CHAPTER 8
Cian remained standing there until Faelith’s footsteps faded completely into the trees.
Even then, he stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the place where she had disappeared, his breath still uneven from their shared moment.
His hands trembled faintly at his sides.
He curled them into fists, willing the sensation away.
He had been close. Too close. One more heartbeat and he would have kissed her. One more breath and he would have crossed a line he wasn’t sure he could ever return from. It wasn’t only emotional vulnerability he feared, but the betrayal of the unspoken vow he had made to keep his distance.
He dragged a hand over his face and exhaled sharply. “A amadáin,” he muttered. “Great brute of an idjit you are.”
The waterfall roared behind him, its mist cool against his overheated skin. He turned toward it, needing something to quiet the storm inside him. The water was clear, moonlit, and cold enough to bite.
He set aside his sword, stripped off what remained of his clothes, and stepped into the pool. The shock of the cold hit him like a blow, stealing his breath. He welcomed it. He sank deeper until the water reached his shoulders, then ducked beneath the surface entirely.
Silence swallowed him.
For a moment, he stayed there, suspended in the cold, letting it numb the ache in his body. When he surfaced, he pushed his hair back, water streaming down his face.
He should leave in the morning. He knew that. He had told himself that every night since the ruins. Freedom was within reach now, real freedom, not the illusion he had clung to for years. No more chains binding him to an old master’s commands. No more barked orders in the predawn dark.
No more nights spent mopping his own blade clean of strangers’ blood simply because someone else demanded it. No more reminders of a past he tried desperately to forget staring him in the face with hazel eyes.
But Faelith’s voice echoed in his mind.
Maybe I don’t want you to go.
He closed his eyes, jaw tightening.
He had seen the truth in her gaze. The fear. The longing. The confusion. The way she had leaned into him, trusting him with a vulnerability she rarely showed anyone.
The way her breath had hitched when he touched her. The way her fingers had curled against his neck, pulling him closer.
He had felt her tremble.
He had trembled too.
Cian let out a low, frustrated sound and plunged his hands into the water, splashing his face again. The cold did nothing to steady him.
“What are you doing, lad? You’ve no right to her trust. No right to any of it,” he muttered.
He didn’t deserve her softness. He didn’t deserve the way she had looked at him, as though he were something more than the monster he had always been.
He stared up at the sky, the stars blurred by drifting mist.
“You’ve no idea what I am,” he whispered. “What I’ve done.”
The forest didn’t answer. The waterfall roared on, indifferent.
He waded deeper into the pool, letting the water close around him.
The cold seeped into his bones, but it didn’t quiet the memory of her touch.
It didn’t erase the warmth of her breath against his lips.
It didn’t change the truth he had been running from since the night he realized what he had become.
He had never been able to walk away from her.
This was not the moment to start.
He stayed in the water until his skin prickled and his breath fogged in the air. Only when the cold became unbearable did he finally step out, water streaming down his body. He dressed slowly, each movement deliberate, as though he could force himself back into the armor he had worn for years.
But something had altered.
Something he couldn’t undo.
As he swung his shirt over his head and pulled it into place, he turned back toward camp. He paused, glancing at the waterfall. The moonlight shimmered across the surface, silver and soft.
He sighed. “Arse that you are,” he muttered.
Then he walked away, knowing sleep would not come easily and knowing dawn would bring a choice he was no longer certain he could make.
Dawn broke pale and quiet over the fields of Talcana. Faelith stood at the edge of camp, watching the city gates open in the distance. Her men were already preparing to ride.
Cian strolled toward her, his beard gone after a morning shave, his pack slung over his shoulder, his jaw set, his expression grim.
This was it. His mind was made up.
“Faelith,” he said as he approached.
She turned toward him when he was only a few steps away. “You’re leaving.”
“I should,” he said, voice gruff.
“But do you want to?”
He hesitated.
For a moment, she thought he might say no. But he only looked at her with the same tortured restraint she had seen by the waterfall.
“I don’t know what I want,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Her heart clenched.
“Then stay,” she whispered.
Cian’s breath caught.
But he didn’t move.
