CHAPTER 22
Dawn’s light tickled behind Faelith’s eyelids.
Warm spring air drifted through the glade, carrying birdsong that threaded softly between the trees — tentative, bright, full of promise. She rose from sleep slowly, drifting upward from warmth and darkness into the pale gold of morning.
For the first time in years, she woke without terror.
Her dreams had been warm — soft-edged and quiet, like drifting through sunlight. No smoke clawing at her throat. No flames devouring the edges of memory. No black wolf pacing just beyond reach, waiting for her to falter.
Only warmth.
Only stillness.
For a moment, she didn’t know where she was.
Then she felt it — the steady rise and fall of breath against her cheek, the weight of an arm draped around her back and waist, the warmth of a body pressed along the length of hers.
Cian.
Memory returned in a slow, aching wave.
The confessions.
And the truth he had told her, voice shaking: Simon is Damon. The Knight who had tried to kill her all those years ago.
The way Cian’s hand was in her hair as he held her tightly, as though through sheer will he could stop her from shattering.
Faelith had trusted Cian. She had leaned on him.
She shifted slightly, lifting her head up just enough to see Cian’s face. He slept deeply, lashes dark against his cheeks, brow relaxed in a way she had never seen. Vulnerable. Unarmored. Beautiful in a way that made her chest ache.
She reached up, brushing her thumb along his stubbled cheek.
His eyes opened.
Not abruptly — gently, as if waking from a dream he wasn’t ready to leave. When he saw her, something warm flickered in his gaze.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
Faelith swallowed. “Morning.”
He shifted, propping himself up further on the rock. The movement brought him closer, his breath brushing her lips. She felt her pulse stutter.
“Are you alright?” he asked softly.
She hesitated. “I… don’t know.”
His expression softened with understanding. “Because of what I told you?”
She nodded. “It’s still a lot to process.”
Faelith’s words lingered in the quiet morning air, fragile but steady. She felt Cian’s arms tighten around her in response — not possessive, not desperate, simply present. Solid. The kind of embrace that didn’t demand anything from her, only offered warmth and steadiness.
She let herself sink into it, feeling the gentle scratch of his stubble as his chin brushed the top of her head, the slow rhythm of his breath warming her hair.
The scent of crushed grass clung to both of them.
His heartbeat thudded beneath her palm, steady and grounding, an anchor she hadn’t known she needed.
The glade felt suspended in time, soft morning light filtering through the leaves, the world beyond still distant and quiet. For the first time since the ballroom, since Simon’s mask had cracked in front of her, she felt her thoughts begin to settle into something that resembled clarity.
“I do know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, “that even though it feels fragile… I trust you. Since leaving Mist Haven, you’ve only tried to help me.”
The truth of it warmed her chest. She felt Cian’s breath catch, felt the subtle shift in his hold — a quiet, startled tenderness. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She could feel the way her words struck him, the way they settled into the spaces between them.
But trust didn’t erase danger.
She drew a slow breath, letting her forehead rest against his collarbone. “It isn’t safe here anymore,” she said softly. “Not with Damon watching.”
Cian remained silent; his presence was answer enough.
Faelith lifted her head, meeting the morning light and the truth she could no longer avoid. “I have to go back,” she said. “To the residence. Damon won’t suspect anything. He thinks I’m still leaning on him for support.”
His hand tightened gently at her waist, not restraining her, just reacting; instinctive and pained.
“Faelith… no.” His voice was quiet, but the protest in it was unmistakable. “You can’t walk back into that place alone. Damon will sense something off.”
She felt the tremor in his chest beneath her palm.
“I should go with you,” he said. “I should be at your side.”
Faelith shook her head, soft but firm. “I’ll retrieve the horses,” she continued. “You’re a fugitive now. The guards will be searching the entire city for you. If anyone sees you near the residence, Damon will know immediately that his plan has failed.”
“I don’t like the thought of you walking into danger without me.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But it’s safer this way. For both of us. I’ve trusted you; it’s your turn to trust me.”
She saw it all in his eyes: the fear, the longing, the helplessness of knowing he couldn’t follow.
But he didn’t argue again.
He only exhaled, slow and heavy, and pressed his forehead to hers.
“Come back to me,” he murmured.
She reached up, brushing her thumb once more along Cian’s cheek, feeling the warmth of him beneath her fingertips. “Meet me outside the northern gate,” she said. “We ride for Mist Haven before nightfall. If anyone can help us with this prophecy, its them.”
Faelith rose, the morning light catching in her hair as she left the glade.
Damon might have thought her weak.
She couldn't wait to show him how wrong he was.
???
The courtyard was quiet, the morning light soft against the walls, but she felt tension humming beneath the stillness.
Ashendir was waiting.
He stood near the stables with two of their men, all three of them alert, armored, and ready.
Their expressions shifted the moment they saw her — relief first, then grim understanding.
They already knew. Not everything, but enough.
The city had changed overnight. The council was moving strangely.
Patrols had doubled. Rumors whispered through the streets like smoke.
They didn’t ask where she had been.
They didn’t ask why she looked shaken.
Ashendir simply stepped forward, his voice low. “We’ve packed everything. Supplies, weapons, travel gear. The horses are ready.”
Faelith nodded, her throat tight. She didn’t trust her voice yet. The glade still clung to her — Cian’s warmth, his confession, the truth that had shattered nearly the last pieces of her certainty. She felt it all pressing against her chest as she crossed the courtyard.
Her cloak hung by the door where she had left it the night before. She grabbed it, fastening it around her shoulders with trembling fingers. The fabric smelled faintly of smoke and pine. She pulled the hood up, hiding her face from the morning light.
