Chapter 56 Samhain
Samhain
The morning of Samhain arrived with November’s frostbitten kiss waiting on the wind, a silent herald of the season’s turn.
The smell of wood smoke from Cailleach’s Keep curled through the wind, carried far across the realms. It was the time where the realm stood on the cusp of change where the Veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest.
The wind brushed softly over Sorcha’s skin, the fine hairs on her arms prickling. Only then did she realize she had left her window open. The sun was rising, casting a pale glow across the room. Cat had already jumped off the bed, padding toward the hearth to shake the cold from his bones.
She stretched, closing the window before following him into the living area, sinking into the quiet
warmth beside him. She sat for a long while, taking in the room, her things, the life she had built here the possibility that she may not come back lingering, unspoken, in the air.
Last night, she had triple checked everything.
Her outfit blessed and waiting. Her notes, materials, all secured inside her pack.
The cold iron bracelets were already on her wrists, the woven red thread braided carefully into her hair, a final measure of protection.
The threads stood starkly now, their color sharper against the hues overtaking the red.
She made tea, setting aside a small sachet of herbs and spices, a cup, and a canteen of plain water marked with a ribbon so it wouldn’t be mistaken for the blessed water.
She ate slowly, toast drizzled with honey and strawberry jam, inhaling the rich scent of her tea star flower, cinnamon, cloves, night root, and morning dew.
She savored every sip, every bite, moving deliberately, as if committing each moment to memory.
She sighed as she began to dress, walking past her shelves, fingertips tracing the spines of books, past her vanity pausing.
Her reflection. She looked different. Something about her felt foreign, distant, as she took in the changes the way gold had melted into her auburn strands, how her eyes held more ember than green now, the faint speckles the only remnants of what they had once been.
The outfit light armor of iron, the worn boots she had loved for years, the faint glow of runes warming against her skin.
She had changed, not just physically. She was stronger now, no longer questioning the truth of her heritage, her parents.
The truth that she had killed them. But it wasn’t her fault.
It was his Vaelric. The name felt venomous, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
She was stronger than she had ever thought.
She was different. And she could no longer pretend otherwise.
The weight of it settled over her, but she did not shrink from it.
She embraced it. Looking once more at her reflection, she turned away. And walked to the door.
She took her time walking the streets of Lumora, the early morning mist creeping along the cobblestones.
Merchants stirred, their footsteps shuffling over stone as they began setting up for the day.
The soft glow of the rising sun filtered through the trees, casting scattered shadows, while the cold air curled around her and Cat, swirling at their heels.
He walked beside her without sarcasm or sharp remarks just quiet understanding.
He had read her emotions, and for once, he did not fill the space with words.
Instead, he simply walked, matching her pace, embracing what she was going through as if he himself understood.
She committed everything to memory even the flowers in the window boxes dusted with frost, others standing resilient against the cold.
As she rounded the corner, the horse stables came into view, and there, already waiting, stood Commander Nethran.
His hands moved in intricate patterns, his lips murmuring softly as he traced protective runes over the horses. He was careful, deliberate. Gentle.
She watched, saying nothing, as he stroked their manes, whispering to them. One by one, he moved to the next, repeating the ritual until he had blessed them all.
From inside the stables, she could hear the others gathering
their supplies the rustle of saddlebags, the clink of buckles, the murmur of quiet voices. She stepped forward.
“Good morning, Commander.”
He turned at the sound of her voice. For a moment, he studied her, then nodded, a small, knowing smile crossing his face.
“Good morning, Officer.”
They spoke of preparations, of the others, of everything left to do. And then, as the words faded between them, she hesitated before speaking again, her voice quieter now.
“Commander… I just wanted to say thank you.” He watched her, listening.
“For taking a chance on me. For always supporting me. For pushing me to be better. I want you to know that I will always be grateful for that.”
Her throat tightened. Tears burned at the edges of her vision, but she refused to let them fall.
Nethran’s gaze softened.
“Sorcha,” he said, steady, certain. “This isn’t goodbye. It will never be goodbye. It will always be until I see you next time.”
Eirin was the first to emerge from the stable, his expression steady, certain.
