CHAPTER 8 #3
He fell into step beside her, keeping a respectful distance. They walked in silence for a time, the path curving around a cluster of flowering trees. Lanterns hung from their branches, casting soft pools of light on the ground.
Ashendir cleared his throat. “Do you think the council will hear you out?”
Faelith considered her answer. “I think they will listen,” she said.
“Whether they will act is another matter.” She thought of the humans’ reputation—fractured between those eager for war, those who whispered of alliances and greed behind closed doors, and a handful still clinging to hopes of peace.
Every decision seemed to spark another argument in their chamber.
She would be stepping into a room divided, where even the smallest word could tip the balance.
He nodded grimly. “The city feels tense. Afraid.”
“Yes.”
“And the murder…”
“…complicates things,” she finished.
They reached the fountain, a circular pool surrounded by marble benches. Water spilled from the carved stone bowl at its center, catching the moonlight in shimmering arcs.
Faelith sat on one of the benches, her cloak pooling around her. Ashendir remained standing, hands clasped behind his back.
“Do you believe the rumors?” he asked quietly. “That Lady Vaelcourt was killed because she supported peace?”
Faelith looked at the water, watching the ripples spread across its surface.
“I believe,” she said slowly, “that fear makes people dangerous. And that those who speak for peace often make enemies of those who profit from war.”
Ashendir’s jaw stiffened. “Then we should take care.”
“We will.”
Even as she said it, a flush of unease stirred beneath her ribs.
The city was grieving, yes, but simmering beneath the sorrow was a tension she could not ignore.
There were whispers of unrest among the people, threads of political rivalry that made any potential promise feel brittle.
Grief covered the streets, but beneath it something sharper, volatile and unpredictable, lingered.
The faint tremors of the land that tugged at the edge of her senses at Mist Haven were muted here, yet she felt as though something was beckoning her, trying to pull her in.
Ashendir shifted his weight. “If you wish, I can stay here with you.”
Faelith shook her head. “Go. Rest. I’ll return soon.”
He hesitated, then bowed and left her alone.
Silence settled around her again, but it seemed different now—less peaceful, more contemplative. She dipped her fingers into the fountain, letting the cool water wash away the last trace of blood.
When she withdrew her hand, the wound had already begun to clot. Elven healing was slightly faster than humans’, but not miraculous. The sting lingered.
She stood and walked back toward the rosebushes. The moon had shifted, casting new shadows throughout the path. The city beyond the garden walls was quiet, yet she could sense the unrest beneath its stillness.
She paused at the edge of the garden, looking back one last time.
The roses swayed gently in the breeze. The lanterns flickered. The fountain whispered.
A peaceful scene. A fragile one.
She turned away and made her way back to the guesthouse.
The house was quiet when she returned, its windows glowing faintly with warm lantern light.
Most of her men had already retired to their rooms. A few murmured voices drifted from the common hall—low, weary, the kind of conversation soldiers shared when they were too tired to sleep but too restless to be alone.
She reached her room and closed the door behind her.
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls. She removed her cloak and hung it over the chair, then sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the dying embers.
She should sleep. She needed to. But her mind refused to quiet.
She thought of the procession, the black banners, the grieving faces, the weight of loss that clung to the city like a dark shroud.
She thought of Lady Vaelcourt, a woman she had never met but whose death now shaped the path before her.
She thought of the council, the negotiations, the fragile hope she carried like a flame cupped in her hands.
And she thought of Cian.
She hadn’t meant to. She had tried not to.
Yet his absence pressed against her thoughts like a bruise.
He had ridden with her for three days, silent but steady, a presence she had grown used to without realizing it.
She had felt safer with him nearby. Not because she trusted him—she didn’t, not fully—but because he moved through the world with a quiet certainty that made her feel less alone.
Now he was gone.
Or perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he lingered somewhere beyond the gates, overlooking the city from a hill. Maybe he had already vanished into the night, leaving no trace behind.
She would slowly lose her mind if she kept thinking this way.
She hated that she cared.
Faelith lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The room felt too still, too quiet. She could hear her own heartbeat, steady but restless.
She closed her eyes.
Sleep struggled to find her that night.