Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Gisela wouldn’t have called the night restful, not by any means.
In truth, she hadn’t slept at all. She and Thorne took turns keeping watch, wary of another ambush by a possessed animal.
Fear kept her from the deep sleep her body begged for.
As the first light of dawn broke through the trees, they hastily packed up their camp for the long day ahead.
“If we leave now, we can reach the mountain today,” Thorne said.
Gisela nodded, grabbing the last of their things.
“And I’ll teach you how to catch our lunch today,” he added with a smirk.
She’d admired archery, the precision, the focus. Maybe now she’d actually get to learn. “Who taught you archery?” she asked.
“I’m self-taught. My father never really taught me anything. Other than how to take a beating.”
She froze, unsure how to respond, but he laughed it off.
“I actually learned the most from your father when he was master-at-arms.”
Her heart warmed at the mention of her father. Then quickly iced over as they would have noticed she was gone by now.
By the grace of the Six, they found a stream by midday. The water reflected the light that shimmered through the canopy above them. Serene. A welcome change from the journey so far.
“You think this water is safe to drink?” Thorne asked.
She studied the water, kneeling at the edge. “Should be. It’s fast-moving. No surface scum.” She dipped her fingers in. “We should still boil it though.”
Gisela leaned back on her palms and closed her eyes, soaking in the calm she hadn’t felt in gods knows how long. When she opened her eyes, Thorne was watching her. She looked away, pretending not to notice, until his gaze shifted past her shoulder.
A squirrel scampered up a nearby tree in the oddly quiet woods surrounding them.
Thorne caught her eye with a mischievous smile, and she couldn’t help but smile back.
“You hold it like this,” he murmured, stepping in close behind her, his voice low in her ear.
A shiver traced Gisela’s spine, goosebumps trailing down her arms.
His frame blocked out the light behind her as he adjusted her grip on the bow. The brush of his rough fingers against hers made her pulse quicken. Each instruction came with the press of his hand, his patience disarming her more than his teasing ever had.
She tried to focus on the bowstring and her aim. Anything but the nearness of him. She’d never imagined willingly standing this close to Thorne Alderose.
“Focus on your target,” he whispered.
The world narrowed to the line of her arrow. His breath brushed her ear.
For a heartbeat, she couldn’t tell if the tremor in her hands came from the bow—or from him.
She released.
The squirrel fell with a satisfying thud. Their eyes met. Triumph sparked first, then something deeper neither dared to name.
Thorne’s gaze softened before he turned away. “Good shot,” he said, his voice flat as he retrieved the kill.
Her shoulders sank as Thorne inspected their catch.
The praise was real, but the way he turned back to the squirrel so quickly left a small ache beneath her ribs.
She busied her hands with the bowstring, letting the sudden quiet stretch between them.
The warmth of his closeness faded, leaving behind a hollowness she didn’t know how to fill.
Thorne glanced up at her. “You barely hesitated,” he said. “Most people do.”
She gave him a gentle smile. “Thanks.”
The sun hung low in the sky, painting it with hues of pink and orange as they reached the base of the mountain.
They ascended, and the rugged terrain challenged Gisela’s every step.
She pressed forward, pushing her body to its limit.
Her legs strained against the incline while Thorne trudged on like it was the start of a new day.
“Do you think our families are looking for us?” Gisela asked.
Thorne scoffed. “My mother is probably the only one who cares, but not enough to press my father about it. I know your family is probably worried.”
She knew they were. Her mother and father were probably worried sick, Noah heartbroken, and Vivi confused. She bit her lip. Better to talk about him instead.
“So, what’s the deal with you and your father?” she asked, hoping she wasn’t crossing a boundary.
Thorne shook his head. “There was never any real love there. He’s a complicated man. I tried for a long time to win his favor, but nothing was ever enough.” Thorne walked a few steps ahead of her. His demeanor shifted, a hardness settling around his eyes when he spoke of Cillian.
While her home was filled with laughter and care, Thorne had grown up with a father whose temper left scars, both seen and unseen. She’d met Thorne as a child, known him for years—but had never truly known him at all.
“You’ve spent a long time trying to earn something he never intended to give.”
He whipped his head toward her.
Gisela slowed to a stop. Her face softened as their eyes met.
“You don’t need your father’s elusive approval.
Despite it all, there is goodness in you, even if you don’t like to show it.
” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Be better than him and show him that you are.” She turned and started walking again, passing him.
When she glanced back, he was still standing there. “Take the compliment. Don’t make it awkward.”
The trail curved ahead, narrowing between stone and brush. Gisela took one more step—and stopped.
Nestled in the rocky outcrop stood a small wooden house. Its pale wood was unweathered, newly raised on the mountainside. Men’s clothing hung neatly beneath the covered porch, drying in the breeze. Nearby, a vegetable garden pushed stubbornly through rocky soil.
Gisela crouched instinctively over the crops, brushing her fingers over the edge of a leaf. A slow smile crept across her face—not at the vegetables themselves—but at how they grew. Whoever tended this knew how to coax life from poor ground.
She glanced at Thorne. “Someone lives here.”
“Only one way to find out.”
They approached the house cautiously.
Thorne paused at the porch, peering through a window.
Gisela walked up the steps, hand raised to knock when the door creaked open.
A brawny man stood in the doorway, his head cocked, waiting for her to speak. He was exceptionally tall, with short, white hair and deep blue eyes. His skin was a smooth shade of brown, with subtle wrinkles creasing his eyes and forehead. He looked to be around her father’s age, possibly older.
Gisela found herself speechless, and the man noticed.
He smiled as a powerful, masculine voice called from behind him, “Let them in. They’re one of us.”
Thorne took a startled step back, and Gisela stumbled down the porch step.
A hearty chuckle left the man’s lips, and with a warm baritone voice, he said, “You’ve come to the right place. You’re safe here. Now come inside, I have fresh venison.”
Thorne and Gisela exchanged a curious glance.
They stepped inside and warmth entered Gisela’s soul. A peculiar sense of safety blanketed her, though she couldn’t say why.
The house smelled faintly of wood and smoke, simple yet undeniably welcoming. A small dining table sat by the window, chairs tucked neatly beneath it. The kitchenette held a tiny counter with a basin. Even the small hallway leading to the bedrooms was calm and inviting.
The man turned, and a translucent figure rose out of him, taking shape at his side.
An earthy brown shimmer cloaked a broad, stone-muscled form, neither human nor beast. Deep amber eyes glowed, pulsing with the rhythm of the earth itself.
The man regarded the figure with familiarity, as if it were an old friend.
“Welcome, fellow Mystics. The name is Silas Donolo. This is my Primal, Crag.”
The figure bowed.
Gisela tried to take it all in, but her vision went black.