Ashendir’s gaze sharpened. “We leave for Mist Haven?”
Faelith shook her head. “Not all of us. I’ll ride ahead.”
Ashendir frowned. “Alone?”
“It’s safer this way,” she said. “Head to the northern gates; once through, we’ll head straight home.”
Home. With everything happening, it felt like ages since she's last seen it. To see the familiar sights and be able to breathe without the pressure building around her. Faelith's heart longed to be with her family, her people.
She moved toward her horse — Lleuad was normally of a patient temperament, but with her being cooped up in the stables for the better part of a week, the white horse was anxious.
The animal nudged her shoulder gently, sensing her unease.
Faelith stroked her neck, grounding herself in the familiar warmth.
Ashendir stepped closer. “Faelith… if D’Ardclaire realizes...”
“He won’t,” she said, more firmly this time. “I’ll be careful.”
She tightened the saddle straps, adjusted the reins, and swung herself up onto the horse’s back. She motioned for the spare horse’s reins; Ashendir handed them to her.
Faelith looked toward the northern gate — distant, hidden beyond the sea of towering buildings.
She hoped he was safe.
Because she needed him.
And because Mist Haven was far, and Damon’s reach was long.
Faelith exhaled once, steadying herself.
“Hyah!”
She nudged Lleuad into a canter into the city.
Faelith crossed the outer gates with her hood drawn low, Lleuad’s hooves striking the packed earth in steady rhythm.
She kept her gaze forward, shoulders tight beneath her cloak, but the feeling of eyes on her refused to fade.
It clung to her like a shadow, prickling along her spine, urging her to look back even as she tried to ignore it.
The morning air felt sharper now, the sunlight too bright against the stone walls, as though the sky itself had turned its gaze upon her.
She couldn’t shake it.
At last, she twisted in the saddle, pulling Lleuad to a slow turn. Her breath caught in her throat.
High on the ramparts, framed by the rising sun, stood Damon. His presence there was no accident. Seeing him now, she could almost sense the silent promise in his gaze—a pledge that whatever he had lost, he intended to reclaim.
Damon, his Simon persona discarded, watched her with a predator’s stillness.
He leaned against the stone as though he had been waiting for her, as though he had known she would slip through the gates alone.
His expression held no warmth, no pretense.
Only calculation. Only hunger. Only the cold satisfaction of someone who believed he had already set the next piece in motion.
He didn’t alert the guards.
He only smiled.
A slow, deliberate curve of his mouth that made her blood run cold. It was the smile of a man who didn’t need to stop her now — because he believed he had already trapped her in a game she was already ten steps behind.
Faelith tore her gaze away, heart hammering, and snapped the reins.
Lleuad lunged forward into a full gallop, the wind whipping her cloak behind her as the city walls fell away.
The open fields stretched before her, the distant tree line beckoning like a promise of safety she wasn’t sure she could reach in time.
She leaned low over Lleuad’s neck, urging the mare faster. Ashendir and the others were somewhere ahead. Cian would be moving toward the northern gate. Mist Haven lay far beyond the horizon, its protection waiting — if they could reach it.
Time was no longer on their side.
Damon had seen her leave.
No, he had let her leave.
And that meant he was already moving.
Faelith pressed her heels into Lleuad’s sides, pushing the mare into a faster stride. The wind stung her eyes, but she didn’t slow. She couldn’t. Every heartbeat felt like borrowed time.
They needed to get home.
Before Damon reached them first.
Faelith reached the tree line in a blur of motion, Lleuad’s hooves tearing through the last stretch of open field before the shadows swallowed them whole.
The moment the mare skidded to a halt, Faelith was already moving—boots hitting the earth, breath sharp in her lungs, cloak whipping around her like a trailing banner of panic and relief.
Cian stood just beyond the first line of pines, framed by the mottled gold of morning light breaking through the branches. Ashendir and the two others were approaching from the west, their silhouettes weaving between the trees, but Faelith saw only him.
Cian’s eyes widened the instant he saw her—relief, fierce and unguarded, cutting through the tension that had been carved into his features since dawn. He didn’t wait for her to reach him. He stepped forward at the same moment she broke into a run.
She collided with him in a rush of breath and trembling limbs, his arms wrapping around her with a strength that nearly buckled her knees.
The world narrowed to the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand came up to the back of her head as though he needed the contact just as desperately as she did.
“You’re safe,” he murmured against her hair, voice rough with everything he wasn’t saying.
She nodded into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “You made it out.”
“So did you.” He pulled back just enough to search her face, his thumb brushing her cheek as though confirming she was truly there. “I thought...” He stopped himself, jaw clenching. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here.”
Ashendir reached them then, slowing as he took in the sight of the two of them. The others followed, breathless but unharmed, their expressions shifting from urgency to something steadier—hope, maybe, or the fragile illusion of safety the forest offered.
But Faelith felt Cian’s grip tighten slightly at her waist, and she knew he sensed it too.
She drew a breath, steadying herself, and stepped back just enough to meet Cian’s gaze fully. “We have to go. Now. He knows.”
Cian’s expression hardened, the relief in his eyes cooling into resolve. “Then we don’t give him time to catch up. If he summons the army, we have a day's head start.”
Ashendir nodded, already turning toward the deeper forest. “Mist Haven is waiting.”
Faelith went to reach for Lleuad’s reins, Cian’s hand brushing hers in a fleeting, grounding touch.
They had found each other.
Now they had to outrun the storm closing in behind them.