Chapter Ten
Elysia
Morning breaks over the inn with a soft haze of light filtering through the heavy clouds, washing the square in a pale glow. The air is damp, still holding the remnants of a night chill, and dew clings to every surface.
The square has come alive with movement and I feel like I’m in a fog as I take it in.
Impatient hooves striking cobblestone, leather buckles clinking, murmured commands between guards.
It all passes by in a blur, my eyes heavy with exhaustion.
All night I tossed and turned, thinking of home and what is yet to come.
If I’m being honest with myself, I was also afraid to close my eyes and have an answer to whether the Dromin elf would still visit me or not. The thought of having a nightmare grip me in its claws for the entirety of the night was most unwelcome, preventing me from getting a minute of sleep.
We’re gathered in the square, the three chosen, each marked by circumstance that brought us together, but even within this shared fate, the divide between us gapes wide.
Lisbeth’s carriage stands polished and elegant, pulled by two sleek, dapple-gray horses that snort impatiently, their reins adorned with braided silver tassels.
Her guards wear matching dark cloaks with a glint of silver embroidery.
She steps off the porch of the inn, wrapped in a deep plum cloak trimmed with fur as one of her guards rushes to place her bag delicately into the carriage before helping her inside.
Thalia and I exchange glances and I barely hold back the eyeroll that leaves my face twitching with the effort.
We stand beside two nearly identical, simple and sturdy wagons, with the only difference being a cloth cover on hers and the absence of one on mine.
Our horses are older, with patchy white-and-brown coats, and old tack.
Luan and Berrin ready our harness lines, checking the bolts and wagon wheels with practiced efficiency.
Lisbeth is the first to set off, her carriage wheels crunching softly over the cobblestone path as her horses trot forward. As her carriage disappears down the road ahead, Thalia glances over at me, her expression uncertain.
“Do you think …” She hesitates, her brow pinched for a moment before smoothing. “Would it be alright if I rode with you today? Just for a while. I … I’d rather not sit in silence.”
Before I can answer, Luan interjects, blunt and dismissive. “That’s not protocol. Each chosen travels with her assigned guards. It’s not up for discussion.”
Thalia’s shoulders sag slightly, and her mouth closes again before another word can escape. I see the disappointment flicker across her face and something rises in me, sharp and hot. I’ve been silent too many times and let others make choices around me, for me.
Not today.
“She can ride with me,” I say, stepping forward and drawing my guard’s eyes. “There’s enough space, and it’s hardly dangerous to share a wagon with another chosen without her guard.”
Luan’s jaw tightens, dark stubble beginning to poke through his skin, but I meet his gaze, unflinching.
He says nothing for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly in reluctant acknowledgment.
Then he turns with a grunt and returns to his work, muttering under his breath. “Don’t get paid enough for this.”
Thalia’s eyes go wide with relief and gratitude as I glance back at her. I offer her a small smile and tilt my head toward the wagon.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the seat beside mine.
Thalia nods, then turns to her guards, who immediately begin to protest.
“Your wagon has already been prepared—”
“I’m riding with her today,” she says, cutting them off, voice soft and slightly wobbling. “That’s my decision.”
I don’t miss the pride that swells in my chest at her bravery. Small, yes, but brave nonetheless.
The moment we’re settled and the guards give the all-clear after talking together, the wagon lurches forward, wheels groaning beneath us.
The hours pass with quiet conversation and stretches of silence. We share the food from our satchels at midday, her eyes lighting up at the taste of the apples from our village. Likewise, I’m shocked by the rich flavor of the cheese she brought.
After our lunch, we stare up at the fluffy white clouds above our lands.
“Do you think we’ll get a chance to see their world even if we aren’t chosen?” she asks, a note of wistfulness that I entirely relate to in her voice. “Or will only the chosen return with the High Priestess?”
I narrow my eyes as something gleams brightly from a small opening between the clouds. My heart jumps at the chance to know what their world looks like. Just as quickly as it came, it’s covered with drifting clouds and my excitement plummets back to reality.
Maggie’s face comes to mind as I choose my words carefully, not wanting to alarm Thalia. The majority of her broken thoughts seemed to revolve around the Priestess, and despite her confusion, I felt certain she didn’t see the elven courts.
“I think that perhaps it will be better if we just return home without seeing a glimpse of their world.”
If we do, there’s likely a price neither of us wants to pay, is what I want to say at the end.
Her lips thin and turn down before she begins to nibble on her bottom one.
Drawing her thoughts back to ones that inspire happiness within her, I ask, “But what do you think they look like? I want to picture your version of it.”
The day grows warmer, chasing off the worst of the chill, allowing me to put my thick scarf back in my satchel in the height of the afternoon sun. Tall fields of wheat blur by until the sun begins to dip toward the horizon behind the approaching forest.
Just as the trees thicken around us, a strange scent catches on the wind and I take a deep inhale. Burnt wood.
“There’s something ahead,” Berrin says grimly. “Smoke.”