He didn’t answer.
And Faelith realized, with a sinking ache, that the choice was tearing him apart. She went to mount her horse, her gaze lingering on him for one last heartbeat as she passed.
“Whatever you choose,” she said softly, “I won’t forget what you did for us.”
Cian looked away, jaw tight, throat working.
She turned her horse toward the city.
Behind her, she heard him exhale, a sound full of longing and pain. The kind a man makes when he is losing a battle he never meant to fight.
And though she didn’t look back, she felt him watching her until the outer gates of Talcana enveloped her fully.
???
Faelith felt the shift before she saw it.
It began as a subtle tightening in the air, the way the wind changed its voice as it moved through the trees, the way the horses’ hooves struck ground that was no longer soft forest loam but something firmer and more deliberate.
Even the light seemed different, less filtered and less wild.
A mild hum reached her next, low and steady, like the heartbeat of something vast and restless.
Talcana.
The human capital rose ahead as they crossed the final stretch of the bridge, its white walls catching the first pale wash of dawn.
The stone radiated faintly gold, as though the sun itself clung to it, reluctant to let go.
Towers speared upward, elegant and symmetrical, their silhouettes sharp against the morning sky.
She had imagined this moment differently.
In her mind, Talcana had always been a place of color and sound.
Banners of blue and silver fluttering from the battlements, the scent of fresh bread drifting from market stalls, the laughter of merchants and children echoing through the streets.
A city alive, vibrant, preparing for negotiations that might change the course of history.
Instead, the first thing she saw was black.
Black flags hung from every lamppost, every balcony, every archway.
They fluttered in the breeze like mourning veils, stark against the pale stone.
The road leading to the gates was lined with people dressed in dark clothing, their faces solemn and their voices hushed.
Even the air felt heavy, as though grief itself had weight.
Faelith slowed her horse, her brow furrowing.
Her remaining men exchanged uneasy glances. They had heard rumors on the road, whispers of unrest and political tension and a death in the council, but none of them had expected this. Not a city draped in mourning. Not a silence so thick it felt like a held breath.
She glanced back, expecting to see Cian riding behind her as he had for the past three days.
He wasn’t there.
He had lingered in the field outside the gates, letting distance form between them.
She had felt his absence like a sudden cold, a shadow slipping away before she could name it.
She didn’t know if he meant to follow her into the city or vanish into the wilds again.
The thought of him disappearing left her feeling abandoned, stripped of a presence she had not realized she relied on.
Yet the idea of him following also unsettled her, the closeness, the uncertainty of what he might bring, the way he stirred fears she could not easily voice.
She didn’t know which possibility unsettled her more.
But she forced herself to look forward. She had a duty to her people. She could not afford to be distracted, not by grief, not by politics, and certainly not by a man who was no one to her.
The guards at the gate barely spared her a glance. Their armor was draped with strips of black cloth, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. They waved her through with a gesture that felt more like resignation than protocol.
Faelith’s stomach twisted.
This was not the welcome she had expected.
Inside the walls, the streets were crowded, but not with the usual bustle of merchants and travelers. People stood in clusters, whispering urgently. Some clutched flowers. Others held handkerchiefs. Children clung to their parents’ hands, their eyes wide with confusion.
“What is this?” Faelith asked, her voice low.
No one answered.
Not until they turned a corner and saw the procession.
A long line of mourners stretched down the main avenue, moving slowly toward the central square. At the front, six black stallions pulled a funeral cart bearing a coffin draped in black velvet, the coat of arms embroidered in silver thread. Three other identical carts followed.
If the rumors were true, it was Lady Melisandre Vaelcourt and her family.
A gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it.
She had never met Lady Vaelcourt, but she knew the name. A councilwoman. A diplomat. A woman known for her sharp mind and sharper tongue. A woman who had advocated for peace between the human kingdoms and the elves.
A woman who had been murdered.
Faelith had heard the whispers, but seeing the grief carved into the faces of the mourners made it real. The sorrow was not political. It was personal, raw, widespread.
Her horse shifted beneath her, sensing her tension. She tightened her grip on the reins and forced herself to breathe.