leaving tomorrow.
He would be free.
She should have been relieved. She was not.
Faelith turned away before he could catch her staring. “I am going to find water,” she said to no one in particular. “There should be a stream nearby.”
One of her men nodded. “There is a waterfall a little ways east. We passed it on the way in.”
“Good.” She grabbed her small satchel and slipped into the trees before anyone could offer to accompany her.
She needed space. She needed time. She needed something she could not name.
The forest swallowed her quickly, the sounds of camp fading behind her. The path to the waterfall was narrow, winding between moss-covered stones and ferns that brushed against her legs. The air grew dewy as she walked, carrying the faint scent of water and wildflowers.
By the time she reached the falls, dusk had deepened into twilight. The waterfall spilled over a rocky ledge into a clear pool below, its surface shimmering with reflected starlight. Mist drifted through the air, cool against her skin.
Faelith exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from her shoulders.
She slipped off her cloak and set it on a nearby rock.
Her ribs still ached from the blow she had taken during the Changelings' attack, a deep bruise blooming beneath her shirt. Every breath reminded her of her body’s limits, of her own vulnerability, of how close she had come to losing everything.
She hated the way the ache made her feel weak, exposed, brittle as glass.
She had ignored it for as long as she could, but the pain had grown sharper with each passing hour of riding.
She unfastened the ties of her shirt and pulled it halfway off, the binding across her chest keeping her somewhat decent. She winced as the fabric brushed the bruise. The skin was mottled with dark purple and blue, the edges tinged with yellow. She touched it lightly and hissed at the sting.
“You should have told someone sooner.”
Faelith froze.
Cian stood at the edge of the clearing, half hidden by the brush. His hair was damp with sweat, a sword strapped to his hip, his shirt slung over one shoulder, his muscular chest bare as though he had just finished training.
He looked as startled as she felt.
“I…” He blinked, then lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I swear to the gods, I did not know you were here. I only came to bathe.”
Faelith’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Then go,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “I will leave.”
“You are hurt.”
“It is nothing.”
“It is not nothing.” He stepped forward, slow and careful, as though approaching a wild creature that might bolt. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“Faelith.”
Her name in his voice, low and rough and edged with warning, sent a tremor through her. She swallowed hard, tugging her shirt to hide the bruise, and turned away.
“It is just a bruise.”
“You have been favoring your left side since the ruins. And you winced every time you mounted your horse today.”
She stiffened. “You have been watching me.”
“I have been watching,” he said simply.
The honesty in his voice stole her breath.
Cian moved closer, stopping just behind her. She felt the heat of him, the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift around him. He reached out, hesitated, then gently touched her arm.
“Let me help, will you?”
Faelith closed her eyes.
She should have refused. She should have walked away. She should have remembered who he was, what he was. But she was exhausted, and hurting, and spirits help her, she wanted him close.
She nodded once.
Cian stepped around her, his movements slow and deliberate. He crouched slightly and moved the fabric aside to examine the bruise, his face inches from her skin. His breath brushed her ribs, warm and steady.
Faelith’s pulse stuttered.
“Sweet gods,” he murmured. “It is worse than I thought.”
Warmth rose within her as he continued to assess her condition.
“The good news is that nothing seems broken. Though you still should have said something.”
“I did not want to worry anyone.”
“You did not want me to know,” he corrected softly.
She did not answer.
Cian reached into the satchel she had brought and pulled out a small jar of salve. “May I.”
Faelith hesitated, then lifted her arm slightly in silent permission as she stared at the waterfall.
His fingers were warm as he spread the salve across her skin, careful and gentle. The touch sent a shiver through her, one she could not hide. Cian’s breath hitched, just barely.
“Does it hurt,” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “But not in the way you think.”
His hand stilled.
“Faelith…”
She looked at him then, eyes locked with his. His eyes were dark in the fading light, shadows flickering across his face. He looked torn, caught between wanting to step closer and wanting to run.
She understood the feeling all too well.
“You are leaving tomorrow,” she said quietly.
“I am.”
“You will be free.”
His jaw tightened. “If that is what you would call it.”
“What would you call it.”
He did not answer.
Faelith reached out before she could stop herself, her fingers brushing his cheek. His breath caught. He leaned into her touch, just barely, as though afraid the moment would shatter if he moved too quickly.
“Why did you stay with us,” she asked. “You could have run. You could have left me to die.”
Cian’s eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat she saw something raw and unguarded in them, the truth.
“I tried to tell myself it was a debt,” he said. “But I just couldn't. Not to you. You ask why I saved you. That is the closest I can give you.”
Faelith’s hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling.
The world narrowed to the space between them, the warmth of his skin, the feel of his hair in her fingers, the tremor in his hand as he cupped her face, the way his lips hovered just a breath from hers.
“Cian…” she whispered.
He closed his eyes, almost like he was in pain. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I kiss you,” he said, voice rough, “I will not be able to walk away come morning. I am not even sure I could try.”
Her heart twisted. “Maybe I do not want you to go.”
He exhaled shakily. His hands reached out, gripping her waist to stop her, to anchor himself. “Faelith… you have no idea what you are saying.”
“I know exactly what I am saying.”
He opened his eyes then, and the look in them nearly undid her.
He wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to desperately.
But he stepped back.
Just one step.
It felt like a chasm.
“We can't,” he said, voice strained. “Not like this. Not when everything is hanging by a thread. I'm not the type of man you think I am.”
Faelith swallowed the ache building in her throat. “Everything I have seen contradicts that. Why do you cut yourself off from the world?”
He did not answer.
He couldn't.
The moment broke like a snapped twig. Cian turned away and ran a hand through his hair. Faelith pulled her shirt back on with trembling fingers, her skin still tingling where his hand had touched her.
They stood in silence for a long moment. Neither looked at the other, as though afraid of what they might find. The waterfall roared behind them.
Finally, Cian spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “You should head back to camp. It is getting cold.”
Faelith nodded, though her legs felt unsteady. She gathered her things and walked past him, her shoulder brushing his as she passed.
He did not move.
He did not breathe.
She was out of reach.