The wagon rolls forward cautiously now, hooves muffled by leaf-strewn ground. I sit straighter, my pulse rising as we follow the narrow path through the forest.
Flames flicker ahead in the fading light. A carriage, or what’s left of one, lies half overturned, one wheel split, its ornate side scorched black. Smoke curls from the wreckage, stinging the air, the scent thick and acrid. The horses that once pulled it are missing entirely.
My stomach churns as recollection slams into it.
Lisbeth’s carriage.
“No,” I breathe, heart slamming against my ribs. I glance at Thalia, who sits frozen beside me, her face pale, eyes wide with horror. Her lips move silently, mouthing prayers to gods I’m not sure are listening.
“Stay in the wagon,” Luan barks as he and Berrin leap down, weapons drawn. The steel sings in the open air, a sharp, decisive sound that cuts through the fog of fear.
I’m already moving, my body reacting before my thoughts can catch up.
The wagon bed thuds beneath my feet as I leap to the ground, sprinting across the uneven terrain. Embers scatter beneath my boots. The heat from the smoldering wood singes my skin. Ash clings to my clothes, my lungs rasping as I breathe it in.
“Elysia!” Berrin shouts, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
His voice is a dull afterthought as my heart hammers in my chest, eyes scanning the wreckage for bodies. Two guards, crumpled near the trees, come into view, blood darkening the leaves beneath them. I don’t need to move any closer to know their stillness isn’t by choice, but by the absence of such.
My guards flank me as I run to the other side of the broken carriage. My eyes find her barely visible, half-hidden beneath the wreckage.
“Lisbeth!” I drop to my knees beside her. “She’s alive!”
Her cloak is singed, her hair disheveled, a trail of blood seeping from a deep gash on her forehead. She’s unconscious, face pale and slack.
Berrin rushes forward, helping me pull her free, careful not to jostle her head. I lower my ear to her chest, the beat of her heart steady and strong—for now.
“We need to get her into the wagon,” I say, voice rising with urgency. I know nothing of the ways of healing, but I know that as long as her heart still beats, I won’t give up on her. “There might be a healer in the next village.”
Luan doesn’t hesitate. He lifts her with little effort and brings her toward the wagon, while I clear a space beside our supplies.
That’s when the arrows fly. Resounding thuds into the side of the wagon with vicious cracks.
Chaos erupts.
Four men emerge from the trees, faces half-covered in cloth, blades drawn. With no armor or signifying emblems, it’s clear they must be bandits.
Berrin charges the nearest one, blades clashing with a screech that makes my teeth ache. The other bandits fan out, surrounding us with feral grins and eyes glittering with something close to hunger.
Thalia screams and ducks low, curling herself beneath the wagon bench, her hands over her head.
I freeze. My entire body locks in place, breath caught in my throat, muscles stiff with panic. I’ve never seen a real battle, never felt the bone-deep terror of knowing someone is trying to kill you.
The screams, the clash of metal, the feral roar of a bandit charging at Luan as he gently drops Lisbeth into the space I cleared.
A blur of movement catches my eye.
Another bandit, smaller and wiry, is slipping around the front of the wagon where Thalia is hiding.
I don’t think, I don’t weigh my odds, I just take a step, and then another.
My hand dives into my satchel and I yank out the dagger Pat gave me. The metal is cool against my palm, the weight unfamiliar but anchoring. My legs move before my mind can scream at me not to.
The bandit is almost to her. He crouches low, creeping toward her trembling form.
I run.
I reach him just as he grabs at her. My scream rips from my throat as I throw myself forward, the dagger plunging outward on instinct, slamming into his side just beneath the ribs.
The world seems to suddenly move in slow motion as the bandit gasps, a wet wheeze coming from his throat as he releases Thalia’s screaming form.
He turns, staring at me with eyes wide, stumbling back until the ground slopes down away from the road.
He loses his footing and collapses in the piles of leaves at the bottom without another word.
My eyes race back and forth between his prone form and my hands.
There’s blood on my hand, the once silver dagger stained with crimson within my grasp.
Someone else’s blood.
The fight rages behind me with shouts and the clash of metal, but it feels distant now … Muted. All I can hear is the rush of my own blood in my ears as my eyes stay glued to the dying one’s staring up at me.
I stare at him, my legs suddenly shaking uncontrollably as my grip on the dagger turns my knuckles white. The blade trembles in my hand. I want to let go, but my fingers won’t obey.
My heart pounds in my chest as I take deep, gasping breaths. There’s blood on my dress. Blood on my skin.
Not mine, but his.
I watch as the alert focus on me fades from the bandit’s eyes, leaving them empty and unfocused.
I don’t need to check his pulse to know he’s gone.
I killed someone.
The realization hits like a blow, knocking the air from my lungs. It’s too much. Too fast. The world sways on its axis.
I drop to my knees in the dirt, staring at the blade still in my hand as it glistens in the light of the dying fire.
This isn’t a nightmare or a dream.
This is real, and it’s only day two.