One by one, the others followed, leading their horses into the cold morning air, loading saddlebags and checking their weapons.
Their armor, their supplies, their movements everything mirrored her own preparation. This was it.
Eirin’s gaze found Sorcha. He walked toward her, stopping just in front of her, his voice low, almost a whisper.
“Come back in one piece, okay? Try not to cause too much trouble.”
A slight grin flickered across his face.
Sorcha held his gaze. “Of course. I would never.”
He nodded once, watching as the final preparations wrapped up.
Kyron stood nearby, dressed in iron armor like hers, the morning light catching along the worn edges of the metal. His gaze met hers.
“You ready?”
Sorcha turned to Cat, offering her lap as a seat.
He recoiled instantly, tail flicking in irritation. “Do I look like I have a death wish? I’m not about to sit on iron.”
She exhaled, shifting to place him in the side saddlebag, but before she could, Kyron stepped forward, hand resting against a newly fitted saddle on her horse one she hadn’t seen before.
“Figured this would be an issue,” he said, patting the small, reinforced seat built into the back of the saddle one perfectly sized for Cat. “I told you if he was coming everywhere, you should do something about it. So I did.”
Sorcha blinked, stunned for a moment. “You actually—
Kyron shrugged. “Better than him clawing his way out or jumping out mid ride.”
Cat narrowed his silver eyes, leaping gracefully into the seat. He sat up, curling his tail around his paws, surveying the setup. “I suppose I can tolerate this.”
Sorcha shook her head but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips.
She swung onto her horse, gripping the reins. “Move out,” she called.
And with that, they rode. The ride stretched long beneath the shifting autumn sky, the wind brutal with the bite of encroaching winter. Sorcha pulled her cloak tighter, feeling the chill seep through the fabric, creeping beneath her armor like an unwelcome whisper.
The world around them had turned brittle with frost. The trees, once golden with the last remnants of autumn, now stood bare and skeletal, their branches rimmed with ice.
Patches of snow clung stubbornly to the earth, spreading in thin sheets where the ground had frozen overnight.
With every breath, clouds of warmth curled from the riders’ lips, vanishing into the air as they pressed forward.
The road to Cailleach’s Keep had always been an unsettling one, but under the weight of Samhain and winter’s first grip, it felt wholly unnatural.
Mist slithered along the frozen ground, coiling around the horses’ legs as they moved.
The hooves of their mounts struck against hardened earth, the sound swallowed by the thickening fog that stretched like a second skin over the landscape.
Cat let out a slow breath from his perch, his eyes focused at the endless fog.
Mason was the first to speak. “Anyone else notice it’s gone eerily quiet?”
As the road curved along a rise, a figure appeared ahead.
A woman stood alone in the path, her dress torn and stiff with frost, her arms hanging limp at her sides. She swayed slightly, as if caught between waking and sleep.
Sorcha slowed her horse. “Hello?”
The woman lifted her head. Her eyes were gone—hollow pits, black liquid spilling down her cheeks.
It was the same woman from Meadowrun. Before anyone could move, she screamed and charged.
The horses reared, their panic cutting through the screams. Sorcha was thrown from her saddle just as the woman hit her, slamming her into the ground.
The impact tore the breath from her lungs.
The woman’s hands clawed at her leather, black veins threading down her arms. Her skin was cracked, her mouth full of blood and soil.
“Get off her!” Eirin roared.
He lunged, striking with his blade, but elderly woman twisted with unnatural speed. The sword grazed her shoulder, and she shrieked, thrashing wildly. Sorcha rolled aside, dirt scraping her palms, and gasped for air.
Drystan rushed in, dragging Sorcha to her feet.
Mason took a defensive stance, shield raised. Rhosyn began murmuring an incantation, her hands glowing faintly green.
The woman’s movements were erratic, she snapped and bit at the air, nothing about her human. Her head jerked at impossible angles, her body twitching and jerking. She lunged again.
Cat hissed sharply. “Sorcha—your left!”
Sorcha spun just as the woman lunged again. Steel met flesh. The creature’s strength was monstrous, forcing Sorcha back step by step until her boots slid on the frozen soil.